Domo on the first day
Sal's cousin Ana Maria and her son Fabio
As Sal likes to say brothers seperated at birth
Piazza Trastevere in the AM
Nick, Domo and JJ on the town in Trastevere
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Don't Believe Everything You See
Not yet adjusted to the time change Rebecca woke me up the next morning at 5 AM and we went for a walk up to Piazza Trilussa at the edge of Trastevere across the Tiber River to the Jewish Synagogue (now a museum) and then back across the Tiber at the island Isola Tiberina into Trastevere again. It started to cloud up and rain came in a light drizzle, a welcome change to the overwhelming heat. The locals were out, perhaps all night and not yet seeking refuge from the morning onslaught of garbage collectors. A film crew was setting up along the river and I fanatsized that Federico Fellini would emerge at any moment from one of the trailers. His cast of clowns and crazy people were all around. One poor guy was out cold from a hard night of drinking just as we crossed the footbridge at Trilussa lucky to not have fallen off the edge. The ground everywhere was strewn with empty bottles and the walls blemished at the hands of nightly raids by street artists.
An old woman draped completely in black and stooped over so you could not see her face, had her hand out as we passed along the bridge. I gave her a Euro. It was instinctive. There was something unreal about her. I recalled the night before of doing a double take on a human sculpture. After close observation it moved ever so slightly. Like the stone man the old lady's outstretched hand never fell to her side.
Other locals I had begun to recognize were a guy with long black hair a broken leg and no teeth, a woman with a Sophia Loren body and well worn face who talked very loudly and promptly undid her pants, squatted and peed on the monument for the Roman poet for which the Piazza Trilussa is named. Sal had done a yeoman’s job to translate the Trilussa poem All’ombra inscribed on the monument the day before, on the spot, but I am lately moved to look for an English translation on a Google search.
ALL’OMBRA
Mentre me leggo er solito giornale
spaparacchiato all’ombra d’un pajaro,
vedo un porco e je dico. Addio, majale!
vedo un ciuccio e je dico. Addio, somaro!
Forse ste bestie nun me caperanno,
ma provo armeno la soddisfazzione
de potè di’ le cose come stanno
senza paura de fini in priggione.
IN THE SHADOW
While I’m reading the usual newspaper,
relaxed in the shadow of a straw patio,
I see a swine and I say aloud: “Farewell, pig!”
I see a mule and I say aloud: “Farewell, donkey!”
Maybe these beasts won’t understand me
but, at least, I feel so happy
to be free to tell things straight,
fearing not to finish up in prison.
The poem is written in the Romanesco dialect and the above translation is more of a literal Italian version. Below is a recent translation by Professor John DuVal, director of the literary translation program in the English department of the J. William Fulbright College of Arts and Sciences.
IN THE SHADE OF THE HAY RICK
I read my paper, back propped against the hay.
Here comes a hog, so I look up and say,
"Goodbye, pig!" And then across the grass
here comes a donkey; I say, "Goodbye, ass!"
No way of telling if they've understood.
Whether they have or not, it does me good
to call things what they are without the dread
of having to go to jail for what I've said.
The political context of Trilussa’s poetry is early 20th century fascism and he was known for his satires of the time. Refusing to be labeled or associated with any literary circle or political persuasion he described himself simply as “not a fascist” and lived, wrote about and worked among the locals of Trastevere. “All’ombra” is clearly not about them. It was written in 1932 at the height of fascism in Italy. The words “Goodbye, pig!” and “Goodbye, ass!” would have significantly different meaning if written in the late 40’s at fascism’s decline.
The Du Val translation provides a personal expression and insight into the poem that the first translation does not begin to evoke. The literal translation of the title word all’ombra means “shade” not “shadow” which changes the meaning of the entire poem from a condition of foreboding to one of self determination. Taking shade rather than being under the shadow, Trilussa has chosen to be there. The “usual” newspaper is the more personal “my” newspaper. “Propped against the hay” suggests that Trilussa is not in the leisure of a “straw patio” but sitting in The Hay Rick, the animal house itself. The “shadowed” threat is actually real danger. More important in the second stanza the Du Val words are chosen with care to state Trilussa ‘s feeling that whether the political pigs or asses understand him or not, the act of calling things as they are is good for him but better under the circumstances of not going to jail for it. He is not a passive observer at all but is making a clear statement for freedom of speech.
