The Roman Ghetto

In the district of the Angel lies the old Jewish ghetto. I approached it from the Teatro Marcello side thus passing under the ancient Portico d'Ottavia which gives its name to the main thouroughfare of the ghetto. 

Once it was home to Rome's principal fish market under the portico and beside the church of Sant'Angelo in Pescheria, known as the oratory of the fishmongers (l'oratorio dei pescivendoli).  

Top of the Portico d'Ottavia

The original ghetto lay in the area limited by the contemporary Via del Portico d'Ottavia, Piazza delle Cinque Scole and the Tiber. It was formed on 12 July 1555 by the Pope Paul IV (of the Carafa family) and remained in place for almost 300 years when another Pope, Pio IX (of the Boncompagni family) opened its gates and allowed its people free access to the streets of Rome. For three centuries the enclosed area was unchanged apart for an increase in the number of gates from five to eight and in the number of windows.


Today the portico is enshrined in scaffolding, I skirt around it, into a tunnel and slip behind it into Via della Tribuna Campitelli and walk up towards Piazza Lovatelli, where a man is filling a bottle of water at a street fountain, and onto Via dei Funari. 

There I find myself in front of the Renaissance church of Santa Caterina dei Funari (string and rope makers), renowned for its travertine facade.  As every time I have been past this church it's closed. I have heard that the frescoes and paintings within are well worth seeing. Maybe another day?

Many years ago an eccentric artist used to exhibit his work on the steps that led up to the church: he used mainly acrylic paints, bright colours and canvasses canvassed from the streets. But the only trace I find of him today are some paint stains beside the entrance.

Church of Santa Caterina dei Funari

I continue, past Via dei Caetani where the body of the former Prime Minister and Christian Democrat leader, Aldo Moro, was found in a car. He had been kidnapped, held for 55 days and then murdered and left there by the Red Brigades.

 I arrive at the Piazza Mattei with its equisite 'Fountain of the Turtles' (Fontana delle Tartarughe).

 The Fountain was built by the architect Giacomo della Porta and the sculptor Taddeo Landini. The turtles were added later in 1658 by Gian Lorenzo Bernini or Andrea Sacchi. 

Like many Renaissance fountains it was designed to bring drinking water to the Roman population. It was, however, one of the few fountains in Rome not built for a pope but for a patron, Muzio Mattei. The fountain, deriving water from the Roman acqueduct of Acqua Vergine would have served the whole neighbourhood. 


Drinking its water today would more likely result in a bad stomach ache if not a visit to the nearest emergency room. A modest sized notice warns people not to drink the water.

I head down Via della Reginella and discover a shop specialised in pepperoncini (chilli peppers). It claims to sell 17 different types of pepperoncini.  

 I pause outside it, toying with the idea of going in. I spy flasks and phials filled with spicy oils and small jars containing powdered versions of the spices. It all looks geared towards the hordes of tourists that pass down here daily. So I head on down past different shops. 

Then, a plaque starkly reminds passers-by of their history. On the 16 October 1943, 1023 Roman jews were rounded up and deported to concentration camps. Very few returned. On 24 March 1944, 75 Jews taken from the ghetto were murdered at the Fosse Ardeatina on the (then) outskirts of Rome. 

I come out of the narrow alley onto the Portico d'Ottavia again. The restaurants are getting ready for lunch.

 Artichokes are everywhere. This is the home of Kosher cuisine and the famed carciofi alla giudea, bashed and deep fried Romanesco artichokes - an absolute must for any visitor to the ghetto. 

Equally prized are the 'baccala' (salted cod) dishes, traditionally served with chickpeas but also fried or in soups...

I walk past the famed 'Forno'  (baker's) but despite knowing that this is where I can get the best visciole (sour cherry) and ricotta pie in Rome I am not tempted. The pies in the window look burnt on top.

Maybe I'm mistaken. Later, as I pass by again I see a long queue snaking out of the shop onto the street. 

It's still a little early for lunch so I head towards Piazza delle Cinque Scole and its fountain with gorgons' heads on it. 

detail on Via del P. d'Ottavia

detail on Via del portico d'Ottavia.

