Well, it all started out when I got to the famed Spanish Steps and found them blocked off by metal gates and giant speakers. There is, as I write, a big international gathering sponsored by WWF, the World Wildlife Fund, for people concerned about the welfare of animals. I am one of those people, but I am writing this and dedicating it to gli animali instead of going...because, people, it would be a long walk back to the Spanish Steps. And having got lost to and from there already today, I decided to stay home and do my rather large Italian assignment for Monday. Plus, I am tired and already had quite day...I mean, it's not every day that four hundred years vanish between you and a great master so that your eyes meet in a moment of shared tenderness and grief for the world. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
When I discovered the Spanish Steps were closed, I hoped on an elevator because I didn't realize there were side steps. In the elevator was a man who suddenly began talking to me about the state of the world. It was only 2 flights up, but by the time the door opened, I knew he was from Bangladesh, had been in Italia for 3 years, and was going to meet his brother negli Stati Uniti next year. There are no jobs in Roma, no work, no food, no beds. He is going to America...I didn't have the heart to warn him. We said goodbye overlooking Rome as the crowds flowed along the road.
I'm sure it wasn't this jammed with people when Lord Byron lived across the street in #66. Or when Keats came to ponder his mortality before dying of TB.
It was not a day for pondering my mortality but for breaking free of the crowd. It's also in this area where Gucci, Prada, Versace, and their pals peddle their wares. Window shoppers appear in droves. And by the way, I thought Swatches were inexpensive watches. Ha. The one I liked best was 85 euros. So off I went down a side street. Very quiet...when all of a sudden I came upon the Rome Museum of Modern Art featuring an exhibition of works by writers and artists from 1900 through the 60s...Pirandello, Ungaretti, Moravia, and many other Italian Futurists.
I don't think the work of the Futurists, Italian or otherwise, has ever been made so clear to me: The fragmented abstractions that comment on the coming of the machine, the possibilities of travel, and the growing complexity of life with all it's various facets...the still lifes showing the importance and difficulty of focusing on the everyday things to anchor ourselves in the mechanistic and changing world.
I liked the thought expressed by Ungaretti that the artist must live in the extreme because this is the only way of getting to the bottom of things...and the thought, I believe by De Chirico, that the time for depending on myths and fables was over...he preferred adventure with all its contradictions and risks as a way of escaping the cultural myths. It seemed to me that this described my own desire for my current adventure. The poet and artist have always been among my favorites. I thought it interesting that a form at the end of the exhibit asked not just my opinion of the exhibit. but also with which artist I identified most closely.
So many of the artists were influenced by the two World Wars. In a way, the exhibition was like Pirandello's 6 characters, all in search of truth in words.
All the artists were grappling with disappointment in a world besieged by suffering brought on by the absurdities of war. They acknowledged the need to find new ways of looking at reality, yet despaired in that reality. The art was not depressing but rather reflective. Like looking into a mirror and seeing myself in this time when in addition to the machine, we have technological devices that have turned the world into a place run by programs and systems and menu items.
The different technologies have different rules, strict and unyielding rules like medieval religion. As with my iPhone. Before leaving America, I called Verizon 4 times so thought I was good to go, had covered all bases. Nope. As you may recall, I had to buy a phone here so I could call to find out how my iPhone worked. Even then, it took three more people to get me to the person who told me what to do. It was as easy as touch tapping one OFF to ON. This is crazy.
I learned from Frontline just shortly leaving that there are even more PTSD cases among soldiers operating drones than pilots flying actual bombing missions. Remote war saves people's lives but blows their minds. What the hell are we doing to ourselves?
The museum itself was a gem. Quiet. Not many interested in contemplating the Italian Futurists. They were playing music, friendly Italian music, very much like a CD I've had with songs made for waltzing with cats. It's driving me nuts...the title of the song with that mellifluous Italian tenor voice...oh when I dance with a cat, how light I become on my clumsy feet, sweeping about the living room with my big round and bunchy orange prince Reno until he refuses to put up with the humiliation. How sweet of the museum to remind me of those tender moments of life in the midst of the Futurist response to twentieth century decadence, suffering, and mechanized complications.
Time for gelato after the long walk back home. Amarena. Made from Italian Amarena dark cherries often used in a syrup. It was cheerful...with creamy swirls of red and pink and white and bits of the dark cherries. I like Tre Scali gelato. It's outstanding plus they give you a really big cupful for 2 euros. Gelato spoons are teeny tiny plastic spoons made for teeny tiny tastes to be slowly savored. I was refreshed and ready to continue my day.
From the piazza, I went around the corner, not knowing of the mystical encounter awaiting me in the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi...the French National Church here in Rome. The attraction drawing the mini swarm making its way to the left front corner of the church: the three Caravaggios: The Calling of St. Matthew, The Inspiration of St. Matthew, and The Martyrdom of St. Matthew.
I've always liked St. Matthew, the teacher. And Caravaggio, master of light. The thing is, these large paintings are tucked up in that left corner of the church that is completely dark unless someone puts a euro in a box to light them up. I never timed the light, but I'd say you get about five minutes per euro. During that five minutes, the people swarming in front of the marble railing start elbowing each other as they try to snug up to the rail to get just the right angles...left...right...straight on for their pictures.
Every time the light goes off, you hear this loud "Ahhhhh," as if the home team just couldn't get the ball from the first-yard line over the goal for the winning TD. Not one cheap maniac with a camera ever put in a euro for light. I watched. I had time to watch because when I finally made it to the rail, the light went off. I stepped to the right to drop in a euro and the small space I left filled so I now had to work my way up again. Nature and photographers abhor a vacuum.
From behind the swarm, I looked at the pictures in the little camera screens. I wondered what these people were going to do with their pictures. I mean, they didn't really look at the real Caravaggios. How much genius can you see through a lens...or in digital image, no matter how many pixels...I watched them holding up iPhones with one hand, trying to remain steady as other iPhones and clickety Japanese cameras were going off all around and in front of them.
And yes, The Voice was back: Silenzio. No Flash. Silenzio.
A woman in a Campbell's soup T-shirt zig-zagged in front of me, shot The Calling, Inspiration, and Martyrdom with her white iPhone and was off.
I looked at St. Matthew's astonishment at being called by The Lord...the light on his face...how did the master do that?...perhaps in the spirit of the universal moment, both saint and artist were also anticipating the astonishment of the present moment.
In the Inspiration, St. Matthew has paused in his writing...the angel suspended in the air above him appears to be counting fingers. I'm sure there is a religious symbolism to this...but with the somewhat quizzical look on the saint-teacher's face, he appears to be doubting that in the future people will be as ridiculous as they are and that it is his job to write something to teach them what spirit means.
In the Martyrdom, a perilous figure is standing over the saint who is lying down. The perilous man has a weapon in one hand and with the other has grasped the downed saint's wrist...in a marvel of art, it is difficult to tell whether Matthew is reaching for or refusing a branch extended to him by an angel floating over the grim scene. Perhaps that lifeline could lift him from the grasp of the diabolical strength of cruelty. Is he reaching for or resisting salvation...then again, when it comes to sainthood, maybe resistance is also reaching.
I finally made my way again to the marble rail. The colors...the figures...the magic of light in all three works are all infused with an indescribable spirit. How did Caravaggio do that?
The light on the paintings went off. "Ahhhhh."
Silenzio. No Flash. Silenzio.
I heard the sound of a euro dropping into the box. The light went back on. The swarm came and went and came again. Finally, I could no longer stand the jostling and stepped back behind the swarm.
In the upper right corner of The Martyrdom, Caravaggio painted himself, dark eyes and beard, into the picture, gazing over the crowd, unable to get past the gaggle of ineffectual onlookers to the endangered saint. And suddenly, our eyes met—Caravaggio, master of light, and me.