Sophia Loren hitches up her pants speaking loudly without a break in her actions. The guy with a broken leg hobbles away and the drunken fellow awakens and stumbles off in search of his friends. The other Romanesco poet of Trastevere and Trilussa’s mentor, Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli stands a few blocks away looking down on Viale di Trastevere at his own Piazza. These are the people of Trilussa and Belli.
Fellini’s a no show but I can’t help wondering if it was really an old woman I gave the Euro to or an actor pretending to be one. The words of All’ombra resonate with me. Under the worst of times take action, make a statement and call it like it is.
An old woman draped completely in black and stooped over so you could not see her face, had her hand out as we passed along the bridge. I gave her a Euro. It was instinctive. There was something unreal about her. I recalled the night before of doing a double take on a human sculpture. After close observation it moved ever so slightly. Like the stone man the old lady's outstretched hand never fell to her side.
Other locals I had begun to recognize were a guy with long black hair a broken leg and no teeth, a woman with a Sophia Loren body and well worn face who talked very loudly and promptly undid her pants, squatted and peed on the monument for the Roman poet for which the Piazza Trilussa is named. Sal had done a yeoman’s job to translate the Trilussa poem All’ombra inscribed on the monument the day before, on the spot, but I am lately moved to look for an English translation on a Google search.
ALL’OMBRA
Mentre me leggo er solito giornale
spaparacchiato all’ombra d’un pajaro,
vedo un porco e je dico. Addio, majale!
vedo un ciuccio e je dico. Addio, somaro!
Forse ste bestie nun me caperanno,
ma provo armeno la soddisfazzione
de potè di’ le cose come stanno
senza paura de fini in priggione.
IN THE SHADOW
While I’m reading the usual newspaper,
relaxed in the shadow of a straw patio,
I see a swine and I say aloud: “Farewell, pig!”
I see a mule and I say aloud: “Farewell, donkey!”
Maybe these beasts won’t understand me
but, at least, I feel so happy
to be free to tell things straight,
fearing not to finish up in prison.
The poem is written in the Romanesco dialect and the above translation is more of a literal Italian version. Below is a recent translation by Professor John DuVal, director of the literary translation program in the English department of the J. William Fulbright College of Arts and Sciences.
IN THE SHADE OF THE HAY RICK
I read my paper, back propped against the hay.
Here comes a hog, so I look up and say,
"Goodbye, pig!" And then across the grass
here comes a donkey; I say, "Goodbye, ass!"
No way of telling if they've understood.
Whether they have or not, it does me good
to call things what they are without the dread
of having to go to jail for what I've said.
The political context of Trilussa’s poetry is early 20th century fascism and he was known for his satires of the time. Refusing to be labeled or associated with any literary circle or political persuasion he described himself simply as “not a fascist” and lived, wrote about and worked among the locals of Trastevere. “All’ombra” is clearly not about them. It was written in 1932 at the height of fascism in Italy. The words “Goodbye, pig!” and “Goodbye, ass!” would have significantly different meaning if written in the late 40’s at fascism’s decline.
The Du Val translation provides a personal expression and insight into the poem that the first translation does not begin to evoke. The literal translation of the title word all’ombra means “shade” not “shadow” which changes the meaning of the entire poem from a condition of foreboding to one of self determination. Taking shade rather than being under the shadow, Trilussa has chosen to be there. The “usual” newspaper is the more personal “my” newspaper. “Propped against the hay” suggests that Trilussa is not in the leisure of a “straw patio” but sitting in The Hay Rick, the animal house itself. The “shadowed” threat is actually real danger. More important in the second stanza the Du Val words are chosen with care to state Trilussa ‘s feeling that whether the political pigs or asses understand him or not, the act of calling things as they are is good for him but better under the circumstances of not going to jail for it. He is not a passive observer at all but is making a clear statement for freedom of speech.
Sophia Loren hitches up her pants speaking loudly without a break in her actions. The guy with a broken leg hobbles away and the drunken fellow awakens and stumbles off in search of his friends. The other Romanesco poet of Trastevere and Trilussa’s mentor, Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli stands a few blocks away looking down on Viale di Trastevere at his own Piazza. These are the people of Trilussa and Belli.
