Zucchini Flowers

'Tis the season for flowers. The markets are heaving with their pretty yellow and green bulbs, their fronds unfurling atop light green Romanesco zucchini. I'm talking about the fiori di zucca - zucchini flowers. I fiori di zucca, a misnomer as zucca translates as pumpkin, are everywhere. 

In the supermarkets, they are exposed too long and appear as dark sticky unappetising appendages on the zucchini, best chopped off and thrown out. On the market stalls, they are resplendent. Large elongated flowers just waiting to be stuffed and battered for one of Roman/Jewish cusines classics: i fiori di zucca farciti e fritti. That is zucchini flowers stuffed with mozarella and anchovies, dipped in a batter and deep fried. The batter should turn out light and crisp and should have a crunch to it.

The first time I tried them was at the famed pizzeria Formula Uno in the San Lorenzo district of Rome. San Lorenzo is next to Rome's first university, La Sapienza, and home to many students. 

Formula Uno caters to the students and locals and is a simple place. The white washed walls in the two large dining areas are covered in pictures of racing cars and their pilots. Large wooden rectangular tables are pushed up as close together as possible. The menu is printed on the table mats. Often there is a queue so it's worth getting there a little earlier (around 8pm) than most Romans would. Within seconds of sitting down, a waiter appears. The service is at Formula one velocity.

Fried zucchini flowers aren't much to look at - long wedges of light brown batter through which can be seen the striations of the underlying flower. At Formula Uno, they are served on a plain white plate - two forlorn looking pieces of batter. I picked one up and bit into it. It was a revelation. The crispiness of the batter gave way to the soft melted mozarella with at its heart an anchovy filet giving the dish the right balance of saltiness - its umami factor. I was hooked.

Everytime I eat out I order at least one serving of fiori di zucca. Not all places do it well. Beware the oily batter which will sit heavy on the stomache. Not all will have it with anchovies. 

Fiori di zucca can be used in an infinity of ways: chopped and added to a risotto, sprinkled over pasta, fanned out on a pizza, as the main ingredient in a frittata or as side decoration on an antipasto dish. But more than anything they are stuffed: stuffed with mashed potatoes in Liguria), stuffed with ricotta, stuffed with rice.... then steamed or oven-baked with maybe a light drizzle of tomato sauce. 

I sometimes wonder who first came up with the idea of stuffing them. The fronds are frail and easily tear. Removing the pistil - bitter in flavour - is frought with peril. One slip and the petal is torn.

 I'm willing to bet that Italian housewives have a special implement which allows them to dive down into the flower,  nick the pistil at its base and remove it without a rent to the flower. 

 Over time and with no small amount of practise I've learnt to prepare and stuff these pesky flowers. The turning point came when the teaspoon I used for stuffing was replaced by a piping bag. It takes time and patience and is worth the effort.

The Rose Garden

On the Aventine hill opposite the Circus Maximus is Rome's rose garden: 10,000 square metres covered in rose bushes from all over the world. There are about 1,100 different types of roses - from the gaudiest to the most exquisite, from China via Mongolia to Italy. Some of these lovely flowers are here for Rome's annual rose competition,  the 'Premio Roma', dedicated to the most beautiful new variety of rose, others are part of the permanent collection.

This year's competition took place on Saturday 20th May, rather unfortunately a warm muggy stormy day. This being Rome, the storms were so intense that they flooded several stations of the underground. 

When I visited the rose garden two days later, the aftermath of the storms was visible on the rose bushes with their water damaged petals bearing the marks of a serious lashing. 

I got off at the wrong stop which meant crossing two of the busy traffic-congested streets  which surround the Circus Maximus. I climbed back up the hill slightly annoyed. I'd always thought there was a stop on the highest point of the hill opposite the entrance of the rose garden. It turned out I wasn't wrong. The stop was for tourist buses.

I crossed the road and went onto Via di Valle Murcia. There were two gates one allowing access to the upper garden and the second to the lower. Last time I'd come here I'd started with the lower half so reason dictated that the upper half was the way to go this time.

To the left of the gate was a large sculpted stone plaque with Hebrew writing on it. On top of the stone were smaller pebbles and stones that were stacked in remembrance. It reminded me of the final scene of 'Schindler's List' ( the acclaimed Steven Spielberg film) where in the final scene, Jews placed stones on Schindler's grave. 