And I knew just from his look that he had been waiting, watching over all these 400 years for those who would recognize that Blessed are the Peacemakers, the Meek, and those who Mourn, for they shall be comforted as they maintain the light in this dark world. Blessed, too, are the Artists and Teachers who remain fearless in answering the call to walk into the dark of the human heart to bring forth the light.
Blessed also are all the animals, to whom I dedicate this on a night of international commitment to recognizing that the quality of a culture is evident by the way the people treat animals, both wild and domestic.
And finally, Blessed are those who can just put down their cameras and phones for two minutes and then shut the F*** up while they see, feel, and absorb the wonder of art instead of taking home a digital image that's no more real than the Colosseum turned into an ashtray.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Saturday, March 23, 2013
#21—Going With the Flow
The first time I used the washer in this apartment, I thought the clothes came out wet because I took them out too soon.
My first hint should have been that on the first day Signora Stella said, Be sure to hang the clothes in the bathroom. Or put a towel under them on the wood floor.
You see, in Italia, people do not use dryers. I got used to clothes hanging all over my Florence apartment. But at least the washer would wring them dry.
This washer...the first time my violet jersey was wet on only one side. Same time this go round. I only hope it was the other side.
The bottom half of my cranberry jersey is totally dry; the top is sopping.
The bath towel: sopping. beyond sopping.
My black cotton slacks: sopping.
I have only two bath towels, and I didn't want to wring out anything the remaining dry one. So okay, I'll use the blanket on my bed. I mean, if I don't get some of the water out, they'll never dry. I'll figure out what to do with the wet blanket later. Except. And I do not exaggerate. The blanket did not absorb any moisture whatsoever. whatthehell??? The blanket, after I wrapped dripping jerseys and slacks in it, is still totally dry. The clothes will perhaps be dry tomorrow. It took 29 hours for underwear and the sopping half of the violet jersey to dry.
I got a quote this morning from one devoted reader recalling Galieo's thoughts on reason. I think that even this master of truth would be stumped by all of this.
Stai calmo...sei a Roma.
Yes, I am in Rome and calm. I used an extra sheet to remove some excess water. But even the sheet was pretty non absorbent.
With both traffic and water in Rome: you must go with the flow.
And the traffic like the Tiber is full of history. Not the facts of what happened but the currents.
The cars move fast. Most drive those small Smart cars and motorcycles because there's really no place to park. They go fast. I mean really fast. The only time any Roman appears to obey rules is when red lights turn green. Little as the vehicles are, the drive big like the ruins...with the attitude of Empire. If someone is lingering in a crosswalk, there is an immediate cacophony of horns and epithets filling the air.
The day after I arrived, I was terrified to cross a busy street so I followed a man with a baby in a stroller and a baby in his arms. It was at a crosswalk where cars are supposed to yield to pedestrians. But even the man with babies and a stroller had to swerve. But in a way, it was like a dance.
I mean, it all moves here like molecules in the sea. For all the speed and craziness, I have seen not even a single fender bender. I have read that in the cosmic mathematical mind, every particle of water in the sea knows what every other particle is doing. The Butterfly Effect, I believe it's called. That's Rome. No one ever stops. They may slow a bit or swerve. But unless there's a red light, no one stops. Even if there's a red light, the drivers seem to keep moving. The readiness is all. Like cats waiting to pounce. Like Hamlet awaiting providence in the the fall of a sparrow.
Everything keeps moving as it has moved for over 2500 years. The traffic is like the Tiber, full of the currents of history, changing, the same...I love the story of a political race for a top job in Ancient Rome. The race got so hot, the candidates were afraid to go out in public. When one candidate tried to speak on the rostrum, now part of the ruins, those favoring his opponent went up on the stage and pulled him off.
The rostrum is where Marc Antony roused the crowd against Caesar's assassins. Beware. The flow never stops, but the currents are alive with a mind of their own. I really do hope the washer got the other side of the violet jersey.
Yesterday, there was a bus strike. A million Romans had no way to get to work or school or wherever. Nothing, however, seemed to slow down.
My teacher was a big late. She was in favor of the strike.
Potere al Popolo, we said raising our socialist fists. It was a nice bonding moment across age and cultures. (She's probably in her late 20s)
The conversazione led from one thing to another. How could Romans be so crazy. No one got a majority in the last elections because so many Romans were crazy enough to vote for Berlusconi, who promised to pay back people's taxes, and a whacky blogger. Bersani, the man of intelligence, will now have to work with the idiot factions.
I commented on the i politici pazzi...crazy politicians negli Stati Uniti.
Perche'? we asked...Why?
You know what we both thought about our countries?
The root of the problem, we agreed, lies in our education systems.
Young people for too many years have not been educated to think critically and for the greater good.
So, it appears that I may have come to meet the Italian Cousin of America's Ghost of Christmas Future here in the place where the first grand Empire came and went. The currents, it would seem, flow only in one direction.
In the short term, if I'm lucky: the washer hit the armpit it missed last go-round, Congress won't slash Medicare, and I won't be so eager for the next gluten-free pizza that I will rush too carelessly across that busy crosswalk.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
My first hint should have been that on the first day Signora Stella said, Be sure to hang the clothes in the bathroom. Or put a towel under them on the wood floor.
You see, in Italia, people do not use dryers. I got used to clothes hanging all over my Florence apartment. But at least the washer would wring them dry.
This washer...the first time my violet jersey was wet on only one side. Same time this go round. I only hope it was the other side.
The bottom half of my cranberry jersey is totally dry; the top is sopping.
The bath towel: sopping. beyond sopping.
My black cotton slacks: sopping.
I have only two bath towels, and I didn't want to wring out anything the remaining dry one. So okay, I'll use the blanket on my bed. I mean, if I don't get some of the water out, they'll never dry. I'll figure out what to do with the wet blanket later. Except. And I do not exaggerate. The blanket did not absorb any moisture whatsoever. whatthehell??? The blanket, after I wrapped dripping jerseys and slacks in it, is still totally dry. The clothes will perhaps be dry tomorrow. It took 29 hours for underwear and the sopping half of the violet jersey to dry.
I got a quote this morning from one devoted reader recalling Galieo's thoughts on reason. I think that even this master of truth would be stumped by all of this.
Stai calmo...sei a Roma.
Yes, I am in Rome and calm. I used an extra sheet to remove some excess water. But even the sheet was pretty non absorbent.
With both traffic and water in Rome: you must go with the flow.
And the traffic like the Tiber is full of history. Not the facts of what happened but the currents.
The cars move fast. Most drive those small Smart cars and motorcycles because there's really no place to park. They go fast. I mean really fast. The only time any Roman appears to obey rules is when red lights turn green. Little as the vehicles are, the drive big like the ruins...with the attitude of Empire. If someone is lingering in a crosswalk, there is an immediate cacophony of horns and epithets filling the air.
The day after I arrived, I was terrified to cross a busy street so I followed a man with a baby in a stroller and a baby in his arms. It was at a crosswalk where cars are supposed to yield to pedestrians. But even the man with babies and a stroller had to swerve. But in a way, it was like a dance.
I mean, it all moves here like molecules in the sea. For all the speed and craziness, I have seen not even a single fender bender. I have read that in the cosmic mathematical mind, every particle of water in the sea knows what every other particle is doing. The Butterfly Effect, I believe it's called. That's Rome. No one ever stops. They may slow a bit or swerve. But unless there's a red light, no one stops. Even if there's a red light, the drivers seem to keep moving. The readiness is all. Like cats waiting to pounce. Like Hamlet awaiting providence in the the fall of a sparrow.
Everything keeps moving as it has moved for over 2500 years. The traffic is like the Tiber, full of the currents of history, changing, the same...I love the story of a political race for a top job in Ancient Rome. The race got so hot, the candidates were afraid to go out in public. When one candidate tried to speak on the rostrum, now part of the ruins, those favoring his opponent went up on the stage and pulled him off.
