Fresh Spring Peas

People  moan that there are no more seasons. Yet, one place the seasons still exist are on the district markets. As the weather heats up the produce shifts. The winter artichokes dwindle away as the first broad beans appear. Around mid April peas will pile up on the stalls around the same time as asparagus start being discounted. There's a short window of time to make the Vignarola - Spring vegetable stew.

More and more tomatoes of different varieties take up space on the stalls: merinda, datterini, picadilly, ciliegine, canone, cuore di bue, green, red, yellow or black, smooth or wrinkled, round or oval, big or small with the queen of them all the pacchino. The plump deep purple aubergines that seem to thrive all year are joined by their slimmer counterparts. The dark winter courgettes are replaced by pale green courgettes still bearing their flowers. In another corner of the stall, large bunches of the zucchini flowers are gathered ready to be bought and stuffed for deep-fried Fiori di Zucca. The bitter leaves of the winter season get replaced by salads: small round ones, larger oval fronded Roman ones and curly fronded frisées. Spring onions and fragrant fresh garlic jostle for attention.

But what always draws my eye are the large heaps of fresh peas usually next to a large basket of fresh broad beans.To tell the truth, for many years fresh peas were not a vegetable I associated with Rome, they conjured up images of lamb with a mint sauce so very British, or the delicious p'etits pois à la française' that my mother would prepare in the late spring. I also hadn't realised that they are of the type blink and you'll miss 'em. In the Spring it's important to go to market as often as possible, skip a week and peas may all be gone!

Peas are the protagonists of  the famous 'risi e bisi' dish - the one I've dubbed the Italian rice dish that isn't a risotto. It is basically what it's name says it is, rice and peas. It is especially flavoursome if the stock used  comes from boiling the pea pods, however any vegetable stock may be used. It originates from the Veneto, the peas are the emblem of Spring while the rice symbolises fertility. It is traditional to eat it on the 25th April, the feast of San Marco.

In Puglia, in Altamura, the minestra di piselli di Altamura is made, combining peas with broken strands of spaghetti in a broth. Peas are also found in Sicilian arancini. (deep fried rice balls).  Or in various Spring soups. Or in oven baked sformati (soft moulded crustless pies) Or alongside cuttlefish. Or in Spring pasta dishes. Or with mint, even in Italy!  

After all, who doesn't like peas?

Looking for a gull

I'd read the story. A picture of a gull with its cv (because gulls have those) had been affixed to the walls of the AMA headquarters in Rome. AMA (Azienda Municipale Ambiente) is the refuse collection agency in Rome. The gull postulated for a position with claims of instant availability, a liking for refuse and experience in catching rodents.It was as fit a candidate as any for the position of ecological worker, as refuse collectors are called here.

I decided to go looking for the gull. The AMA headquarters are on Via Campo Boario, round the back of the non-catholic cemetery and outside the city walls. I set off with my dog. It was a spring morning like so many, slightly hazy, already too hot with pollen floating about. It wasn't long before I had to remove my cardigan and tie it round my hips.

At Parco Scott (named after Robert Scott, he of the failed Polar expedition) I let the dog run free in the dog enclosure which wasn't too fragrant. I'm being polite. In some areas it stank! All the bins were overflowing with multi-coloured and brightly patterned dog poop collection bags. It looked like the park hadn't seen an ecological worker in a while. Nor had the park cleaning service been either as the dogs ran and played in clumps of grass and weeds at times higher than the smaller pooches. I didn't stay long: time for the dog to sniff and play with her pals then it was time to move on.

I headed towards the steadily flowing Cristoforo Columbo , one of the cities most dangerous roads that leads out of the centre towards the business district of EUR and further on through residential areas to end up at the sea in Ostia. I crossed it into Garbatella, the modern side of the district. It is all five-floor or higher apartment blocks.

Down at ground level I was surprised at the amount of dogs passing by - especially of the smaller yappier variety. I had read a statistic that said 1 in 3 Italian families owned a pooch. I'd been dubious. But out in Garbatella this seemed to be the case. 