From thence I go in search of Palazzo Cenci, once home of Beatrice Cenci. It's a frustrating search. I go up Monte dei Cenci past a small abandoned chuch then down onto Piazza dei Cenci and past Palazzetto Cenci followed by an Arco dei Cenci with its own bloody tale.  One thing is clear however, the Cenci were once here.

 
 It would seem that the unfortunate Beatrice Cenci would have lived in a building which backed onto the Monte dei Cenci. She was beheaded along with her mother on Ponte St Angelo for the murder of her father, Francesco Cenci, a violent, incestuous man. Her brother Giacomo was hung, drawn and quartered. The sentence passed by the Pope, an Aldobrandini, may have had more to do with acquiring the family wealth and property rather than exacting justice.

I've gone round in a circle, up and down then under the arch and back towards the gorgons' fountain. If I turn right I'll be on Lungotevere Cenci, I can see the cars racing by and the even row of trees that line the Tiber. 

To my right there is also a large ochre coloured building behind which is the heavily guarded synagogue and the Jewish museum. The synagogue was inaugurated in 1904. On 9th October 1982 five Palestinian terrorists  bombed the it.

I return to my starting point on the Via dell Portico d'Ottavia. The buzzing heart of the ghetto is now aflock with large tour groups. I can hear English spoken as a guide explains to her group the history of the road. Some French teenagers walk past, selfie sticks aloft. At the tables people are perusing menus. Waiters are trying to interest passers-by in their menus. 

The road is now a stretch of terraces on which people can dine. In between all the terraces there is a Kosher bakery and a Kosher deli as well as a shop that sells tourist tat and tack. 

 An area which once would have been starved seems now dedicated to feeding the populace.

 

Balcony life

The day I came to Italy in July 1998 was a scorcher. I got off the train from the airport at Ponte Lungo and dragged my suitcase to the flat I was going to stay in. 

It was so hot the air seemed to shimmer. The tarmac was melting and the wheels of my case left tracks behind them. 

The city appeared to be deserted. The windows were all shuttered. There wasn't a person in sight. All the shops were closed. A bus rattled past as I crossed the road, it had only two passengers on it, a sad trail of blue diesel exhaust smoke floated on the air in its wake. 

It was also a far cry from the Rome I had visited the year before. I had been staying in a hotel near the central station of Termini and had never strayed off the well beaten and crowded tourist path. I was now getting my first glimpse of the Rome the vast majority of Romans lived in.

Once I got to the flat, I threw open the window and heavy shutters of my room, and let the hot outdoor air enter the cool dark interior. I didn't get it then, it took a while. The city wasn't deserted but the people were ensconced in their shuttered dwellings as protection from the sun. The heavy shutters helped maintain indoor temperatures cooler than outdoors. In those days few were the flats that had air-conditioning units.

I was to learn that just as Northerners dislike the rain, Romans dislike the sun and the heat. Indeed, in the holiday month, August, many Romans choose to go on holiday to Scandinavian countries or England, Scotland, Ireland, Germany, or if they can't afford to leave their own country they will head for the hills and the mountains of central Italy and the North. All that in a bid to get to some fresher air. 
  


And those who are sun-lovers will go down in droves to roast on the beaches of the South.

It was in those early months that I noticed that balconies were functional spaces, akin in some instances to a broom cupboard.  

In my first small flat on Ponte Lungo the balcony was tiny and overlooked a bus depot. It was home to the various brooms and cleaning products that the landlady had thoughtfully provided as well as a rope on which we could hang our clothes to dry.

On most mornings, my flatmate and I would get two of the kitchen chairs and sit out on the balcony. We sipped our hot coffees and gazed into the distant view over the bus depot of a church spire and clusters of TV antennae.

We even got watered on as our upstairs neighbour tended to her plants. Our cry of surprise startled her. She hadn't expected anyone to be there.
  
In the evenings we would enjoy a glass of chilled white wine as we chatted about the day. Rows upon rows of empty balconies stretched out around us. Some had clothes fluttering in the breeze, one had a family dog on it, other than that they were unused. 


Yet surely the balcony is another room to be enjoyed. My balcony is covered in plants: cacti, aloe vera, various herbs, cat grass, pepperoncino plants.... it's an ecosystem in its own right. A few bees flutter around and dive into the flowers.  I have a pigeon guest who likes to steal the cat food.  