The rostrum is where Marc Antony roused the crowd against Caesar's assassins. Beware. The flow never stops, but the currents are alive with a mind of their own. I really do hope the washer got the other side of the violet jersey.
Yesterday, there was a bus strike. A million Romans had no way to get to work or school or wherever. Nothing, however, seemed to slow down.
My teacher was a big late. She was in favor of the strike.
Potere al Popolo, we said raising our socialist fists. It was a nice bonding moment across age and cultures. (She's probably in her late 20s)
The conversazione led from one thing to another. How could Romans be so crazy. No one got a majority in the last elections because so many Romans were crazy enough to vote for Berlusconi, who promised to pay back people's taxes, and a whacky blogger. Bersani, the man of intelligence, will now have to work with the idiot factions.
I commented on the i politici pazzi...crazy politicians negli Stati Uniti.
Perche'? we asked...Why?
You know what we both thought about our countries?
The root of the problem, we agreed, lies in our education systems.
Young people for too many years have not been educated to think critically and for the greater good.
So, it appears that I may have come to meet the Italian Cousin of America's Ghost of Christmas Future here in the place where the first grand Empire came and went. The currents, it would seem, flow only in one direction.
In the short term, if I'm lucky: the washer hit the armpit it missed last go-round, Congress won't slash Medicare, and I won't be so eager for the next gluten-free pizza that I will rush too carelessly across that busy crosswalk.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Friday, March 22, 2013
#20—OMG: Zabaglione...and Senza Glutine!
Okay, there are people in this world with real and serious illnesses. I am very grateful that I'm not one of them. Still, celiac disease can be a tribulation, especially when traveling. Everything you put between your lips could make you sick. At Christmas, I mistakenly ate a cracker and the side of my face swelled up for two days. It's not like an allergy. Celiac is an autoimmune disease, so ingesting anything with gluten can have consequences, both external and internal. It's very difficult and socially isolating to be afraid of food, especially when traveling.
I walked around Florence and now Rome where streets are lined with marvelous restaurants of all sorts...where people sit outside enjoying some of the world's greatest food, I must order a salad while others order pizzas and pasta that look so beautiful they should be in a museum. It doesn't help that I'm a vegetarian as well.
Of course, I ordered the book Gluten-Free Italy. The title was hopeful. The reality was not. Until today:The Florence choices never panned out. I didn't have high hopes for Rome. However, I had read about this place that has gluten-free pizza. You know me, I love the quest. #33 Giubbonari. It's a short street after the very large and commercially crowded Piazza Campo di Fiori. Sorry, Rick Steves, I don't find it the charming place you claim it to be. Nice fruits and vegetables. But crowds. And wares upon wares loaded with gluten.
So map in hand, I go looking for my last best hope. Probably a fool's errand.
On this short block that starts with #77. No way is there room for #33. Except I remembered the nutty numbering system in Florence. My apartment #66 was next to a store, "25." So I plodded on...#44....#37...ah ha...a Spagettetaria...!!! #33. I walk in. Speranza in my step. The conversation commences in Italian. Not only do they have pizza vegetariana senza glutine...they have an entire gluten-free menu. I was on my way to Trastevere across the Tiber so asked if I had to order ahead...was there some secret to getting this freshly made delight. No just stop back.
Now, this is ridiculous, but I walked down the street with tears in my eyes. Food. Real Italian food in Italy. Pizza. Real Pizza. Sorry, Amy, you try with that frozen stuff...but it's just not pizza. I was so excited I decided to buy myself something to celebrate. I stopped on the bridge to Trastevere and bought a bracelet from a sweet old man from Honduras. I chose the red and black leather, although for 5 euro I'm pretty sure it's vinyl, Red and black, I said to him in Italian, the colors of revolution.
Oh, no, no signora, red is the color of love.
He was very excited that all his bracelets came on and off with lo stesso sistema...the same system. And it is pretty clever the way he's worked it out so you don't have to tie the end, but just slide the twiny stuff at the ends. Bad description. Blame it on the tumbler of wine (story to come below)
So with my red and black braccialetto, the colors of revolution and love...whatever...I was off to check out Trastevere, home of the churches of Santa Cecilia and Santa Maria...I was early for Santa Cecilia...they close mid-day. On my way to Santa Maria, I stopped at Fiori di Luna, Flowers of the Moon for gelato. I don't know why I picked it, but something was in the air...pizza senza glutine...and, there was this very charming young college woman behind the counter, working while her on her semester abroad...we chatted about how we both wished we spoke better italian. So, I asked her as I gazed through the glass at the colorful creamy wonders, what in the world is Zabaglione? (I have since learned it's a well-known Italian dessert.)
Oh, she said, as if delivering enlightenment from one of the archangels, its kind of the flavor of eggnog with Marsala through it...you could actually see tiny wisps of the Marsala.
Oh, I said, why not. Would you like something sopra (on top), she asked.
Well, maybe some of that crema.
I paid a modest sum as gelato goes and went on my way.
But after the first tiny plastic spoonful of Zabaglione with a touch of Crema, I stopped dead on the Via and said aloud: Oh my God.
Now, I've had some pretty fantastic gelato. But eggnog with marsala topped with crema: All I can say is that it's so good, no one should be permitted to eat it in public.
And you don't have to take my word for it. Ask that woman outside the Church of Santa Maria. She was practically dancing.
All who'd tasted of the Flowers of the Moon settled down and went inside Santa Maria of Trastevere.
It's hard to describe churches. This one was exquisite with the giant mosaic above the altar where Jesus had his arm around his mom, introducing her to the world. It was even in its opulence and magnitude very tender. The face of Jesus in this mosaic, like the face of Jesus on the altar was the face of a man you could believe in: More simple than sacred, more real than the stunningly beautiful marble inlaid and undoubtedly highly expensive floors...even as prices went in the 14th century. Oh, yeah, right where the church now stands, someone discovered oil back in 30 B.C. I wonder what Rome would have become if it had been a major gusher and not just a handy reserve for lighting lamps?
On my way back to Santa Cecilia, I bought a purple sweatshirt from Ahman from Bangladesh. He took Italian lessons upon arriving here so we compared schools. He had started out hustling me, offering me 7 euros less than the going price for sweatshirts so after we exchanged names and stories about learning to talk Italian and he convinced me the purple really was better than the blue for me, I gave him the going price.
Then down the road to Santa Cecilia's. Breathtaking, really. Although not only for the simple pale blue beauty of the marble walls and modest but elegant appointments. St. Cecilia's tomb is right up in front of the altar. There is a marble likeness of her carved by the artist who was there when they opened her original tomb and saw her body whole before it turned to dust. On the marble sculpture, there's a gash in the neck. Cecilia was beheaded for her beliefs. I sat in the church soaking in the simple beauty and wondering what I would be willing to give my head to.
Now, you'd think someone working in that church today under that kind of pressure to give it your all would be quite other worldly. Not the jolly nun in the old traditional habit working the book store. She spoke no English, so we kind of made do as I asked if it's really true that il Papa leads a candlelight procession around the Colosseo every Good Friday. It appears that this is true, although she didn't know what time. And so I was off toward...la pizza vegetariana senza glutine.
Oh, but before we leave, how would I describe the section of Rome called Trastevere. Home to these two exquisite churches, yes. But the place itself has an attitude that could be summed up by this sign outside a small, informal ristorante:
I decided to bring my pizza back here, relax after a hard week at language learning and enjoying the heck out of Rome. Well, actually, that's not the real reason. I didn't think I could eat the standard...looks like possibly a 16" to 18" pizza. And I wasn't sure how to ask for un sacco per il canissimo...or if they do doggie bags in Rome.
So anyhow, while waiting, I ordered glass of vino rosso. Now, I thought it would be like most places. A huge glass. A tiny bit of wine. But no. What I received was...well, how to describe it... a short tumbler filled with exceedingly delicious chianti.