I hesitated as at the terrace of a café a doggy squabble was in progress. A Jack Russell terrier with raised hackles, peeled back lips to expose all its teeth and yapping away was dodging forwards to nip at the back of a passing dog twice its size. The owner reigned in the yapper as the owner of the other dog yelled at him some Roman insult. As I passed in front of a glass entrance door to a building a Cocker Spaniel came out pulling its owner along for a walk.

where old and new Garbatella meet

I turned off the principal road, circonvallazione Ostiense, onto smaller quieter back roads that led past the overpriced albeit attractive behemoth Eataly. From thence, I passed below the railway tracks, via a graffitied tunnel, Lord Byron was looking dapper, to piramide.  It shone in the sun. I strode down Campo Boario, and peered into the cemetery.The neatness of the cemetery contrasted with the messiness outside the city walls. Weeds grew high, pigeons pecked in the tall grasses and among the strewn litter. A scattering of beer bottles some broken dotted the pavement which the roots of trees had pushed up and distorted. There wasn't a gull insight, either live or in any other format - which considering the amount of litter was a surprise! 

Just past the intersection between the ancient walls and Monte Testaccio, off Piazza Vittorio Bottega, I found the gull I was looking for. Well, more exactly, its remains. A piece of the beak, a claw, the outline of the sketch as well as barely visible the letters CV. 

It showed that when it wanted to AMA could get something done fast. Maybe not in the street where I lived, maybe not in the streets where most Romans lived, but from the walls of its own headquarters, offending refuse was removed fast.

I walked back home dodging overflowing refuse from the large dumpsters all over the city. No doubt gulls, crows, pigeons and rodents had had a hand (or beak) in strewing it so widely.

Later I check the seagull ad, the poster had been placed there by the street artist Maupal. The seagull was described as 'volatile, courageous and aggressive', its listed hobbies were 'eating fish, dead animals, rats and food waste.' The artist had done the poster to highlight the fact that the city was "on the verge of collapse."
Unfortunately, this is only too true.

Further along the Tiber

I needed Sardinian fregola. Even though Sardinia is just a ferry ride away there is only one shop where I can get it: Castroni's, a shop that caters to all international needs - mind you, at a price. This is where you'll find Branston pickle and golden syrup jostling alongside Thai curry pastes, jalapeno relishes and tamarind paste. It's a beautiful day so after work I stay on the A-line til I get to the Flaminio stop. I make my purchases and head towards the river.  The sun is hot but there's an underlying spring breeze.

I overtake three young women who are trying to follow directions on their smart phone GPS. "Are you sure this is the right direction?" asks one.
"Yes, the phone says so." They walk a few paces and stop. I realise that they are looking for the park of Villa Borghese. In the opposite direction. Should I tell them? After a brief consultation, they are striding ahead, more confidently. Still in the wrong direction. It's as good an opportunity as any for them to learn how to read a map. I don't say a word.

I reach Lungotevere, the road that runs alongside the Tiber, after a brief pause to window shop outside a home store. Lovely large plush sofa are exposed which make me wonder who has enough space to put them in their flats. Followed by, why are they all white? And who buys white sofas?

I cross the normally fast flowing Lungotevere road. As it's lunch time it's relatively quiet. My first bridge is Ponte Regina Margherita, a three-arched Travertine marble covered expanse which links Piazza del Popolo with the well-off district of Prati. I turn right and walk alongside the river towards the Vatican.

Ponte Regina Margherita

  

The next bridge I come across is Ponte Cavour, named after Camillo Benso Cavour a key figure in Italian unification. He was Italy's first Prime Minister but died shortly after taking office. He never saw the Veneto or Rome join a unified Italy.This bridge was built between 1896 and 1901 and is a five-arched construction. Unsurprisingly one artery off it leads towards Piazza Cavour where a statue of the man holds centre stage whereas the other side leads to the Museum of the Ara Pacis 

More curiously, as I turn my gaze downwards to the river I see a wooden windmill, not a construction I would associate with Rome. It belongs to the steamboat restaurant. This reminds me that I'm near the Carré Français, a popular French bistrot. I'm feeling peckish. I continue on my way beneath the sweeping branches of the riverside trees. Gulls swoop above the river and congregate on various sand bars or more exactly mud flats left behind as the waters receded. 

Maybe another day, I think, as I pass my favourite Church, a thin Gothic building which thanks to its recent renovation is blindingly white in the sun, and, as ever, closed. 

I stride on towards a far more imposing white structure, the palazzaccio (rotten palace) - the Court of Cassation. The story goes that as soon as it was built it began to sink into the marshy land it was built on. The architect in despair comitted suicide. The slow sinking was arrested in the 1970s. The name, palazzaccio, derives from the inevitable stories of bribery and corruption that surround its construction.

Il palazzaccio

Leading away from the Palazzaccio towards Piazza Navona is Ponte Umberto I a three-arched masonry bridge covered in Travertine. 