 It's a little messy not like my neighbours' hyper-neat and weekly-cleaned balconies. There,  flowering plants are replaced every March, most having died due to abandonment over the Winter. There may be a some clean pots of ever greens. 

Once the local supermarkets stock the usual herbs: basil, oregano, parsley, thyme and rosemary, they may find themselves out on the balcony but not too near the edges for fear of the pigeons. The railings sparkle in the sun, they're so clean and the tiles are immaculate, the air is ripe with the smell of ammonia.

 On my less pristine 15 square metres of balcony I have a small table and two chairs so I can eat out there whenever the weather permits. 


I'm not the only one who does this. But none of my Italian neighbours do. 

In the really hot months, July and August I have my sun-lounger so I can enjoy the sun even more while keeping the flat shuttered and closed - as my flat is on the top floor this barely makes a difference.

 As the Winter falls away and Spring approaches it is once more time to plant some seeds, for the herbs and chilli peppers I like to grow, and start cutting away and clearing up the dead leaves that have accumulated over the colder months when the balcony is a little neglected. 


The animals start asking to go out again. The cat will scratch on the French window in the kitchen to be let out - no cat flap here - while the dog will more patiently stand by it and stare out as she waits for her human to open the door.

Give it a few more weeks and balcony life will be in full swing, the living-room forgotten until the following October.

In the 'hood.

"That Chinese soil is no good," Ali, the local florist points to my bag of cheap 'universal' soil. I've stopped by his stall to get some catgrass. 

"Why not?"

"It's Chinese. Chinese is bad."

I laugh. I've been using it for years and my plants are flourishing. And, as a quick perusal of the bag confirms when I return to my flat, the only thing Chinese about the soil is that I bought it in a so-called Chinese shop. The soil itself comes from a region near Lake Trasimeno, in Umbria, most definitely not from China.

The Chinese shop is not, as one might think, a shop that sells Chinese food and objects, but rather a shop of Chinese (though in Italy the term Chinese is an umbrella term for almost all Asian nationalities) ownership .It sells just about anything at cheap prices. Over the years, 'Chinese' shops have popped up all over the city much to the annoyance of the native owned shops who do not appreciate the competition. 

 The neighbourhood in which I've have been living for the past twelve years is decidely unfashionable.While it is, as the crow flies, a mere 3 kilometres from the ancient city walls just beyond the Baths of Caracalla, in atmosphere it is world's apart.

It's on the wrong side of the Cristoforo Colombo - a large and dangerous road that connects Rome to the coast at Ostia - and opposite the areas of Garbatella, home of the 'real' Roman, and San Paolo, characterised by the Basilica of St. Paul outside-the-walls. 

The only tourists here are those who are staying in the large hotel, opened seven years ago, which backs onto the condominium complex I live in. I see them at the local discount buying pasta, tomato 'passata' and chocolate to bring home, some may even stock up on dried herbs such as basil or origano or dried peperoncino.

Now and again I have come across them in my local tabaccaio buying bus tickets and attempting to get information out of the owner Marco. He can't speak English and sullenly answers in Italian which the tourists can't understand.

"It's not as if I could speak Italian if I went to their countries," I've heard him grumble time and again. Fortunately, his impressively tatooed daughter, Chiara, knows enough English to communicate. Likewise, most of the staff in my local discount can say their numbers in English.

But what makes my area unpopular is that it bears the moniker - 'Tor.' For many people this puts it in the same class as such peripheral zones as Tor Bella Monaca and Tor di Quinto, sadly famed for their weekly drug busts.

When I moved here my ex-landlord laughed, "Eh! If you can't afford it you have to go to the periphery," he said, his large rotund belly shaking with mirth. Futile were my attempts to explain that I was still well within the city limits.

My Tor, that is Tor Marancia, was built up in the 1950s - a large part of the original dwellings were 'case popolari' funded by the state to provide housing for the poor, and they have remained so to this day. 

On my road, on one side there are large expensive condominium blocks whereas on the other there is a chain of 'case popolari' apartment blocks.They may also explain why there are two discount supermarkets on my road.

 In fact, there are seven supermarkets (one of which is an organic supermarket from the chain 'Naturasi') within a kilometre and a half radius of where I live. It was like arriving in supermarket land when I moved here from the quieter and more up class neighbourhood of Monteverde.