It's an unusual memorial to find at the entrance of a rose garden. But in the end not so unusual when I find out that the garden is set on the site of an ancient Jewish cemetery.

The hill was covered in bushes and vines until the 16th century. In 1645, it became know as the 'Orto degli Ebrei', though for many Romans it was the 'Ortaccio degli Ebrei' ( ugly market garden of the Jews). A small Jewish cemetery was established here. In 1934, the Jewish community obtained a section of the Campo Verano cemetery in the San Lorenzo district of the city. The cemetery was moved to the Verano. For many years the site was abandoned and left to weeds.

An American woman, Countess Mary Gailey Senni, married to the Italian Count Senni,  designed Rome's first rose garden in 1932. In those days it was on the Colle Oppio ( Oppian Hill). She faced considerable opposition and resistance but she was passionate about roses and very determined. She got her way (she was wealthy). In 1933, the first 'Premio Roma' competition took place.

But a great big monster called the second world war came along and the garden on the Colle Oppio was smashed to smithereens. The idea remained. In 1950, a new rose garden opened on the Aventine hill and the competiton was reinstated.

To thank the Jewish community who had allowed the use of a sacred area, a stelle ( commerative plaque) was placed at the entrance of both the upper and lower gardens to remind visitors of its original use.

The paths in the upper part of the garden are laid out in the shape of a menorah, the seven branched candelabra symbolic of the Jewish faith.

I turned right as I entered the gate and walked up towards a trellised tunnel adorned with various rose bushes with climbing stems of roses upon it. There was an English rose section followed by a miniature section. 

 A rather kitsch rose heart stood a the centre of the garden - a perfect photo op or selfie op for the gardens visitors. 

I paused at the information centre with its large photos explaining to visitors the process that went into growing roses. It was all very attractive but rather lacking in substance. I suspected that most visitors only looked at the photos anyway. 

I climbed further up past the rose adorned heart. A family posed as lower down on the central alley of the menorrah, a father snapped his wife and children. 

I left the trellised walkway and stepped onto a branch of the menorrah. Information was scarse. Where was the prize winner anyway? 

The garden is organised into different areas: ancient roses, modern roses and the new species, about 80, entered in the competition. It turned out the upper garden dealt with the permanent collection whereas the lower garden held the prize winners.

 I stepped off the menorah, crossed Via di Valle Murcia and walked through the gates into the lower garden. A small notice close to the gate indicated the names and numbers of the prize winners. But that was it. No indications as to where the winners were. I guessed maybe the central area, a large well-tended oval would house the winning bushes. 

It did. There was also no indication as to which was a winner. I walked around the oval, then walked among the competition bushes: from France, from the USA, from Italy.... and they were numbered. But, not having a pen, I hadn't noted the numbers of the winners as indicated on the photocopied sheet pinned to a post besides the entrance to the lower garden. 

They all looked beautiful to my eye though I've never been too keen on the oranges and yellows. This was where the rose garden failed. More information would have been welcome at this point.

An American prize winner (I Think)

I walked around the bushes. I watched a woman with a real camera take shot after shot. Some kids played on a tree - the perfect climbing tree. The hoses on timers chugged around, dousing some visitors. It was a hot day. Nobody minded.

It was time to go. The roses were beautiful but I couldn't help but feel a little annoyed at the lack of information so typical of Rome. Surely it wasn't that difficult to put up some kind of sign indicating the winners beside the winning roses? Even if, it was only two days after the competition?

I walked down the hill towards the bus stop. Yes. The rose garden was a beautiful place. Yes. Maybe even romantic (if one was into kitsch) as a number of websites suggested. There was some competition though: the orange garden on the Aventine, the view from the Gianicolo...

. As it turns out the site of the rose garden, way back when was dedicated to flowers. In his annals, Tacitus in the 3rd century ad describes the temple of the goddess Flora. The 'floralia', celebrations to the deity took place in the Spring on the Circus Maximus.
The Aventine hill had always been an oasis for the cultivation of flowers.

Dirt, degradation and beauty

I'm sitting on the bus. I was lucky. It arrived on schedule and wasn't too full. I'm sitting near the central door, the one from which people are meant to get off. The doors at the back and front are for getting on.