My sights are now on Castel Sant'Angelo and the Bridge of Angels. I cross Ponte Umberto and pass by some rather tacky souvenir stalls perched on the wall above the Tiber: magnets, postcards and some religious souvenirs as well as some books on Italian cookery and Rome. As I approach Castel Sant'Angelo the voice of a busker singing Coldplay's "Yellow" grows more distinct. The sound system is cranked almost to distortion level but the man can sing.

I note the European flag fluttering in the breeze over Castel Sant'Angelo and gaze up at the warrior Angel Michael , sword drawn, above the terrace from which Tosca jumped to her death in Puccini's opera.  Down at ground level a long queue of visitors has formed. 

The bridge itself was once known as Aelian Bridge (Pons Aeluis), the bridge of Hadrian. It was completed in 134AD and connected the city centre to the mausoleum. By the Middle Ages the old name had been dropped. it became known as the Bridge of St. Peter's as it was used by pilgrims to get to St. Peter's Basilica.

In the 6th Century, under Pope Gregory I both the castle and the bridge became known as Sant'Angelo. According to the legend an angel had appeared at the top of the castle and ended the plague that was ravaging the city.

During the 1450 jubilee, balustrades collapsed under the pressure of the passing pilgrims who fell to their death in the Tiber. After the 16th century the bridge was used to expose the bodies of the executed. 

In 1669 Pope Clement I commissioned Bernini to design statues of 10 statues of angels to replace the older statues on the bridge. Bernini actually sculpted two of them, the Angel with the Superscription and the Angel with the Crown of Thorns. However, those exposed on the bridge are copies, the originals which the Pope kept for himself, are in the church of Sant'Andrea delle Fratte. 

The Bridge of Angels is a pedestrian bridge and always crowded. Tourists, selfie sticks aloft as well as immigrants selling counterfeit bags mingle past buskers and street artists. I wonder what Bernini would have made of it?

 I'm almost relieved to walk away to the next bridge of Vittorio Emmanuelle II. Large sculptures adorn the bridge, allegorical representations of Liberty, Oppression defeated, Unity of Italy and Loyalty to the Constitution. The four end pillars are decorated with winged victories. I look back at the view towards Castel Sant'Angelo which is perhaps the most attractive thing about this bridge. The sculptures are heavy and unsubtle. Up head yawns the mouth of a tunnel that passes through the Gianiculum hill and dead ends at the Vatican.

Lunch time is drawing to a close and the roads are getting busier I go down the steps beside the bridge onto the banks of the Tiber. The trailing police tape is evidence that they have only recently been made re-accessible to the public. The water is still high lapping at the edges and covering steps which under normal circumstances would lead down to the water's edge. In places there is still some clayey mud and the water has left behind large and long streamers of plastic which adorn branches of trees like a mad mans Christmas streamers. Some ducks swim past easily overtaking my slow walk. I step off the cycle path as perfectly lycra clad cyclists race past. I pass under Ponte Principe Amedeo, a more recent construction made of brick and marble. Its distinguishing features are 2 single lancet windows. I look back at the view of a distant Castle Sant Angelo. I move on. 

Ponte Amedeo

The next bridge is Ponte Mazzini yet another heavy masonry bridge dedicated to yet another key player in Italian unification. 

A plaque on the wall indicates that I'm at Piazza Tevere. I'm puzzled. There is no Piazza where I stand just the banks of the river curving forwards and the walls rising up to the road. 

Quite by accident I have stumbled across the 500metre long frieze entitled 'Triumphs and Laments' by the South African artist William Kendall. It fascinates me. Some scenes are easy to recognise Anita Exberg and Marcello Mastroianni in La Dolce Vita, but in a bath tub under a pouring shower head rather than the Trevi fountain, or the Capitoline she-wolf but other images are more baffling. In all there are 80.

Once I have passed the last image I climb up onto Lungotevere and onto Ponte Sisto, a pedestrian bridge that links Trastevere to Via Giulia and thence to Piazza Farnese and Campo Dei Fiori, the touristic heartland of Rome.

For me it is the end of the walk and time to go home. 

The bells of St Peters

"Auguri."
"Auguri." My path crosses that of a neighbour in front of the church of Our Lady of Lourdes, and we exchange seasonal greetings.