Up until about five years ago there were no smaller grocery shops but in the last five years Bangladeshi and Pakistani owned shops have opened offering just a little bit more variety such as plantain, sweet potatoes and coriander,  than the usual eggplants and zucchini found in all Italian supermarkets year round.  

Every morning, bright and early, I walk my dog around the neighbourhood. We often go past Ali's flower stall next to the Pizza al Taglio(pizza by the slice) which is always packed to the rafters at lunchtime, and past a beauty shop until we reach a small park encircled by roads. There is a play area for children and a fenced in play area for dogs. Flocks of large grey green parrots feast on the grass and on the leaves. .

Before going into the doggy playground I check that a large male dog is not there. He tends to go for mine. He isn't. I go in and let my dog run free. Some men from the local tennis club throw in some used tennis balls and the dogs jump excitedly as the tennis balls bounce around them.

On Mondays and Fridays, the road that runs alongside the doggy playground is busier than usual. On a parking lot between the Cristofo Colombo and the park, three rows of stalls have been set up for the local market. 

Three of them sell fruit and vegetables from the South of Lazio, one also has bread and large balls of mozarella cheese swimming in their milky brine. There are stalls which sell clothes with prominent labels stating 'Italian design' all the better to hide their actual, 'Made in China' or 'Made in Taiwan' status.

If anyone needs pots and pans, spare parts for their 'Foletto' vaccuum cleaners sold door-to-door, bed and bathroom linen, cushions, pictures, herbs and diverse plants, beads and other paraphernalia for do-it-yourself jewellery as well as clusters of garlic that could ward off the most fool-hardy of vampires alongside fragrant sachets of dried lavender which the vendor insists are from Provence in France, this is the place to come to.

There is a larger daily market just up the hill at Montagnola which is specialised in food stuff, with excellent fish and meat stalls.

 
Once my dog has enjoyed her romp, it is time to head home. Sometimes we head down the graffitti-decorated road which passes by the old 'Fiera di Roma.' Most of the facilities are now disused, though a part houses a 'Police Car Museum'.

Or we go down a residential road on which there is the areas principal fornaio (baker's) who sells rolls, bread, pizza slices and rather dry plum cakes (none of which contain any plums - it's just a name).

This road comes out onto my road just opposite a complex of buildings, all 'case popolari', which have been taking part in a street art project entitled 'Big City Life.'

In February 2015, the first of these facade-high designs went up. Each facade was painted in bright colours and various ways by different artists.

Today, a small number of visitors can be found walking among the buildings, admiring (or not) and photographing the facades.

 At the foot of this complex, there is a small shop, my last stop before I complete the loop home.




I see a mountain of fresh artichokes of the type called mammole. The owner notes my interest, "they are from Sardinia. They are the best not like those Sicilian artichokes."

"Aren't the Sicilian ones any good?"

He looks disgusted, "tough. No flavour." He is Sardinian.

Cooking pasta

"Is it true.." here the young woman hesitated, then continued, "Is it true that in England to check if the pasta is cooked you throw it against the wall?"

I had heard of this practise before but decided to dismiss it as an urban myth. Surely it couldn't be true!

The idea was that if the pasta stuck to the wall, long strands of spaghetti being the preferred type for this culinary test, the pasta was done.  

Pasta is a serious topic. Many are the horror stories connected to overdone, overcooked pasta. 

This always begs the question: why do Italians always insist on eating Italian food abroad if they know that it is going to be sub-standard?

"When I was with my host family in Brighton I prepared the spaghetti for them," says Giulia. 

Marcello nods and tells us how when he was in America he was served re-heated pasta. A collective shudder runs through the room. "I had to teach my hostess how to cook pasta," he finishes off. 

Another tale of disaster followed, this time the souvenir of an  exchange holiday in France."They just threw the spaghetti into a pan of cold water. Cold water!! And then left it there for twenty minutes. I couldn't eat it,"

"It was all glued together. Inedible," came another testimony, from a summer spent studying English in Oxford.  

These were serious offences against food. No other nation could cook pasta correctly.

But, I wondered, why was this? Was it chronic misinformation the world over? I had read that on 'Barilla' pasta packets sold in America the advised cooking time was longer than on those sold in Italy. Americans believed that 'al dente' pasta was harmful for digestion so aimed for overcooked, 'scotta'.