Fellini’s a no show but I can’t help wondering if it was really an old woman I gave the Euro to or an actor pretending to be one. The words of All’ombra resonate with me. Under the worst of times take action, make a statement and call it like it is.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Everybody's here
The limo driver pulled up to the address where I was waiting out front of the Trastevere apartment. There was barely enough room between the cafes and parked cars for Rebecca and JJ to open the car door but out they popped anyway. I was anxious to see them. It had been four weeks since we left and my youngest son seemed to be a head taller. Hi dad he said as the words cracked between alto and baritone. His voice had changed when we were gone. Before emerging from the limo Rebecca had looked at me from behind the car window. After the long day of travel I could see she was tired but happy to see me and to have finally arrived.
The flight from San Francisco to Amsterdam had not been a pleasant one. A boy had gotten sick every half hour the entire trip. Neither Rebecca nor JJ got any sleep. It was about 6 PM on a Thursday in Rome and the neighborhood was beginning to come alive again after the mid-day shutdown. There’s a lot of graffiti here Rebecca said as we entered the ground level hallway and headed up the two flights to the apartment. The door shut behind us and the world outside disappeared in favor of the building’s interior and Nick, Domo and Sal waiting at the top of the stairs.
This is nice she said as she toured the place. It was a long narrow flat with two large bedrooms side by side at the front of the building, a large living/dining room in the middle with kitchen and two bathrooms at the other end. The larger of the two bathrooms had French doors that led to a small balcony where a washing machine was tucked into a corner and a clothes line extended out over a sea of other clothes lines and adjoining balconies. No architect, not even M.C. Escher could conceive of the number of angles where everything met. Hey there’s a foot washer in this bathroom said JJ. Funny that’s what Nick said when he saw his first bidet a month ago.
Earlier that day I had gone to the market to stock up a bit on food. The supermarket was a couple of blocks away and I passed it a few times not really understanding where the front door was. I finally found it and went inside which was even more illogical with a series of dead end chambers connected through skinny blind aisles and random stacks of food and supplies. Having spent the past two weeks eating healthy in Greece I proceeded to load up with a variety of fruit and vegetables. When I got to the checkout stand I received an Italian tongue lashing from the clerk who promptly sent me back to weigh each piece, bag it in plastic and put a printed sticker on the bag which identified the type of fruit or vegetable it was and the price. I checked and rechecked the Italian names of what I was buying. Since there were three different kinds of lemons and six kinds of tomatoes I continually ran back and forth to the weigh station monopolizing the area to other patron’s consternation until I miraculously got it all done. I went back to the checkout and gave the clerk a big smile and handed her my neatly bundled and labeled treasures. She laughed and said something in Italian I did not understand.
I got a watermelon and served up slices to everyone. A quick shower and change of clothes and all were refreshed and ready to strike out on the town. The three boys went their way and we adults went ours. They say all roads lead to Rome and it’s kind of like that in Trastevere. At first Rebecca was wondering how we would get in touch with the boys but after about a half an hour of running into them several times she got the picture. As night began to fall and the crowds got bigger we made our way to one of Alessio’s favorite restaurants, Augusto’s. Sal explained that you had to order each course separately and only after you had finished one course could you order the next. After a month of not speaking the language it was a relief to not have to worry about it. Sal did all the ordering in Italian and I just ate and drank and enjoyed the company of my newly reunited family.
The flight from San Francisco to Amsterdam had not been a pleasant one. A boy had gotten sick every half hour the entire trip. Neither Rebecca nor JJ got any sleep. It was about 6 PM on a Thursday in Rome and the neighborhood was beginning to come alive again after the mid-day shutdown. There’s a lot of graffiti here Rebecca said as we entered the ground level hallway and headed up the two flights to the apartment. The door shut behind us and the world outside disappeared in favor of the building’s interior and Nick, Domo and Sal waiting at the top of the stairs.