Now I had a dilemma. This was enough wine to last me more than an evening, and my pizza, my nice hot senza glutine pizza would be ready presto. What a sin to just leave wine in my glass. In short, I drank the whole thing, finishing up several minutes after the arrival of the steaming hot pizza. The waitress was quite thrilled to here this was my first pizza ever in Italia. She lifted the lid and showed it to me. I thought I was going to cry. It was beautiful, laden with tomatoes, mushrooms, eggplant, olives.
Not tipsy but elevated, I set out with my treasure box, choosing the quickest, surest route back. A hapless old man got in my way. I almost jammed him with the corner of my box. It was only when crossing near the mobile telephone store that I realized that unlike last Saturday, I now knew to turn right and zip around the corner back to my apartment. Exactly a week before, I had taken this same route but missed the apartment by twenty minutes as I was racing around trying to figure out how to get my phone and internet working. I also had no idea where the grocery was and no point of focus that wasn't clouded by jet lag.
The pizza senza glutine was thrilling. I loved the cardboard box...the whole ritual of opening it, laying out the lid, rolling the roller over the pizza, lifting up a slice dripping with the savory tomato sauce, kind of collecting all the saucy stuff up in that little valley of pizza crust...and yes, the crust...you'd never know it wasn't real gluten crust. It looked, tasted, felt, smelled like real crust. It even sounded like pizza when I sheared off the first bite...crisp but also chewy. I was sublimely happy. Maybe the happiest person in the world. There is one slice left, only because I could not bring myself to eat the whole 17" (let's give me the benefit of the doubt between 16 and 18)....
I think I better go for a walk.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I walked around Florence and now Rome where streets are lined with marvelous restaurants of all sorts...where people sit outside enjoying some of the world's greatest food, I must order a salad while others order pizzas and pasta that look so beautiful they should be in a museum. It doesn't help that I'm a vegetarian as well.
Of course, I ordered the book Gluten-Free Italy. The title was hopeful. The reality was not. Until today:The Florence choices never panned out. I didn't have high hopes for Rome. However, I had read about this place that has gluten-free pizza. You know me, I love the quest. #33 Giubbonari. It's a short street after the very large and commercially crowded Piazza Campo di Fiori. Sorry, Rick Steves, I don't find it the charming place you claim it to be. Nice fruits and vegetables. But crowds. And wares upon wares loaded with gluten.
So map in hand, I go looking for my last best hope. Probably a fool's errand.
On this short block that starts with #77. No way is there room for #33. Except I remembered the nutty numbering system in Florence. My apartment #66 was next to a store, "25." So I plodded on...#44....#37...ah ha...a Spagettetaria...!!! #33. I walk in. Speranza in my step. The conversation commences in Italian. Not only do they have pizza vegetariana senza glutine...they have an entire gluten-free menu. I was on my way to Trastevere across the Tiber so asked if I had to order ahead...was there some secret to getting this freshly made delight. No just stop back.
Now, this is ridiculous, but I walked down the street with tears in my eyes. Food. Real Italian food in Italy. Pizza. Real Pizza. Sorry, Amy, you try with that frozen stuff...but it's just not pizza. I was so excited I decided to buy myself something to celebrate. I stopped on the bridge to Trastevere and bought a bracelet from a sweet old man from Honduras. I chose the red and black leather, although for 5 euro I'm pretty sure it's vinyl, Red and black, I said to him in Italian, the colors of revolution.
Oh, no, no signora, red is the color of love.
He was very excited that all his bracelets came on and off with lo stesso sistema...the same system. And it is pretty clever the way he's worked it out so you don't have to tie the end, but just slide the twiny stuff at the ends. Bad description. Blame it on the tumbler of wine (story to come below)
So with my red and black braccialetto, the colors of revolution and love...whatever...I was off to check out Trastevere, home of the churches of Santa Cecilia and Santa Maria...I was early for Santa Cecilia...they close mid-day. On my way to Santa Maria, I stopped at Fiori di Luna, Flowers of the Moon for gelato. I don't know why I picked it, but something was in the air...pizza senza glutine...and, there was this very charming young college woman behind the counter, working while her on her semester abroad...we chatted about how we both wished we spoke better italian. So, I asked her as I gazed through the glass at the colorful creamy wonders, what in the world is Zabaglione? (I have since learned it's a well-known Italian dessert.)
Oh, she said, as if delivering enlightenment from one of the archangels, its kind of the flavor of eggnog with Marsala through it...you could actually see tiny wisps of the Marsala.
Oh, I said, why not. Would you like something sopra (on top), she asked.
Well, maybe some of that crema.
I paid a modest sum as gelato goes and went on my way.
But after the first tiny plastic spoonful of Zabaglione with a touch of Crema, I stopped dead on the Via and said aloud: Oh my God.
Now, I've had some pretty fantastic gelato. But eggnog with marsala topped with crema: All I can say is that it's so good, no one should be permitted to eat it in public.
And you don't have to take my word for it. Ask that woman outside the Church of Santa Maria. She was practically dancing.
All who'd tasted of the Flowers of the Moon settled down and went inside Santa Maria of Trastevere.
It's hard to describe churches. This one was exquisite with the giant mosaic above the altar where Jesus had his arm around his mom, introducing her to the world. It was even in its opulence and magnitude very tender. The face of Jesus in this mosaic, like the face of Jesus on the altar was the face of a man you could believe in: More simple than sacred, more real than the stunningly beautiful marble inlaid and undoubtedly highly expensive floors...even as prices went in the 14th century. Oh, yeah, right where the church now stands, someone discovered oil back in 30 B.C. I wonder what Rome would have become if it had been a major gusher and not just a handy reserve for lighting lamps?
On my way back to Santa Cecilia, I bought a purple sweatshirt from Ahman from Bangladesh. He took Italian lessons upon arriving here so we compared schools. He had started out hustling me, offering me 7 euros less than the going price for sweatshirts so after we exchanged names and stories about learning to talk Italian and he convinced me the purple really was better than the blue for me, I gave him the going price.
Then down the road to Santa Cecilia's. Breathtaking, really. Although not only for the simple pale blue beauty of the marble walls and modest but elegant appointments. St. Cecilia's tomb is right up in front of the altar. There is a marble likeness of her carved by the artist who was there when they opened her original tomb and saw her body whole before it turned to dust. On the marble sculpture, there's a gash in the neck. Cecilia was beheaded for her beliefs. I sat in the church soaking in the simple beauty and wondering what I would be willing to give my head to.
Now, you'd think someone working in that church today under that kind of pressure to give it your all would be quite other worldly. Not the jolly nun in the old traditional habit working the book store. She spoke no English, so we kind of made do as I asked if it's really true that il Papa leads a candlelight procession around the Colosseo every Good Friday. It appears that this is true, although she didn't know what time. And so I was off toward...la pizza vegetariana senza glutine.
Oh, but before we leave, how would I describe the section of Rome called Trastevere. Home to these two exquisite churches, yes. But the place itself has an attitude that could be summed up by this sign outside a small, informal ristorante:
I decided to bring my pizza back here, relax after a hard week at language learning and enjoying the heck out of Rome. Well, actually, that's not the real reason. I didn't think I could eat the standard...looks like possibly a 16" to 18" pizza. And I wasn't sure how to ask for un sacco per il canissimo...or if they do doggie bags in Rome.
So anyhow, while waiting, I ordered glass of vino rosso. Now, I thought it would be like most places. A huge glass. A tiny bit of wine. But no. What I received was...well, how to describe it... a short tumbler filled with exceedingly delicious chianti.