In front of where I'm sitting is a couple with two heavy suitcases. Their daughters are in the aisle. The oldest is swinging from the higher handholds. 

The mother glances up from her map, "Serena, stop that. We're not at home." She observes me observing her.

"Excuse me. can you tell me if we are far from our hotel?" She speaks slowly, over-enunciating the words and is clearly relieved when I answer in English.

"It's another 6 stops. that's where I'm getting off," and so a conversation starts punctuated by the loose rattling of one of the buses fittings as we bump over pot-holes and cobbles. They are from London and are spending the Easter weekend in Rome. They're already concerned about their early flight back on Tuesday and a little anxious about getting around on public transport. I reassure them, from their hotel the 160 bus will get them to all the tourist sites they can visit in a weekend.

"That is so ugly. And it's everywhere," the mother says. I follow her gaze to a graffitti covered wall alongside the road we are travelling on. 

"The train from the airport was covered in it," says her husband. I nod. There isn't much one can say. Buildings all over the city in all areas have been defaced in such a way. The authorities seem unable to do anything about it. 

 A judge in Milan recently let off two teenagers who were caught in the act. They came from a 'good family' as they say (i.e. wealthy) and their misdemeanour was to be ascribed to 'the high-spirited pranks of youth."

We have arrived at our destination and alight from the bus. I point out the large modern block of their hotel. Alas, the walls sport the works of the 'writers', the name given in Italy to people who squiggle lines all over buildings and monuments. I sadly observe the over-flowing bins, the weeds growing out of cracks in the pavements and the abundance of excrement from the neighbourhood dogs left there by their lazy owners.

There is in fact a rather bizarre rule which states that dogs can dump in the street provided it is in the area around the base of a tree. There the owners don't have to pick up. I know this because a magistrate, Labrador owner, had proudly told me he never cleaned up after his dog. He must have read my look of distaste. He reassured me and explained the rule. His dog was well-trained.

The family have one last question, "is there anything to visit here?"

Big City Life facade

"Here?" I echo. The 'Big City Life' project springs to mind, a group of buildings whose facades have been decorated by the works of street artists. The idea being to create an open air art gallery. Such works have cropped up, on commission, all over the city. I blame the graffitti artist, 'Banksy', for the craze.

I shake my head, "No. There's nothing much here." The murals of the Big City Life project aren't aging well.

Big City Life detail

I wish the family a pleasant holiday and cross the road. Here too, outside the gate to my appartment block, the bins are over-flowing. Large bin liners are lining the pavement. The crows have been at them, they are full of holes and remnants of food are strewn all over the place. Later, the rats will come and get their share. 

The newish mayor, Virginia Raggi, a proponent of the Five Star Movement was supposed to get to grips with the rubbish problem and clean up the city but  so far the problem seems to be getting worse. 

Discarded cups

It's hard to say what the mayor has achieved since she took office almost a year ago. She changed the austerity Christmas lights on the Christmas tree on Piazza Venezia after citizens complained, she signed an ordinance forbidding people from eating in cabins on the beach, and brought the speed limit on the Cristoforo Colombo down to an absurd 30kms per hour. She may have done a few other 'useful' things. 

Unfortunately, in many areas the city itself seems to have become a gigantic waste disposal plant: abandoned fridges and old TVs are left on street corners, filthy mattresses, stained sofas are left curbside as well as mountains of old clothes. Some roads and areas (such as Ponte Galleria or along the Magliana) are notorious for the amount of discarded household appliances and furniture that can be found on them.

The farmers' market in Garbatella

The centre, the area the tourists see, is the tidiest. The areas tourists rarely venture to are the dirtiest and the most run down. Not that that has stopped people blaming the state of the streets and the increase in rubbish on the tourists. 

But maybe it's the tourists the Romans should be thanking. In the last few weeks the dirt of Rome has made it to the foreign press, notably the New York Times. It's a real 'figuraccia' for the city. 

People have taken to the streets in some areas, brooms and  binbags in hand to do the work they pay for. Some politicians have tried to benefit from the situation. Finally, the rubbish trucks have rolled out and started clearing up the waste in the outlying areas. 