Yet cooking pasta is not a complex task. There are some simple rules to follow.

1. Don't over-crowd the pasta. Aim for lots of water. The rule of thumb is 1 litre for every 100grs of pasta. You need a large pan. The pasta needs space to roll around and buck in the boiling water.

2. Use salt.

 I used to add a drop of olive oil to the water. An Italian friend saw me do this. She let out a horrified screech, "ma che fai!" (What are you doing?) I explained that the oil prevented the pasta from sticking together. She gave me a 'these foreigners are nuts' kind of look and gently said that if I used enough water the pasta couldn't stick. And besides, it was a waste of good oil. And, what would I do with the water afterwards? 

It was my turn to give her an agonised look. The water? Again, patiently, she explained that the water could be used for doing the washing up.

3. Don't use too much salt. Pasta dough is unsalted so it needs the salt in the cooking water to give it some flavour.

Now here there are differing points of view as to when to throw in the salt. I always put it in at the beginning as, from a chemical point of view, it helps the water reach boiling point a little faster. But, many cooks suggest throwing in the salt just as the water reaches boiling point and stirring it in, just before chucking in the pasta.

Salt crystals

4. Cook just under a minute of the recommended time on the pack. Thus, when you toss it in the sauce you have prepared it won't overcook and become that dreaded 'scotta'. Pasta must be 'al dente' - firm when you bite it. I once met an Italian who liked his pasta so 'al dente' it was chewy.

Remember that fresh pasta, as opposed to dried pasta,takes so little time to cook that turn away for a second and you are doomed.

 
5. Save a cupful of starchy, salty cooking water for a glossy finish on the sauce. You toss the cooked and drained pasta into the sauce, if it needs loosening add some of the cooking water. Some recipes such as 'cacio pepe' (pecorino cheese and pepper) rely on this addition of water to bring the dish together.

6. When you drain the pasta don't rinse it in cold water.

The other thing to bear in mind is that specific dishes need the right pasta. Hence, the good old 'spag bol' revered by so many is not Italian. The 'ragu alla bolognese' should be eaten with tagliatelle or fettucine - flatter and wider types of pasta than spaghetti to which the sauce can adhere better.

It doesn't stop there:  bucatini all'amatriciana, rigatoni con la pajata  (a Roman dish of milk fed veal intestines in a tomato sauce), penne all'arrabbiata (angry pens, a hot pepperoncino sauce characterises this dish), tonarelli cacio pepe, farfalle (butterflies) with a tomato or cream based sauce. pizzocheri-a buckwheat pasta from Northern Italy with cabbage, orecchiette (little ears from Puglia) alle cime di rapa (tender stem broccoli), strozzapretti (strangled priests) con porcini, small pasta shapes such as stelline or the Sardinian fregola in a minestrone or a broth..... 

There are an estimated 350 different types of pasta with just as many sauces and accompaniments. Using pasta in all its different ways is fun, just make sure it isn't 'scotta'.

bucatini with a simple tomato sauce and basil

Along the Tiber

"When I was your age I didn't have a mobile phone. They didn't exist. There were no computers. There was no internet." The children stare at me, wide-eyed, aghast. I'm describing a world that is inconceivable.

So, in a bid to get away from the madness that has engulfed our world, I leave my phone at home. I head down to the Tiber.

The Tiber, the large and windy river that runs through Rome, has its source up in the Appenines, on Monte Fumaiolo, and spills out 405kms down the line in a great mass of polluted water at Fiumicino.

I join up with the river at the height of Ponte Marconi. Here, the banks are just high reeds and scrubland, inaccessible to pedestrians. I stroll alongside the bike lane.The river is a dull brown mass to my right. Some gulls swoop up and down drawing large arcs in the sky above the river. I walk past a plush sports club offering both tennis and football lessons.

At the height of Via Enrico Fermi, just before Lungotevere di Pietro Papa becomes Lungotevere  Vittorio Gassman, I gain access to the banks. The bike lane dives down and in the distance I can spy the gasometro, a large metal construction part of the disused gasworks in the Ostiense area of the city. A young cyclist whizzes past shouting excitedly as his bike speeds up on the slope.