This is nice she said as she toured the place. It was a long narrow flat with two large bedrooms side by side at the front of the building, a large living/dining room in the middle with kitchen and two bathrooms at the other end. The larger of the two bathrooms had French doors that led to a small balcony where a washing machine was tucked into a corner and a clothes line extended out over a sea of other clothes lines and adjoining balconies. No architect, not even M.C. Escher could conceive of the number of angles where everything met. Hey there’s a foot washer in this bathroom said JJ. Funny that’s what Nick said when he saw his first bidet a month ago.
Earlier that day I had gone to the market to stock up a bit on food. The supermarket was a couple of blocks away and I passed it a few times not really understanding where the front door was. I finally found it and went inside which was even more illogical with a series of dead end chambers connected through skinny blind aisles and random stacks of food and supplies. Having spent the past two weeks eating healthy in Greece I proceeded to load up with a variety of fruit and vegetables. When I got to the checkout stand I received an Italian tongue lashing from the clerk who promptly sent me back to weigh each piece, bag it in plastic and put a printed sticker on the bag which identified the type of fruit or vegetable it was and the price. I checked and rechecked the Italian names of what I was buying. Since there were three different kinds of lemons and six kinds of tomatoes I continually ran back and forth to the weigh station monopolizing the area to other patron’s consternation until I miraculously got it all done. I went back to the checkout and gave the clerk a big smile and handed her my neatly bundled and labeled treasures. She laughed and said something in Italian I did not understand.
I got a watermelon and served up slices to everyone. A quick shower and change of clothes and all were refreshed and ready to strike out on the town. The three boys went their way and we adults went ours. They say all roads lead to Rome and it’s kind of like that in Trastevere. At first Rebecca was wondering how we would get in touch with the boys but after about a half an hour of running into them several times she got the picture. As night began to fall and the crowds got bigger we made our way to one of Alessio’s favorite restaurants, Augusto’s. Sal explained that you had to order each course separately and only after you had finished one course could you order the next. After a month of not speaking the language it was a relief to not have to worry about it. Sal did all the ordering in Italian and I just ate and drank and enjoyed the company of my newly reunited family.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Images from the Holy Roman Empire
The Rape of the Sabine Women by Giovanni Bologna in Florence
Street artists painting masterpieces in chalk on the streets of Florence with the ever present street sweepers
A Venetian building next to a graffiti wall. Venice was much more sacrosanct about graffiti than Rome
Trastevere images
Trastevere Graffiti Nick and JJ
Our host in Trastevere, Alessio Angeli with Nick, JJ and Rebecca at the best Brioche and Capuchino cafe
The processional parade with a weekend of festivities in Trastevere
Very old graffiti at the entrance to the Pantheon in Rome
The Holy Roman Empire
The story goes that Romulus hosted a series of games at the Circus Maximus and invited all the local neighbors insisting that the Sabine women sit separately from their men. Things were going well for the new city state on top of the Palatine Hill for all the raucous freemen who flocked there. Romulus had politely asked if the Romans could marry the Sabine daughters. When the men derisively declined, Romulus lured the Sabine men and women to the staged event on the promise of great entertainment. The women were promptly seized and raped to the outrage of their fathers and brothers who went home to get their weapons. When they returned they discovered the women unwilling to leave. So what else would you expect from the guy who was raised by wolves and killed his own brother.
The doorbell rang. I descended the stairs to a long hallway past the “organics only” trash bin and swung open the ancient wood door covered with graffiti. The hot afternoon poured in along with the smell, sights and sound of old Rome and the presence of my dear friend Sal and his son Domo. He flew in that morning. His cousin Ana Maria had picked them up at the airport and driven them into town where she worked.
It’s near the Spanish Steps right?
No it’s not. I told you Trastevere.
I only remember Spanish Steps.
I gave you the address in Trastevere.
How would I know where that is? Ok we’ll find it. So Sal and Domo walked from the Spanish Steps to the Vatican along the Tiber to Trastevere. My feet really hurt said Domo.