Let's hope it lasts.

 

Notes on Rione Trevi

I'm in the Trevi district today, Rome's second administrative area. It isn't big, only fifty-five hectares but there's THAT fountain. Rome's largest Baroque fountain and one of the world's most famous. Anita Ekberg waded into the fountain and cavorted under the gushing water in Fellini's La Dolce Vita. A scene which, over the years, has inspired many. 

Just this past April a young Italian stripped and swam across the fountain. A week later a young Spaniard stripped and dipped into the fountain to purify himself. Both were greeted by the polizia municipale and handed a 450 euro fine. Bathing in Rome's fountains is strictly forbidden. 

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 Trevi fountain facts  

1. The fountain was designed by Nicola Salvi even though he didn't win the contest for the commision organised by Pope Clement XII. Alessandro Galilei won the contest but as he was a Florentine, the Romans were  outraged so the Pope gave in. Salvi, a Roman, got the job. He never saw the finished work.

2. It is 26.3 metres high and 49.15metres wide.

3. It spills around 80 million litres of water a day. 

4. It is made of Travertine stone which was quarried from Tivoli (a town 35kms east of Rome).

5. It is situated at the junction of three roads (tre vie in Italian) hence its name

6. An estimated 3000 euros are thrown into the fountain each day. It is, of course, forbidden  to steal the coins that are thrown in the fountain though many have tried.

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Daily thousands of tourists gather round the fountain with their annoying selfie sticks. They try to grab a photo with the stunning white backdrop of Neptune but without the hordes of other people trying to do exactly the same thing. Sometimes I wonder: do they actually see the fountain, or is it just another photo op? 

But the Trevi district isn't just about a fountain. It encompasses the Palazzo del Quirinale, one of three official residences of the President of the Repubblic. 

Set on the highest of the seven hills on which Rome was built, it's a massive building (110,500 square metres), the ninth largest palace in the world.To give a sense of its gigantic size, the White House in the USA is one-twentieth of its size.

But what really catches the eye on Piazza del Qurinale is the central fountain - the Dioscuri Fountain. It features 5.5metre-tall statues of Castor and Pollux taming horses. They had previously flanked the entrance to the baths of Constantine.

The obelisk in between them stands 14 metres high and originally came from the entrance to the mausoleum of Augustus. As for the central basin, it was an ancient Roman shell which had been used as a trough on the Roman Forum.

I head down some steps onto Via della Dattaria and into the heart of the Trevi district. It is crowded as ever. A sign indicating the archaeological remains of the acqua vergine acqueduct catches my attention. But the entrance to the site is closed and hidden behind a metal shutter with no indication as to when it would open again. 

I beat a retreat and find myself in front of a Magnum store. I shake my head. Why in a country with the best ice-cream in the world would they do that? The store is full of young tourists all eager to dip their Magnums in melted chocolate, cover them in multi-coloured sprinkles and customise their treat.

I continue my walk and on a deceptively small Piazza dominated by the blinding whiteness of the sculpture is the Trevi Fountain. A police car is parked on a corner. The vigili are keeping an eye on the crowd.

This time I ignore the fountain and turn up a narrow alley way. People are ambling slowly up it. Some stop at the souvenir shops which line the streets, others queue up for an ice-cream from one of the many 'gelaterie' on the streets where even if they are not the best ice-creams in Rome, they will be more genuine than those on offer at the Magnum store.

Viccolo Scanderberg, one of many alleyways in the Trevi area.

But before heading for the last marvel of the area, I go and check out a curiosity, one I often took for granted as I would hurry to the 'Quirinetta'  theatre in its incarnation as an original version cinema. 

I first passed through it on a guided tour, a year before I moved to Rome. It was one of these mad dashes where in three hours the principal sites were covered: the Colosseum, Piazza Venezia, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon and Piazza Navona. It was spitting with rain that day and our guide led us through some back alleys to the Trevi Fountain. We paused for shelter in the Galleria Sciarra. Our guide had little time for our questions, "it's just a passage way," she scoffed and waved her yellow stick to herd us along.

Galleria Sciarra which links Piazzetta del'Oratorio to Via Minghetti is in the Roman Liberty style. Its central part was painted between 1885 and 1888 by Giuseppe Cellini. The main theme is a celebration of woman as angel, wife and mother.