Neapolitan pastiera 

The night before Easter I had been surprised to note that the church had set up a speaker system so powerful even those not attending Easter Mass could hear it. I'd been startled walking my dog round the block by the indistinct murmur of the faithful as they chanted the liturgy. It was a creepy sound which made me think of mindless brainwashing sects where people chant words without knowing what they mean. It was all very Village of the Damned by way of The Stepford Wives. My dog didn't think much of it either,
More prosaically it meant no one could sleep before midnight as the priests voice boomed the mass into the night. Though I noted that my hard-of-hearing elderly neighbours who had listened to the via Crucis report on their TV  at the usual too-loud-volume the night before weren't tonight among the local faithful. By the sounds of it there was something better on TV.

Easter dawned rainless which was something after the storms of the day before with their dazzling flashes of lightning and hail stones pelting down. Children could enjoy their Easter egg hunt albeit on damp ground or unravel the miles of cellophane that enveloped their gigantic eggs. I figured Easter was an early lesson in disappointment for Italian children. They received their gargantuan eggs, impressive to behold, dressed to the nines, but once the wrapping was discarded all that remained was a large chocolate shell either empty or filled with the type of rubbish found in a popular chocolate egg (banned in the USA) one eighth of the size. And the odds were that after a timorous bite of the usually commercial brand chocolate the mega eggs would be whisked away by anxious mothers, never to be seen again - at least not in egg shape. You wouldn't want to ruin your appetite now.
The alternative to these mega eggs were teeny tiny ones sold per grams, also largely commercial brands. There are few artisan chocolatiers in Rome. 

So after the anti-climactic chocolate egg there is the Easter brunch or lunch. The Pope this year decided to confuse everyone by saying that lamb wasn't traditional, it represented the soul of Jesus, so, come to think of it, maybe the faithful shouldn't be eating it. He undoubtedly saved a few lambs. Of course, he then decided to compound the confusion by telling people that hell didn't exist. I guess there is no logic in religion.

Fortunately not everyone pays attention to the Pope and prefers just to enjoy the Easter break for what it is: a few days off work. Once the weather cleared it was fun to ramble through the various parks. 
On Pasquetta (Easter Monday) this meant keeping a tight hold on the dog as people set up their barbecues. Never mind the cold breeze, tradition was tradition: Pasquetta was picnic-in-the-park day.
All good things come to an end. The break is over. No more holidays til the summer. Secretly, I still like to think that chocolate eggs come flying in on the bells of St Peters - the chocolate eggs of my childhood.

Bitter greens

"La cicoria rinnova la memoria," intones a voice behind me. I turn around. It's one of the local old women, grey-haired and slightly stooped. Her sturdy brown sensible shoes are worn out from her continual pounding up and down the pavements of the area. As she goes by, she utters  old sayings or quotes from the bible, and sometimes admonishments to passers-by. She punctuates her words with hand gestures. She doesn't expect an answer. She's a familiar figure on the streets.

cicoria di catalogna

Chicory is just one of the bitter leaves Italians are fond of. In Rome a particular dish called puntarelle alla Romana celebrates the bitter shoots snuggled among the leaves of cicoria di catalogna. Preparing the puntarelle takes time and patience, and knife skills to cut the tiny shoots into slivers that will curl in their ice cold water bath, but the final result served in an emulsion of anchovies and vinegar is worth it. 

The cicoria di catalogna is a mighty vegetable. A bunch will yield riches because once the puntarelle are disposed of there are the leaves and stalks to cook. They are often steamed or sautéed with some garlic or a hint of pepperoncino and then served with a dribble of fine olive oil.

But it is also the season of broccoletti (tender stem broccoli) found in large tufts on market stalls and slightly less fresh in the supermarkets where the yellow flowers can often to be seen flowering from the broccoli heads, a clear sign that the plant is past its best. 

Bieta - chard

Or there are the cime di rapa (turnip tops) which are the centre piece of the pugliese dish of orecchiette con cime di rapa. All these greens have distinct bitterish flavours and are all labour intensive in their preparation phases.

Another generous vegetable is the bietola (chard). Its large leaves and fibrous stalks have different cooking times and they must be cooked separately for optimum results. The stalks can be stewed Sicilian style in tomatoes and anchovies while the leaves may be steamed. Maybe because of the time it takes to prepare these vegetables most Italian supermarkets will sell large bags of ready-prepared and ready-cleaned spinach, bietola or cicoria and there is also the mixed bag option.

Then there are the elderly who are trying to eke out their meagre pensions by picking up leaves  in the fields: dandelions, nettles and wild rocket as well as any herbs they can find.

As for our street crier she is constantly encouraging people to eat their greens, "la bieta per la dieta," and with their high water content and low calories they would be perfect for a diet.