Now I had a dilemma. This was enough wine to last me more than an evening, and my pizza, my nice hot senza glutine pizza would be ready presto. What a sin to just leave wine in my glass. In short, I drank the whole thing, finishing up several minutes after the arrival of the steaming hot pizza. The waitress was quite thrilled to here this was my first pizza ever in Italia. She lifted the lid and showed it to me. I thought I was going to cry. It was beautiful, laden with tomatoes, mushrooms, eggplant, olives.
Not tipsy but elevated, I set out with my treasure box, choosing the quickest, surest route back. A hapless old man got in my way. I almost jammed him with the corner of my box. It was only when crossing near the mobile telephone store that I realized that unlike last Saturday, I now knew to turn right and zip around the corner back to my apartment. Exactly a week before, I had taken this same route but missed the apartment by twenty minutes as I was racing around trying to figure out how to get my phone and internet working. I also had no idea where the grocery was and no point of focus that wasn't clouded by jet lag.
The pizza senza glutine was thrilling. I loved the cardboard box...the whole ritual of opening it, laying out the lid, rolling the roller over the pizza, lifting up a slice dripping with the savory tomato sauce, kind of collecting all the saucy stuff up in that little valley of pizza crust...and yes, the crust...you'd never know it wasn't real gluten crust. It looked, tasted, felt, smelled like real crust. It even sounded like pizza when I sheared off the first bite...crisp but also chewy. I was sublimely happy. Maybe the happiest person in the world. There is one slice left, only because I could not bring myself to eat the whole 17" (let's give me the benefit of the doubt between 16 and 18)....
I think I better go for a walk.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Thursday, March 21, 2013
#19.1—From Creation to The Last Judgment
Perhaps it was being caught up in the swarm yesterday that led me to this stream, or shall we call it swarm of consciousness:
When last I left you, I was going up the down stairs into the Sistine Chapel. La Cappella Sistina.
It must be said right from the first that any attempt to describe this work of surpassing genius is impossible. One can only describe the experience of seeing it. All along the way there were signs reminding the visitors that the chapel is a sacred space and that one should behave accordingly. Visitors would probably have understood. The swarm, no. Just as you can hear the sea from a distance, I could hear the chatter rise as I ascended the steps and joined the swarm swarming into the holy place.
You enter on a marble floor raised three or four steps into the chapel which I recollect from reading is 143' x 44'.
Above you, Michelangelo's holy figures step out of the biblical times which suddenly become real. "Silenzio," cries a strong Italian male voice. "Silenzio! No Fotos. No videos. Move off the steps." (English is the universal language for instructions...Instructions follow in Italian, French, German, and something I think is Dutch.) The swarm quiets...for about 10 seconds. The chapel is dark, like twilight in your house in fall. Still the colors above and about are vivid and alive. I move across the raised altar to the far wall just to comprehend the majesty of the chapel without being jarred or carried away in the swarm.
There is a kind of bench along each side of the chapel with a step up. The benches are packed. I sit on a step. I breath quietly, trying to separate myself from the swarm. I feel it begin to happen. The frescos tell me the same stories of creation, the flood, and the prophets that I learned in Sunday School some sixty years ago. In the back of my little church was a stained glass window with Jesus praying in the garden just before...
A bench seat opens up. I'm there. I begin the tour with Rick Steves. I chose not to get the audio guide because I wanted only to look. to feel It was the right choice. Rick gives me just enough info to get my bearings. Glad he pointed out the "two moons" in the fresco illustrating the separation of day and night...sun and moon. Some guy is mooning the viewer. It's great. I feel like Michelangelo and I have suddenly become friends over the century.
The chapel is now real, not a grand work of art meant to take away the breath, although it does from time to time when I stop studying the intimate details of each section of the ceiling. And...when I suddenly stop looking forward and up and look back at the wall over the altar: OMG:
In English, we would say The Last Judgment
In Italiano: Il Giudizio Universale
The sound and feeling of the latter really captures the spirit of the thing.
Now here's an interesting point: The characters in the back of the chapel, Michelangelo did first. When they took the scaffolding down so everyone could see, everyone but the artist was blown away. The characters, he thought, were too small. Isn't that just like an artist, apparently of any caliber, it's never quite right. So anyhow, the characters that he went on to create were bigger and more dramatic.
I didn't just see the blue of Mary's garment. I know you will think I have already been in the land of opera too long when I say to you that blue changed my life. I don't know how to explain it. The blue was so pure that it took in my spirit and woke it up. The background of The Last Judgment wall is blue, but this blue transcended all blue. It was blue. Heaven. Summer, the season of fullness. Truth. Comfort. Mom telling me yes when Dad said no and then talking him into Yes.
Silenzio. No fotos. No videos.
I wanted to help this man by shouting: Will everyone please shut the F*** up.
Just stand here and look.
The swarms came and went. I remained. Not saying a work. Not wishing I could have a video or foto. Trying to memorize the place the feeling the spirit for I might never see it again.
Michelangelo completed the chapel after war and corruption had torn his world apart. The Renaissance was fading. He had lost his faith in humankind. In the middle of The Last Judgment, at Christ's left foot, St. Bartholomew is holding a flayed skin with the head of Michelangelo himself, twisted, grey, shriveled. Below are the damned. The whole thing is beautiful until you notice that this judgment thing is serious business. No one is laughing or happy, even those going to heaven.
I thought of that mummy back in the Egyptian room. so still in the midst of the swarm. I got up from my bench seat and walked into the middle of the swarm.Above me, the Creation of Adam. Ahead of me The Last Judgment. I looked at individuals in the swarm chattering away. I wondered if there were any molecules of air in the chapel that Michelangelo might have breathed. Did he and Raphael hang out or do lunch on their breaks?
The swarm reminded me of the chaos among the damned in The Last Judgment. But as I looked at the individuals making up the swarm, I felt an overwhelming compassion for us all...mummies in the making.
Suddenly, music. A celestial chorus. The swarm fell silent. Where was it coming from? What was the meaning of it? The music continued, and the swarm went back to swarming.
Silenzio. No fotos. No videos.
I seemed to be alone with the music, a choir of filling the chapel. The music would be what Michelangelo would have created had he been a composer.
Like one among the condemned looking up toward that pure blue of promise, I studied that gray shriveld face and wondered if Michelangelo felt what I now felt. The art in the end is irrelevant. The music filled the chapel. A tear rolled down from each of my eyes. I wanted to sit down on the floor and weep.
Silenzio! No fotos. No videos!
I wanted to shout at the swarm Could you just Shut the F*** up for 2 minutes.
I remembered old white-haired Mr. Stilley leading the hymns in my little hometown church. There was just that one window. It was a plain little mill town church. But as a child, I had the same feeling there as in La Cappella Sistina. The same feeling when I am at the monthly potluck at the Netarts Community Club. The same feeling I had in the classroom on those magical days of teaching. The same feeling I had when I would stay up on Christmas Eve watching St. Olaf's choir with my mom because I knew one day there would be a Christmas without her. The same feeling I had sitting at the lunch table with my dad listening to his same old stories because I knew one day the sound of his voice would vanish.
What I experience in the chapel was not the feeling of living in the moment that is so popular today. But rather the aspiration that I might live like that color blue in the midst of noise and people who take pictures instead of looking, in the midst of injustice and war, in the midst of careless attitudes toward life and the creative spirit.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
When last I left you, I was going up the down stairs into the Sistine Chapel. La Cappella Sistina.
It must be said right from the first that any attempt to describe this work of surpassing genius is impossible. One can only describe the experience of seeing it. All along the way there were signs reminding the visitors that the chapel is a sacred space and that one should behave accordingly. Visitors would probably have understood. The swarm, no. Just as you can hear the sea from a distance, I could hear the chatter rise as I ascended the steps and joined the swarm swarming into the holy place.
You enter on a marble floor raised three or four steps into the chapel which I recollect from reading is 143' x 44'.