Most tourists tend to come across it almost by accident. It's not sign-posted as if the authorities want to keep it hidden.   

My final stop in the Trevi district has to be Piazza Barberini  and the Fountain of the Triton, sculpted by Bernini. It was commissioned by his patron Pope Urban VIII (Maffeo Barberini) to stand on Piazza Barberini near Palazzo Barberini which today houses the Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Antica. The Galleria is well worth a visit.

Piazza Barberini is surrounded by streets and at certain times of the day jam packed with buses, taxis and other vehicles. It's also one of the most polluted areas in the centre of the city. The fountain has had over the years a number of expensive clean up jobs to remove the grime coughed up by the traffic.
 
The fountain bears the Barberini coat of arms: three bees under the Papal tiara and the keys to St. Peter's. The bees symbolised hard work and dedication. It was the last work Bernini did for his patron as Urban VIII died shortly after its completion.

As I wander through the streets of the Trevi district I realise that I haven't found the district's crest: a shield with three swords.

All the old bins, large metal containers with the district's crest in gold, in the central touristic part of the city, have been removed. No doubt another security measure. The new bins are plastic stands with large transparent bin bags. Unattractive but all the rubbish is visible so nothing can be concealed in them.

Eventually above a large McDonalds sign I find an old shield. But the symbols have been erased by time and all that can be read are the words 'Trevi'.

The change of seasons

There is a question that crops up every year twice a year, roughly around the end of April, and the end of September.

 "Have you done 'the change of seasons yet?".  Twice last week I was asked this question. Twice, I answered, "No, not yet."

When I first came to Rome, the question puzzled me. Didn't the seasons kind of change themselves? It generally provoked quite animated conversations among my female students. Eventually, I figured out that I was being asked whether I had exchanged my winter clothes for my summer ones in the wardrobe. Or, in the autumn, the summer ones for the winter ones. Again, I was puzzled. What was the big deal here?

Of course, I hadn't yet come across the words of the intimidatingly called website 'thinkdonna' (thinkwoman) which state "At each change of season, one of the thoughts we women have, is how to reorganise our wardrobes. The change of seasons starts in the wardrobe." There were no clear indications as to when the thinking woman should actually get close and personal with her wardrobe - a date would have been helpful.

More ominously, the words 'cambio di stagione' typed into my search engine threw up depressione (depression), stanchezza (tiredness),  sintomi stomaco (stomach symptoms), ansia (anxiety)  before coughing up what I was looking for armadio (wardrobe). Thus, my search suggested that the first area of concern when the seasons changed were health, and health problems. It was maybe not so surprising in a nation whose consumption of pharmaceuticals outdoes that of the French (allegedly).

I never fully appreciated what the whole 'cambio di stagione' was about until I witnessed it. I had been invited for dinner to an Italian friend's house. The flat was a long corridor, the various doors off it led to the different rooms. The kitchen, where I was headed, was at the end of the corridor. As I passed the open doorway of the dining room I stopped. 

"Are you moving?" I asked. Silvana hadn't mentioned anything about moving, but it looked like it. Piles of clothes covered the sofa and the large dining room table. The ironing board was set up in the corner of the room. Large plastic storage boxes were in various stages of being filled or emptied.

"No, it's the 'cambio di stagione'," she said and sighed. "I've been busy fot the last two days. Almost finished now," she added. 

The dinner began with 'tartine', another area of consternation as the word 'tartine' in French means sandwich and in my mind conjures up images of school day food such as 'tartine au sucre' (sugar sandwich). The 'tartine' on offer at my friend's were a type of 'appetizer.' Olive or anchovy paste was spread on triangles of rather tasteless and textureless white bread. Her partner walked in and said "Ooh tartine?! so who's the special guest?!" He picked up a wedge and stuffed it into his mouth in a single bite.

 As the meal progressed (fish after the tartine), I discovered that the change of seasons entailed taking out of their boxes the summer clothes, putting them in the washing machine, putting them out to dry (not many people have tumble driers in Rome) then ironing them and after that putting them in their wardrobes. She was cleaning and ironing for three here. Likewise, the winter clothes were also subjected to the whole wash, dry, iron and store in a box cycle.