The banks of the river are littered with all manner of rubbish: plastic bottles, shreds of plastic wrapping, plastic and paper bags, metal cans, pieces of fabric, lone shoes....  On the opposite side of the river I can see the ramshakle constructions in which gypsy families choose to live. Every now and again they get moved on and the dwellings are destroyed only to be replaced at some later date.

 I pass under the Ponte della Scienza Rita Levi-Montalcini, a steel and cement construction which was inaugurated in 2014. It was dedicated to the Italian Nobel laureate, Rita Levi-Montalcini, who passed away in 2012 after a lifetime devoted to the study of neurobiology.

Il gasometro

A woman on a bike comes to a stop close by and shouts back, "Non sei un figlio, sei un fastidio." ("You're not a son, you're a nuisance.") "E pure tu," (" And so are you"), answers her son coming to a halt beside her. His nose is itching, his hands hurt. He has a litany of complaints. His mother is fed up with his whining. They resume their troubled excursion, rapidly disappearing into the distance.

The next bridge is the Ponte dell'industria, a 19th century iron structure built by a Belgian company in England and then transported in pieces to Italy. It used to deal with the flow of train traffic from Ostiense. 



Nestled in a corner where the bridge forms an angle with the land is a makeshift home, pieces of cardboard with covers draped over them hide the occupant from the people who pass by daily. 

Just a few paces further is the railway bridge, Ponte San Paolo, it was built at the beginning of the 20th century. As I walk under it a train rattles over from the station of Ostiense to the next stop at Trastevere. My dog is scared and crouches down. 

Ponte dell'industria

Once away from the bridge she perks up again. There are more people about now joggers and cyclists as well as others walkers with their dogs. A man with a large dog pauses by as our dogs greet each other. 

"Is it a woman?" he asks in English (he must have overheard me talking to my dog). "A female," I answer. He nods and repeats the word. All is safe as his dog is a 'man.'
 

Under Ponte San Paolo

 High above the path, I can detect the bustle of Rome's largest flea market at Porta Portese. Every Sunday morning people flock to the market looking for bargains: cheap, vintage clothes, old LPs, old-fashioned phones, antiques, paintings...

On the river I see a small island with gulls sunning themselves. On a nearby rock a large black sea bird is standing wings open as if it is trying to dry them in the breeze. 

On the opposite side I can see the large apartment blocks characteristic of the Testaccio district of the city.

My gaze drops downwards to the slow-flowing water of the river. Yellow crime/accident scene tape is floating in it. It reminds me that not so long ago a young American student was found in the river, dead, after a presumed-mugging gone wrong. Would it have been at this point? Every year someone perishes in this murky morass.

Ponte Sublicio

Then suddenly there is an obstruction. The way is closed. A metal barrier stops all people from continuing on and under the Ponte Sublicio. People inspect the obstruction. Cyclists get off their bikes and push them onto a narrow strip of muddy ground alongside this barrier. If they slip it's a straight fall down onto some rocks and into the Tiber. I follow them onto the uneven path. Fortunately its a short distance, and it's with relief that I get back onto the bike lane. 

Walking on I overhear the converations. "Che disgrazia!" (What a disgrace!)  "Why hasn't the comune done anything about it?"  Six months or was it four months that the bike lane had been barred because of a mud slide following some heavy autumnal rain or was it after a summer storm? I hear varying versions but the gist of it is that nothing has been done about it for months.

 I'm now in Trastevere, the sun is shining and it's hot. I rest on a metal construction, possible once used for mooring boats. My dog is transfixed by the sight of gulls and gannets on the opposite bank. They are noisy. 

There are ornate lamp posts curving high above the cycle lane. The wall rises sheer and ominous up to the road. Affixed in it are strong metal hoops. Above on Lungotevere Ripa for the first time since I began my walk I can hear the sound of traffic. 

I head on for the final stretch of the walk to Rome's only Island, a small wedge in the heart of the city. It lies just beyond the Ponte Palatino (aka Ponte Inglese, English bridge). The bridge was built in the place of the 2,200-year-old  Ponte Rotto (broken bridge). All that remains of the original ancient Roman structure is an arch, adjacent to the 19th century masonry and metal construction. 

Ponte Palatino

At the Isola Tiberina, I climb up a steep, beer-bottle-glass-strewn staircase onto the Ponte Cestio. The Tiber Island is a mere 67 metres across and 270 metres long. 