Above you, Michelangelo's holy figures step out of the biblical times which suddenly become real. "Silenzio," cries a strong Italian male voice. "Silenzio! No Fotos. No videos. Move off the steps." (English is the universal language for instructions...Instructions follow in Italian, French, German, and something I think is Dutch.) The swarm quiets...for about 10 seconds. The chapel is dark, like twilight in your house in fall. Still the colors above and about are vivid and alive. I move across the raised altar to the far wall just to comprehend the majesty of the chapel without being jarred or carried away in the swarm.
There is a kind of bench along each side of the chapel with a step up. The benches are packed. I sit on a step. I breath quietly, trying to separate myself from the swarm. I feel it begin to happen. The frescos tell me the same stories of creation, the flood, and the prophets that I learned in Sunday School some sixty years ago. In the back of my little church was a stained glass window with Jesus praying in the garden just before...
A bench seat opens up. I'm there. I begin the tour with Rick Steves. I chose not to get the audio guide because I wanted only to look. to feel It was the right choice. Rick gives me just enough info to get my bearings. Glad he pointed out the "two moons" in the fresco illustrating the separation of day and night...sun and moon. Some guy is mooning the viewer. It's great. I feel like Michelangelo and I have suddenly become friends over the century.
The chapel is now real, not a grand work of art meant to take away the breath, although it does from time to time when I stop studying the intimate details of each section of the ceiling. And...when I suddenly stop looking forward and up and look back at the wall over the altar: OMG:
In English, we would say The Last Judgment
In Italiano: Il Giudizio Universale
The sound and feeling of the latter really captures the spirit of the thing.
Now here's an interesting point: The characters in the back of the chapel, Michelangelo did first. When they took the scaffolding down so everyone could see, everyone but the artist was blown away. The characters, he thought, were too small. Isn't that just like an artist, apparently of any caliber, it's never quite right. So anyhow, the characters that he went on to create were bigger and more dramatic.
I didn't just see the blue of Mary's garment. I know you will think I have already been in the land of opera too long when I say to you that blue changed my life. I don't know how to explain it. The blue was so pure that it took in my spirit and woke it up. The background of The Last Judgment wall is blue, but this blue transcended all blue. It was blue. Heaven. Summer, the season of fullness. Truth. Comfort. Mom telling me yes when Dad said no and then talking him into Yes.
Silenzio. No fotos. No videos.
I wanted to help this man by shouting: Will everyone please shut the F*** up.
Just stand here and look.
The swarms came and went. I remained. Not saying a work. Not wishing I could have a video or foto. Trying to memorize the place the feeling the spirit for I might never see it again.
Michelangelo completed the chapel after war and corruption had torn his world apart. The Renaissance was fading. He had lost his faith in humankind. In the middle of The Last Judgment, at Christ's left foot, St. Bartholomew is holding a flayed skin with the head of Michelangelo himself, twisted, grey, shriveled. Below are the damned. The whole thing is beautiful until you notice that this judgment thing is serious business. No one is laughing or happy, even those going to heaven.
I thought of that mummy back in the Egyptian room. so still in the midst of the swarm. I got up from my bench seat and walked into the middle of the swarm.Above me, the Creation of Adam. Ahead of me The Last Judgment. I looked at individuals in the swarm chattering away. I wondered if there were any molecules of air in the chapel that Michelangelo might have breathed. Did he and Raphael hang out or do lunch on their breaks?
The swarm reminded me of the chaos among the damned in The Last Judgment. But as I looked at the individuals making up the swarm, I felt an overwhelming compassion for us all...mummies in the making.
Suddenly, music. A celestial chorus. The swarm fell silent. Where was it coming from? What was the meaning of it? The music continued, and the swarm went back to swarming.
Silenzio. No fotos. No videos.
I seemed to be alone with the music, a choir of filling the chapel. The music would be what Michelangelo would have created had he been a composer.
Like one among the condemned looking up toward that pure blue of promise, I studied that gray shriveld face and wondered if Michelangelo felt what I now felt. The art in the end is irrelevant. The music filled the chapel. A tear rolled down from each of my eyes. I wanted to sit down on the floor and weep.
Silenzio! No fotos. No videos!
I wanted to shout at the swarm Could you just Shut the F*** up for 2 minutes.
I remembered old white-haired Mr. Stilley leading the hymns in my little hometown church. There was just that one window. It was a plain little mill town church. But as a child, I had the same feeling there as in La Cappella Sistina. The same feeling when I am at the monthly potluck at the Netarts Community Club. The same feeling I had in the classroom on those magical days of teaching. The same feeling I had when I would stay up on Christmas Eve watching St. Olaf's choir with my mom because I knew one day there would be a Christmas without her. The same feeling I had sitting at the lunch table with my dad listening to his same old stories because I knew one day the sound of his voice would vanish.
What I experience in the chapel was not the feeling of living in the moment that is so popular today. But rather the aspiration that I might live like that color blue in the midst of noise and people who take pictures instead of looking, in the midst of injustice and war, in the midst of careless attitudes toward life and the creative spirit.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
#19—Goin' To the Chapel
Full discloser: I am not fully responsible for the contents of this blog post.
I would like to sat the illumination comes from above. But I am and have been for a somewhat short while been drinking A Montepulciano d'Abruzzo called Illuminati.
So first off, what would you think if the person who sold you a very expensive ticket for il Museo Vaticano so that you could skip the line said, "You go to St. Peter's Square, and on the left side, you will find an office where you give them the ticket. They will show you where to go. So you would go to the square, right...and look for the office on the left, right? Wrong. The office is on the left, but down a street and around the block where you will find lines of people numbering in the hundreds. Actually, 30,000 people a day. It's Easter, and we've got a new Pope.
Gasp. I didn't drink a lot of water at lunch because Rick Steves said sometime il bagno is closed. By the time I raced to make the designated time, I arrived at the museum parched and in a state of high anxiety...relieved to find myself staring at all the lines beside a couple from the U.K. She asked me if I knew where the online reservation line was. I asked her if she knew where reservations not made online were. The only calm people were the massive groups of teenagers led by well-informed guides.
I was here for a mystical experience in the Egyptian and Etruscan rooms, in the Raphael Rooms and the Sistine Chapel. The teens were having a great time texting, bantering, and being young and loud.
So the UKers and I figure it out, get in, go through security, and wish each other luck. I am told by a guard that I take my reservation to "the woman under the sign." I go to the woman under the sign. She gives me a ticket that I tuck in my Rick Steves book. We have greeted each other in Italiano. "Oh," she says recognizing my accent, "would you like me to speak to you in Italian."
"Sure," I reply. I get the directions but in the stressful process forget that she has given me a ticket, so the guy upstairs says my reservation slip is no good. I need a ticket from the woman under the sign.
I say I have been to the woman under the sign and she sent me up here.
He shrugs. The Italian shrug. I go downstairs. I have been to the woman under the sign, I say, but she told me to go upstairs...the man upstairs tells me to go downstairs...the bell of mercy and condemnation rings...the agent closes her window on me. I want to shout...what the F****...but she has closed her window to help me get to the woman under the sign...who shows me the ticket I should have...which I forgot I had.
I follow the swarm of people to the entrance of the museum. I cannot describe what it feels like to be in a mass of wall to wall people going through...well, how about the teenage girl making a cellphone call while standing in front of the mummy of the woman who died 3 millennia ago. I wondered what that ancient woman would have thought if she suddenly came back to life and met that young girl with her cellphone. I wondered what that ancient woman wanted from life...did she get it...her mummified hands were so sweet, delicate...her face seemed peaceful...nice haircut, short and wavy...how did ancient Egyptians cut hair. People are swarming all around me. Hundreds of people. Cameras are flashing. So many have not come to look or commune but to take pictures. I am freaking out. This is crazy. I retreat to the Etruscan Room. No one is there. Who the hell were the Etruscans? No one cares about the Etruscans, the more civilized neighbors of the early Romans. They have some cool vases and stuff. But everyone is just passin' through, goin' to the chapel.