Though according to 'thinkdonna', thinking women, whether they be housewives or others,, should also take the opportunity to clean the wardrobeand scour the drawers.


Years of childhood conditioning, in northern climes, make me wary. The expression: "En avril ne te découvre pas d'un fil; en mai, fais ce qu'il te plait." (In April, don't remove any clothes; in May, do as you please), will always stop me from wardrobe changes in April.

As this is the May day weekend I'll take the opportunity to pack up the winter stuff, all two boxes worth of it, and take out the summer stuff. If it smells musty, it'll go for a spin in the washing machine, other than that it'll go in the wardrobe. I may even dust (a bit).

Fava beans and Pecorino

The radio was on in the background, pop songs interrupted by ads peppered with the channel's "errediesse" logo sung time after time. Every now and again there was a news flash with the newscaster speaking at such high velocity I could barely catch a word. But the news was repetitive and words lashed out: 'concertone', 'Vasco Rossi', 'primo maggio', 'lavoratori', 'Piazza San Giovanni', 'Gianna Nannini'....It was 1999, the first of May, the international workers' holiday, was coming up. 

Every year on the 1st May a big free concert (the 'concertone')is held on the large Piazza in front of the Basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano. In 1999, the big name on the ticket was 'Vasco Rossi' who that year had a hit with "Quanti anni hai, bambina?" (How old are you, babe? - a rocking title there). I had no idea just how famous and popular he was - a kind of Italian Bruce Springsteen in terms of fandom but without the talent.
  
It was quite a few years later that I noticed the other 1st May ritual. I had vaguely observed in trattorie tablefuls of elderly Italians being served large pods of broad beans alongside cheese.The patrons would shave off and twist off slivers from a large wheel of white cheese with a black rind. They would unzip the pods and pop the fresh fava beans along with a piece of cheese into their mouths. They would chase them down with some chilled Castelli wine. This dish wasn't on the menu but the locals knew about it.

Not being a huge fan of beans and lukewarm about pecorino cheese, the poor man's parmesan, I hadn't been tempted to try. For many years I paid little attention to the fava beans which were always present on the markets and in the supermarkets in vast quantities in the Spring - long large twisted pods, Frankenstein's monster to the cute smooth green pea pods that invariably appeared on the stalls around the same time. They also reminded me of THAT line in 'The Silence of the Lambs,' as said by Hannibal Lecter: "I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti." Though as more than one person has pointed out liver, fava beans and red wine makes for a nutritionally well-balanced dish.

More ominous is the extreme allergic reaction connected to broad beans which in some cases can be fatal. An American friend (of Italian origins) was on holiday in Sicily enjoying a plate of broad beans when she keeled over and had to be rushed to 'Pronto Soccorso' (the ER). She hadn't known she was allergic.

For some people affected by 'favismo' a genetic disease, the consumption of these beans can cause a severe hemolytic attack leading to anemia. Just inhaling the broad beans' pollen is enough to trigger an attack. Hence, the notice outside supermarkets in the Spring warning clients that broad beans are on sale inside.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to try. I also had discovered over the years that pecorino romano was in fact quite a tasty cheese it was just a good idea to hold off the salt when serving it as it has a high salt content. It is also the star of the show in my favourite pasta dish, 'cacio pepe'.

I bought a small amount of beans and pulled the thread to open the pod. The interior was soft white and velvety with the beans laid daintly on its bed. The beans were still encased in an outer dull film, which when the beans are very fresh can be eaten, but it can also be removed to reveal the smaller shinier bean. 

I hesitated. Then tasted them. Was I allergic? I waited, though already knowing it was unlikely considering I've never been allergic to anything. However, there's always a first time. I broke a crumbly bit of snow white pecorino and tasted it with the bean. The hard salty creaminess of the cheese complemented the earthiness of the beans. It was a success.

I have since that first tremulous assaggio eaten them many times and in a variety of dishes. As for the concertone, that was a one off.

That very first 1st May in Rome a friend and I set off in the early afternoon for Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano.It wasn't far from where we lived so we walked up the road under the warm sun. The Piazza was already packed when we got there. A stage with stacks of loudspeakers beside it had been set up in a corner in front of the basilica. We were too far to see much. The figures on the stage were matchstick sized. When the music started all that reached us was a disharmonious cacophony of sound. 