I cross it passing a hospital, a chemist's and a church and link up with the other side of the Tiber via the only remaining ancient bridge in Rome, the Ponte Fabricius.






Today, on the bridge, some street vendors try to interest passers-by in their fake designer bags while a busker entertains, strumming his guitar and singing out-of-tune.

L'isola Tiberina and Ponte Cestio

 

On the bus ride home, I'm about 8 kilometres away, the bus driver is having a conversation on his phone with his girlfriend or his wife, while behind me a man is discussing work loudly, even though it is Sunday. Another phone is ringing but its owner is not answering. It's impossible to get away from phones for long in our world. Indeed, one might ask: what did we do before mobile phones?

Viva la musica!!

"Oudooey"
I nodded. It was a band I had never heard of. I turned to the next person.
"Si. Anch'io. oudooey."
I was perplexed. The young man saw my expression. 
"The big, grande, group from Irlanda. Con Bono."
I shook my head. It wasn't ringing any bells.

"Irrem," was the next answer. 
I repeated, "Irrem?" 
"Si, from America."
"An American group?"
"Si, famosissime, verrry famous."

My gaze turned onto the last student in the class.
"The Queen," he said. 
I looked at him , "the queen doesn't sing."
"Ma si, The Queen. Freddie Merrcurrrry."
"Queen."
"si, the Queen."

I had just asked my students what their favourite group was. 

I hadn't realised then (about 15 years ago when U2 and REM were huge) just how much was translated. Even the French, strong proponents of translating everything try to say 'you two,' albeit with a strong French accent for U2.

Over the years, erroneous translations have led to some bizarre conversations. 

To wit:

"There were the  bitches on the Tiber Island."
I registered the word. "Bitches. As  in female dogs? How could you tell?" 
Strange look from student, " No, bitches, you know."
" Female dogs."
"No, women," he whispered, a shade red in hue.
"Malicious women? How did you know? How could you tell?"
He shifted in his seat, bright red by now, "they wear the shorts."
"Ahhhh." The penny dropped. Like the women who line the Via Salaria or the Cristoforo Colombo at night.

A too close attention to the translation of 'figlio di puttana' as 'son of a bitch' had led my student to the wrong conclusion that a puttana and a bitch were one and the same. 

Or pity the student when faced with a test said "ma questa é la prova?"
My confident "yes," reassured him. I had understood the French meaning 'une épreuve' for 'prova' ( a test) he had meant, a mock test. He handed in an incomplete paper and turned up the following week with a confident, "I'm ready now. I've studied." He had failed already.

And for a while I couldn't understand why so many students were going on holiday to 'Monaco', in my mind, a rather small principality most famous for its casino and Grace Kelly. It turned out they were talking about 'Monaco di Baviera' aka Munich.

That was years ago when my Italian was shakier than it is now.

 But every now and again, as I deal with language, a pearl turns up, such as the young student who recently in an essay wrote "hand jobs are rare nowadays." 
Go figure what he really meant!

 

 

Mi garba Garbatella

The tip of my nose is cold. Strange. My dog is nestled against me. The old cat is on the pillow.  I glance at the clock and hazard an arm out from under the duvet. It's cold. It's also 8 o'clock and the centralised heating has been on for two hours. To little effect, or so it would seem. My bedside clock indicates 14°C. So for the first time this winter the temperature outside has dipped below zero.

I get dressed quickly. In Scandinavia in the winter they get temperatures of minus 20 but the houses and flats are a balmy 20°C. In Rome at the first whiff of colder weather (it never gets that cold despite what some people might think) and the heating system demonstrates just how useless it is.

Maybe a coat for the dog today? We head out towards Garbatella and the farmers' market where I can get a week's supply of fresh vegetables and some of that delicious Lariano bread, perfect for making bruschette or bread soup, or some fresh, stuffed pasta. The thought of fresh lemon ricotta ravioli or pumpkin almond tortelli buoys me on. 

 We cross the mighty artery that is the Cristoforo Colombo, every junction has a commemorative plaque or some flowers, testimony to how dangerous the traffic can be. Last year, on this very spot, a cyclist was knocked off his bike by a bus. The cyclist was on the cycle lane but the driver of the bus never saw him. A white bicycle attached to some railings is all that remains to remember a life.