In the Room of Muses, there was an incredible bust of Pericles. Alive. The marble was inhabited by the mind and spirit of the great man.
So was the bust of Julius Caesar in the map room.
Even in those blank marble eyes, there was wisdom, power, and spirit.
It seems interesting that of all the marble around Rome, these two heroes of their time were able to inhabit the marble in ways the gods and lesser figures could not.
The Map Room was wild with a spectacular gilded ceiling and ancient maps all over the world. But it was wall to wall people.
Some kid kept tapping people on the shoulder so they would turn around and find no one. In the days of the ancient maps, the world was still flat. To bad it still wasn't so that kid could fall off.
I moved with the swarm into the Raphael Rooms. The School of Athens...everyone remembers that great work laying out the duality between science and faith.
The old finally gave way to the new...through neither science nor faith, just plodding along...the contemporary collection acquired in recent years by the Vatican. My fave was a very fat cardinal in red walking across a green field. It was called "Going to the Ecumenical Council."
Il bagno was open at the foot of the stairs where the swarm was makin' its way to the chapel. I stopped...and then...I was tired of it all...so refusing to go with the flow any longer I went up the down stairs to The Chapel...stepped through the door...and...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I would like to sat the illumination comes from above. But I am and have been for a somewhat short while been drinking A Montepulciano d'Abruzzo called Illuminati.
So first off, what would you think if the person who sold you a very expensive ticket for il Museo Vaticano so that you could skip the line said, "You go to St. Peter's Square, and on the left side, you will find an office where you give them the ticket. They will show you where to go. So you would go to the square, right...and look for the office on the left, right? Wrong. The office is on the left, but down a street and around the block where you will find lines of people numbering in the hundreds. Actually, 30,000 people a day. It's Easter, and we've got a new Pope.
Gasp. I didn't drink a lot of water at lunch because Rick Steves said sometime il bagno is closed. By the time I raced to make the designated time, I arrived at the museum parched and in a state of high anxiety...relieved to find myself staring at all the lines beside a couple from the U.K. She asked me if I knew where the online reservation line was. I asked her if she knew where reservations not made online were. The only calm people were the massive groups of teenagers led by well-informed guides.
I was here for a mystical experience in the Egyptian and Etruscan rooms, in the Raphael Rooms and the Sistine Chapel. The teens were having a great time texting, bantering, and being young and loud.
So the UKers and I figure it out, get in, go through security, and wish each other luck. I am told by a guard that I take my reservation to "the woman under the sign." I go to the woman under the sign. She gives me a ticket that I tuck in my Rick Steves book. We have greeted each other in Italiano. "Oh," she says recognizing my accent, "would you like me to speak to you in Italian."
"Sure," I reply. I get the directions but in the stressful process forget that she has given me a ticket, so the guy upstairs says my reservation slip is no good. I need a ticket from the woman under the sign.
I say I have been to the woman under the sign and she sent me up here.
He shrugs. The Italian shrug. I go downstairs. I have been to the woman under the sign, I say, but she told me to go upstairs...the man upstairs tells me to go downstairs...the bell of mercy and condemnation rings...the agent closes her window on me. I want to shout...what the F****...but she has closed her window to help me get to the woman under the sign...who shows me the ticket I should have...which I forgot I had.
I follow the swarm of people to the entrance of the museum. I cannot describe what it feels like to be in a mass of wall to wall people going through...well, how about the teenage girl making a cellphone call while standing in front of the mummy of the woman who died 3 millennia ago. I wondered what that ancient woman would have thought if she suddenly came back to life and met that young girl with her cellphone. I wondered what that ancient woman wanted from life...did she get it...her mummified hands were so sweet, delicate...her face seemed peaceful...nice haircut, short and wavy...how did ancient Egyptians cut hair. People are swarming all around me. Hundreds of people. Cameras are flashing. So many have not come to look or commune but to take pictures. I am freaking out. This is crazy. I retreat to the Etruscan Room. No one is there. Who the hell were the Etruscans? No one cares about the Etruscans, the more civilized neighbors of the early Romans. They have some cool vases and stuff. But everyone is just passin' through, goin' to the chapel.
In the Room of Muses, there was an incredible bust of Pericles. Alive. The marble was inhabited by the mind and spirit of the great man.
So was the bust of Julius Caesar in the map room.
Even in those blank marble eyes, there was wisdom, power, and spirit.
It seems interesting that of all the marble around Rome, these two heroes of their time were able to inhabit the marble in ways the gods and lesser figures could not.
The Map Room was wild with a spectacular gilded ceiling and ancient maps all over the world. But it was wall to wall people.
Some kid kept tapping people on the shoulder so they would turn around and find no one. In the days of the ancient maps, the world was still flat. To bad it still wasn't so that kid could fall off.
I moved with the swarm into the Raphael Rooms. The School of Athens...everyone remembers that great work laying out the duality between science and faith.
The old finally gave way to the new...through neither science nor faith, just plodding along...the contemporary collection acquired in recent years by the Vatican. My fave was a very fat cardinal in red walking across a green field. It was called "Going to the Ecumenical Council."
Il bagno was open at the foot of the stairs where the swarm was makin' its way to the chapel. I stopped...and then...I was tired of it all...so refusing to go with the flow any longer I went up the down stairs to The Chapel...stepped through the door...and...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
#18—Fountains
Ciao,
Well, nothing says Rome like fountains. Here I am at the Trevi with my envelope of coins I would soon toss over my left shoulder to fulfill the wishes that some sent with me.
I realize I am not hip here in Rome in my orange bag and sneakers. In Rome, it's leather purses and tall leather boots, often with heels that would have me in knee surgery within the day. But, hey, I'm not hip in Netarts either. Perhaps one day I will rise to the level of eccentric and my casual attitudes toward dress will be justified.
I have wondered if the Italian attention to fashion has to do with the fact that it is difficult to feel important here where each tiny person is surrounded by ancient, massive and beautiful gods breathing marble into life. When your head would fit in the hand of one of these gods, you think twice, at least subconsciously.
In America, the land of incessant reinvention, everything is new again and again.
It's not quite 8 in the morning, so I am not even going to try to draw a conclusion from this.
Oh, there is a story of reinvention. Remember the restaurant, Scalette Degli Artisti? Well Maddelena started it at another location back in 1939. It was bombed to smithereens during the war in 1943. A single mom with kids, she started again at the present location. It was an old building with a staircase (scallette) up through the middle of it. The place was filthy, but she apparently had it all spiffed up in three days and open for business. It was very popular with everyone, especially the artists.
Now, the Pantheon is a place where the gods, Christians, and artists come together:
Here is Raphael's tomb in the Pantheon:
It was said that Nature resented the artist when he was alive and when he was dead wondered if it could ever rise to his level.
Something extraordinary flows from Rome. History, spirit, and the human condition with all of its possibilities, tragic and creative. Yesterday, I went to the old forum, today to the Sistine Chapel...I am wandering the maze of glory. A sign on at an art exhibit said Faith is the miracle of wonder.
Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Well, nothing says Rome like fountains. Here I am at the Trevi with my envelope of coins I would soon toss over my left shoulder to fulfill the wishes that some sent with me.
I realize I am not hip here in Rome in my orange bag and sneakers. In Rome, it's leather purses and tall leather boots, often with heels that would have me in knee surgery within the day. But, hey, I'm not hip in Netarts either. Perhaps one day I will rise to the level of eccentric and my casual attitudes toward dress will be justified.
I have wondered if the Italian attention to fashion has to do with the fact that it is difficult to feel important here where each tiny person is surrounded by ancient, massive and beautiful gods breathing marble into life. When your head would fit in the hand of one of these gods, you think twice, at least subconsciously.
In America, the land of incessant reinvention, everything is new again and again.