By the time, the star of the show arrived the sound system was packing in. We couldn't make out what he was singing other than a raucous croaking sound rather like crows make. The ground was strewn with discarded bottles of Peroni beer and crisp packs. Some groups of young people were sitting in circles on the tarmac swaying to the music and singing almost as badly as the star while some were trying to climb onto the roof of the bus shelter for a better view.

As the last act hit her electric guitar with an ominous squeal of feedback, I nudged my friend and suggested we move homewards. Others were also leaving the piazza, some weaving uncertainly having drunk too much, others sporting bright red patches of over-baked skin and others discussing where they were going to have dinner. More than anything it seemed as if the concert was more about spending time with friends than enjoying the music.

Every year there is a big concert on Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano. It's a once in a lifetime experience. 


 

 

Little Easter

Pasquetta (literally little Easter) or Easter Monday is a day to be spent in company and traditionally outdoors with a picnic lunch. This, in a nation who in the summer will send their offspring to the beach with pasta for lunch, is no small under-taking.

It also involves no small amount of rubbish which the day after Pasquetta the gulls, crows and pigeons take great delight in strewing even further afield than the humans have left them. 

A walk in the park when I lived in Monteverde, in Villa Pamphili, the day after Pasquetta, was an olfactory and gustatory delight for my dog but a nightmare of flying food wrappers and pizza crusts left in situ.The very large bin containers that had been dragged into the park on city council orders to accomodate the extra rubbish, had been ignored. 

Last year was a DVDs only type of Easter Monday, relentless rain and people commenting: "just like where you're from." But this year it's bright and sunny which means getting out soon to avoid the crowds.

I head to the Caffarella, a large park off the Appia Antica. We pass the church of Quo Vadis (not named after the film!) but so-called because this is where Saint Peter met Jesus while Peter was fleeing persecution in Rome. According to legend, Peter asked Jesus: Lord, where are you going? (Domine quo vadis?) And Jesus replied, "I'm going to Rome to be crucified again." Ella decides this is as good a place as any other to have a dump. She would. She's a dog. 

I pick up after her and realise there isn't anywhere to dispose of the offending parcel. None of the unattractive bruised dumpsters that adorn the roads of Rome are visible.I walk down Via della Caffarella and notice that I am not the first person to have faced the problem. Bright pink, red or orange plastic poo bags have been abandoned on walls, at the foot of trees, in gutters. I sigh. I place the bag in my pocket and hope to come across a bin. In the meantime I shall have to brave on with the whiff of 'Ella number 2' about my person.

I enter the park and get over taken by joggers and cyclists. Romans ride their bikes as they drive their cars so as a pedestrian one needs extra ears and quick reflexes as they will weave semi-expertly in and out and round about. 

I pass an animal farm solely set up for the purpose of letting city kids see farm animals behind the safety of a high fence. Next to me a mother is pointing out a pig to her daughter: "Look, there's Papa Pig, like in the cartoon." And what works for city kids, works for city dogs. Ella is glued to the fence. She gets to see her first chicken, duck, goose and pig. She can't get enough of it. I have to drag her away.


I pass the entrance to the cenotaph of Annia Regilla, a noble Roman woman who was murdered in Greece  in 160AD. The archaeological site is open so I go in.

Two elderly women are seated at one of the picnic trees beneath a pollen shedding tree. I overhear one on the phone: "Yes. I've brought some salami and some cheese. What are you bringing?" I can only imagine that they are waiting for family to start the Pasquetta picnic. I divest myself of 'Ella number 2.'

 There are many streams in the park. And many notices warning people not to bathe in or drink the water.

 

However some dogs are having a merry romp. I arrive at the Ninfeo Egeria - all mossy waters and a suggestive alcove with the remains of a statue. But it is the flock of sheep in the neighbouring field that catch my attention. 

We climb up the hill, past the sacred wood and look down onto the Colombarium of Constantine, not a dovecot but a building which had once been used to keep the ahes of the deceased. 

Further up the hill I pass an ancient Roman cistern amid a field of small yellow flowers. More people are arriving, table cloths are being laid down, large hampers and baskets opened. It's getting hot and Ella is tired.