Tomato stewed bieta stalks

Snow and the city

The British Isles are being hammered  and battered by the 'Beast from the East', an abnormally cold weather system. This week Rome woke up to snow. The commune di Roma had taken the precaution the night before of closing all the schools amid jeers and laughter. Nobody thought it would snow, or at least, snow enough to warrant closing the schools. Instead, it did.

Monday morning I pulled up the shutters to a surreal vision. Already from the strange silence I'd guessed that something had happened. An eerie glow through the shutter slats had given an early indication. I faced a pure snowy white roof, to my left the branches of the trees were sagging under the weight of the snow. I peered four floors down at the road all covered in a white slick, I saw some footprints on the pavement. "Oh shit!" was all I could think.

The previous snowy spell had been five years ago and resulted in panic as the Mayor at the time, Alemanno, rather tardily decided to close schools. He was largely criticised for mis-handling the situation and not having paid enough attention to the weather forecast. A week later another flurry being predicted he closed the schools in advance. The flurry was merely a few flakes of lazy melting snow not worth closing down the city for. He couldn't win. Again he was criticised.

This time the town hall had taken pre-emptive action. Sadly, the Mayor Raggi was soundly criticised for being in Mexico, on a world climate summit (irony of ironies), rather than in Rome dealing with the snow hands on. 

In the end my fears came to nothing. Schools were closed so happy children got to spend a day at home and outside playing with unfamiliar snow balls and building small snowmen. In the parks some attempted a little sleighing.  Most public administration offices were closed too. A large part of the bus network ground to a halt though the two metro lines were unaffected. And I and my colleagues got an unexpected day off which was all the more appreciated for having come unexpectedly.

The next day most schools and public administration offices remained closed. Overnight temperatures had dropped to well below seasonal norms and the city authorities had decided to limit road traffic. Nevertheless, as I walked my dog on slippery pavements, I noticed a massive traffic jam was forming in my area. It seemed most people had chosen to go back to work.

Rome isn't a city that deals well with snow, it can barely deal with heavy rain fall. Sewers get blocked and roads turn to rivers. Likewise as the snow rapidly turned to slush and branches that had crashed down from the umbrella pines clogged the drain holes, cold water accumulated along the sides of roads. 

By the third day the temperatures shot up again though there, for a while, remained the threat of more snow, more cold temperatures. It hasn't happened. Now it looks as if Rome is back on its normal course towards the Spring. Anyway there's an election to take care of! 

To err is human

In France the right to make a mistake has been granted to citizens by Parliament. It's a way of conceding that when dealing with bureaucracy not everyone gets it right first time round. It's also a way of getting people to own up to minor transgressions without fear of reprisals.

There are limits to the French Parliament's magnitude: citizens can make a mistake only once and it must be done in good faith. But it's a step forward. 

Italy has an even more byzantine bureaucracy than France.The pursuit of elusive bits of paper to prove information which is known is an obligatory rite of passage for anyone hoping to stay in Italy long term. There are scores of offices and buildings stuffed full of files all over the nation. Obtaining the various documents involves some kind of cost usually both monetary and temporal. It also involves dealing with the disgruntled employees of public administration offices, who knowing they can't be fired, have dispensed with any semblance of customer service. Why should they when the customer is always wrong? 

Thus, one employee may require certain documents for a transaction whereas another may require different ones for exactly the same transaction. A colleague traipsed off to get a birth certificate translated (a certified translation)and  was then told upon handing in her translation: "Oh, you didn't need to do that!" There's of course no point in getting angry in such situations. And yes, most foreign documents must be translated, neither a simple nor inexpensive undertaking. 

The concept of making a mistake in good faith doesn't exist in Italy. Actually, I suspect that the notion of good faith doesn't exist here. This may explain why people never own up to having made a mistake. Ever. Thus ordinary mortals when dealing with bureaucracy have to have the knowledge of a lawyer and an accountant rolled into one, that's for starters. Hence, there is a large number of offices providing services such as help to fill in tax returns, help with contracts etc.... It's a lucrative business. However, should the service provider make a mistake they are not liable. The customer who hired their services is. There's no way out with such a system.

Another colleague, in good faith, handed in an incorrectly filled (by her accountant) tax return form (her employer hadn't paid as much as he should have).  Five years later, the mistake was noticed. She argued that it had been a mistake. How could she have known what her accountant hadn't noticed? she argued. "Ignorance isn't an excuse," was the convenient coverall repost. She was fined and charged five years accrued interest on the fine. Again, in such circumstances, there is no point losing ones rag.

So good on France for recognising that people can make mistakes. It's high time that happened here.