It's not quite 8 in the morning, so I am not even going to try to draw a conclusion from this.
Oh, there is a story of reinvention. Remember the restaurant, Scalette Degli Artisti? Well Maddelena started it at another location back in 1939. It was bombed to smithereens during the war in 1943. A single mom with kids, she started again at the present location. It was an old building with a staircase (scallette) up through the middle of it. The place was filthy, but she apparently had it all spiffed up in three days and open for business. It was very popular with everyone, especially the artists.
Now, the Pantheon is a place where the gods, Christians, and artists come together:
Here is Raphael's tomb in the Pantheon:
It was said that Nature resented the artist when he was alive and when he was dead wondered if it could ever rise to his level.
Something extraordinary flows from Rome. History, spirit, and the human condition with all of its possibilities, tragic and creative. Yesterday, I went to the old forum, today to the Sistine Chapel...I am wandering the maze of glory. A sign on at an art exhibit said Faith is the miracle of wonder.
Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
#17—Entering the Ruins
Good morning, Everyone,
Looks like another sunny day like yesterday in the Eternal City.
First, it must be said that there are these gluten-free crackers I found that are not the usual semi-delicious gluten-free snacks one comes to expect. I am extremely glad they describe the caloric content in figures unknown to me.
And of course, there is the gelato. Sadly, the pistachio I started with was nothing to write home about...so why then why am I writing about it. Duh. But il cioccolato. OMG. Rick Steves told me that Tre Scalini has the best chocolate, so hey it's Rick. I went. The choice: with or without nuts. Nuts. for the protein, because Rick also said protein is good for jet lag. And of course we all know that chocolate boosts seratonin levels. I had all bases covered. All I can say is that I do not know why I practiced Zen all those years in order to transcend impermanence. It happened for me right there in Piazza Navona with the Fountain of the Four Rivers gushing forth. I was ruined for any other gelato the world over.
All this took place an hour or so after dinner at Scalette Degli Artisti, a small place I came upon while wandering around dragging my invisible chains of jet lag. Sunday night. Italians eat late, so I was the only customer...I like the way waiters and waitresses stand outside the restaurants and hustle business. I pause, having notice the word artisti. The conversation began about vegetariana and senza glutine. Ah, they could make a special risotto for me. Come, come, inside or out...it was a bit chilly, but what the heck, out. They lit a big propane heater next to me. Something to drink...water to rehydrate after my day traipsing about Castel Sant'Angelo aka Hadrian's tomb.
To get there, one has to cross a 1900-year-old-bridge which is in tip-top shape. I am definitely not in Portland or Pittsburgh.
Now, I haven't seen the pyramids. But I have to say, in my view, no one does tombs like the Romans.
I sprang for the audio tour. The highlight was at the end, just below that bell you can see to the right of the statue on top. It's the bell both of mercy and condemnation. It's so Italy! The audio tour ended at the climb to the top level of the immense cylinder by instructing you to look up at the parapet just to the left of the bell, from which Tosca jumped to her death...and suddenly the audio was playing Puccini. And there was Rome all around me at my feet bustling and ruined, dead and alive, tragic and eternal.
Back across the old bridge where some yogis were doing their thing.
See the wooden stick one is holding to support the other?
Earlier in the day, I decided to walk to the Vatican, which is just to the left of the castle. Story of my life: thousands, and I mean thousands of people were walking away from the Vatican as I was approaching. The Pope had just given his first blessing. But I missed it. I was disappointed. On the other hand, I would soon have the blessing of that cioccolato gelato.
I stopped for mass in St. Peter's Square. It was jammed. I was in standing room only. Next to me was a young man who had some mental disorder. Maybe 30 years old, with probably his father. He kept rejoicing and reaching out with his hands, to touch something, it seemed. People were shushing him. I wondered what he may have been touching in that sacred space.
There was a sign off to the left (note for those who care...I can't do accent marks on my iPad external keyboard, so I add them so - e')
Chi a voi e' senza peccato sceglie il primo pietra.
Come on, you can get it...hint: peccato is sin and pietra is stone.
Oh yeah, my dinner. The waitress was a young actress from Santiago, here with her husband who is studying music. I was going to save money by not ordering wine. How stupid was that. I had a white which until the gelato was the ultimate bliss. The risotto was a sensation of sight, fragrance, and taste. What is there about food that .... well, what can I say, I'm such a hypocrite, rejoicing that we now have a pope who took the name of the dear, impoverished saint who lived only for God and social justice.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Looks like another sunny day like yesterday in the Eternal City.
First, it must be said that there are these gluten-free crackers I found that are not the usual semi-delicious gluten-free snacks one comes to expect. I am extremely glad they describe the caloric content in figures unknown to me.
And of course, there is the gelato. Sadly, the pistachio I started with was nothing to write home about...so why then why am I writing about it. Duh. But il cioccolato. OMG. Rick Steves told me that Tre Scalini has the best chocolate, so hey it's Rick. I went. The choice: with or without nuts. Nuts. for the protein, because Rick also said protein is good for jet lag. And of course we all know that chocolate boosts seratonin levels. I had all bases covered. All I can say is that I do not know why I practiced Zen all those years in order to transcend impermanence. It happened for me right there in Piazza Navona with the Fountain of the Four Rivers gushing forth. I was ruined for any other gelato the world over.
All this took place an hour or so after dinner at Scalette Degli Artisti, a small place I came upon while wandering around dragging my invisible chains of jet lag. Sunday night. Italians eat late, so I was the only customer...I like the way waiters and waitresses stand outside the restaurants and hustle business. I pause, having notice the word artisti. The conversation began about vegetariana and senza glutine. Ah, they could make a special risotto for me. Come, come, inside or out...it was a bit chilly, but what the heck, out. They lit a big propane heater next to me. Something to drink...water to rehydrate after my day traipsing about Castel Sant'Angelo aka Hadrian's tomb.
To get there, one has to cross a 1900-year-old-bridge which is in tip-top shape. I am definitely not in Portland or Pittsburgh.
Now, I haven't seen the pyramids. But I have to say, in my view, no one does tombs like the Romans.
I sprang for the audio tour. The highlight was at the end, just below that bell you can see to the right of the statue on top. It's the bell both of mercy and condemnation. It's so Italy! The audio tour ended at the climb to the top level of the immense cylinder by instructing you to look up at the parapet just to the left of the bell, from which Tosca jumped to her death...and suddenly the audio was playing Puccini. And there was Rome all around me at my feet bustling and ruined, dead and alive, tragic and eternal.
Back across the old bridge where some yogis were doing their thing.
See the wooden stick one is holding to support the other?
Earlier in the day, I decided to walk to the Vatican, which is just to the left of the castle. Story of my life: thousands, and I mean thousands of people were walking away from the Vatican as I was approaching. The Pope had just given his first blessing. But I missed it. I was disappointed. On the other hand, I would soon have the blessing of that cioccolato gelato.
I stopped for mass in St. Peter's Square. It was jammed. I was in standing room only. Next to me was a young man who had some mental disorder. Maybe 30 years old, with probably his father. He kept rejoicing and reaching out with his hands, to touch something, it seemed. People were shushing him. I wondered what he may have been touching in that sacred space.
There was a sign off to the left (note for those who care...I can't do accent marks on my iPad external keyboard, so I add them so - e')
Chi a voi e' senza peccato sceglie il primo pietra.
Come on, you can get it...hint: peccato is sin and pietra is stone.
Oh yeah, my dinner. The waitress was a young actress from Santiago, here with her husband who is studying music. I was going to save money by not ordering wine. How stupid was that. I had a white which until the gelato was the ultimate bliss. The risotto was a sensation of sight, fragrance, and taste. What is there about food that .... well, what can I say, I'm such a hypocrite, rejoicing that we now have a pope who took the name of the dear, impoverished saint who lived only for God and social justice.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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