I pass in front of a juggler, even in this chilly weather he is trying to coax a few coins from the jaded motorists waing for the light to turn green. We walk past the great ugly 'Regione Lazio' building - scene of a scandal or two over the years and where from time to time lacklustre demonstrations are staged. 

Just past the roundabout, a man warns me to be careful. There are gypsies with a nasty dog that he says could attack my dog. I thank him for the warning. Fortunately, I'm not going in the direction he has indicated.

 Piazza delle Sette Chiese, part of the pilgrim trail, is quiet this early. A man is feeding some pigeons who flutter around him. The birds swoop, dive, nip and jab at each other as they come in for a crumb. We walk past him into the old part of Garbatella with its project units known as 'lotto'. On the buildings the original stones still mark which number 'lotto' they belong to.

The area was built in the 1920s, the first stone was laid by King Victor Emmanuel in 1918 on Piazza Benedetto Brin.

 Each lotto is made up of several buildings grouped around a common yard or garden. All the families in the 'lotto' could meet if they so wished in these common shared grounds - they were also known as Case Popolare, the rents were cheap.

Today, the cachet of the area has changed. From its origins as a rather seedy area associated with lowlifes and criminals ( as the crow flies it is close to the infamous 'Magliana' district)  it has become trendy. It is seen as an enviable place to live.  Rents have sky-rocketed especially since the closure of the old 'mercati generali'. A popular TV series 'I Cesaroni' depicting the travails of the Cesaroni family, is set here.

The modern area of Garbatella surrounds the large road, Circonvallazione Ostiense, which since a new bridge was built over the metro tracks, links up with the Via Ostiense and thence towards the south of the city. Along this main thoroughfare are all the principal shops and restaurants as well as Garbatella market. Behind the market, towards the train tracks, is a large hangar which houses EATALY a shop and series of restaurants dedicated to promoting Italian food.

On my way to the farmers' market I always pass a curious structure it's a primary school. Four large eagles perched atop indicate its fascist origins. It and the rectangular piazza on which it stands, Piazza Damiano Sauli, were built in the 1930s. 

At  the end of the road, I go down some battered steps littered with broken beer bottles among the weeds. The round structure in front of me is covered in street art and graffitti, the Roman wolf adorns one wall, a clear reminder, as if I needed one, that Garbatella is indeed the true heartland of the Roma (football) fan.  

I go up one of the side ramps into the edifice, a round high ceilinged room which has been partitioned off with large cheerful panels indicating farmer's market. When I discovered this market, at the beginning of 2015, it was seldom busy but it has been found by others. 

There are so many people the sound of their talk is echoing off the vaulted ceiling. My favourite vegetable stall is heaving with produce: large dark green savoy cabbages, cauliflowers, chard, artichokes...... The woman who runs it is running about filling brown paper bags, weighing and toting it up. She's busy. At the goat cheese and truffle counter, a few people are trying some samples. 
 
  I get what I need and head out down past the grandly named, it is an imposing structure, Pallladium Theatre. It also dates to the 1930s. The architect was inspired by ancient Roman architecture. Sadly, due to lack of funds the theatre has had to close down. We loop back up the hill towards the 'Regione Lazio' building. 

 We pass more of the 'lotto' , some of the edifices within are grand, others are smaller. Laundry is draped out of windows on wires to dry in the cold breeze. "Sunday, laundry day", I think.  A wall I see has it's top bricks painted in yellow and red, the Roma football team colours of course. 

Piazza delle Sette Chiese is now bustling with life. Mass is over and the congregation has spilled out onto the square. Children are kicking a ball around, dogs are baying at each other, the 'Pizza al Taglio' shop has a few early customers while the 'gelateria' is closed. Most ice-cream shops close in winter for their annual holiday!

I bump into a fellow dog walker who has just been to the dog park next to the shared communal gardens, an area tended by the inhabitants with flowering plants, fruit trees and a vegetable garden. On a previous visit, I had been saddened to notice the reported theft of a tree. The place is open to all. Who would do that?

My shopping bags are weighing me down a little. Time to hurry home. The juggler has moved on from his post at the traffic lights. Too cold? Or maybe he's earned enough for a warm mug of hot chocolate.