Ok you and Nick stay here and relax and I’ll show Sal around. Bolstered by the tour Alessio gave me the night before and my additional wonderings I felt like I knew the place. The front door at Via di San Francesco a Ripa 166 was separated from the street by one step that once taken, plunged you into the chaos of this of this neighborhood of tiny alleys that somehow accommodated cafe seating, pedestrians, sidewalks, parked cars and space for vehicles of all types driving every which way. We chose a cafe Alessio said was where the locals hung out near the Piazza. Sal ordered granites for us, crushed ice coffee with cream on top. We sat in front of the café and took in the scene around us. Trash cans of recycled bottles were overflowing and the air smelled of ancient stale liquor, spilled between the sundrenched black cobblestones for centuries. Teams of orange vested trash collectors were sweeping through with brooms, street cleaners and litter luggers. Each day a major effort was undertaken to clean up Trastevere of debris from the night before. Drunks and vagrants asleep in the early morning seemed to know better and were out of there when the army of orange vests arrived.
Looking past the cleanup, a different sort of eye sore could be seen. The walls, doors, bridges, fountains, churches, signs and metal shudders within arm’s reach of something to stand on were thick with graffiti. Nothing seemed to be spared. Some of it was good art and a lot of it was tagging. Nick had started a photo record of graffiti in Israel and Greece but Trastevere was an unequalled potpourri of graffiti art beyond anything I have ever seen. While Nick referred to it as street art like many young Italians as modern art I struggled to look past it. A lot has been written about Roman graffiti from ancient times and it literally means etched writing. The Pantheon is covered with it. Pompeii is famous for it as is the Catacombs; political expression, historical significance, folk art all of which is part of being Roman. I read a recent blog by Paul Baines that describes current politics surrounding graffiti art including an August 5, 2009 announcement by the Mayor of Rome Gianni Alemanno to crackdown on its proliferation. The blog presents two forms, street art and tagging, the tagging is explained as an underlining political commentary. From my perspective there was a third kind of expression which was purely ego-centric. It’s not political at all but rather the embodiment of making a mark on the world to say that the person writing their name or making their scribble is more significant and important than the structure it is written on. I have a problem with that. Its one thing to use a public canvas for the sake of art and quite another to say you exist in the world. The best example of the good kind of art form was a later street scene we saw in Florence where artists drew with chalk, extraordinary reproductions of Renaissance work knowing that the street sweepers or the elements would soon take it away, a selfless street art for the sake of art and a handout worth making.
An interesting factor in Trastevere was explained to me by Alessio. Any work legally done in this historic district requires months of bureaucracy to obtain permits including painting over graffiti. It’s just simply not worth it to the merchants and building owners. The church on the other hand can get things done. In preparation for a weekend of religious festivities the very next day in the same spot looking at the Piazza Trastevere, all the walls had been cleaned or painted over.
You know the last time I was in Rome in October said Sal as we sipped our granites. There was an expose on a local politician promoting the sorting of “organics” from plastics and metals. With the cameras rolling in an interview with the fellow, the news station pointed out that one could see the sorted garbage pointlessly being mixed into one garbage truck.
Some things never change. The orange vests stopped in front of the café and emptied the garbage bins of beer bottles into a truck. The clash of sound was defining. You can’t really trust what you see on the surface here in Rome. Romulus would have been proud.
The doorbell rang. I descended the stairs to a long hallway past the “organics only” trash bin and swung open the ancient wood door covered with graffiti. The hot afternoon poured in along with the smell, sights and sound of old Rome and the presence of my dear friend Sal and his son Domo. He flew in that morning. His cousin Ana Maria had picked them up at the airport and driven them into town where she worked.
It’s near the Spanish Steps right?
No it’s not. I told you Trastevere.
I only remember Spanish Steps.
I gave you the address in Trastevere.
How would I know where that is? Ok we’ll find it. So Sal and Domo walked from the Spanish Steps to the Vatican along the Tiber to Trastevere. My feet really hurt said Domo.
Ok you and Nick stay here and relax and I’ll show Sal around. Bolstered by the tour Alessio gave me the night before and my additional wonderings I felt like I knew the place. The front door at Via di San Francesco a Ripa 166 was separated from the street by one step that once taken, plunged you into the chaos of this of this neighborhood of tiny alleys that somehow accommodated cafe seating, pedestrians, sidewalks, parked cars and space for vehicles of all types driving every which way. We chose a cafe Alessio said was where the locals hung out near the Piazza. Sal ordered granites for us, crushed ice coffee with cream on top. We sat in front of the café and took in the scene around us. Trash cans of recycled bottles were overflowing and the air smelled of ancient stale liquor, spilled between the sundrenched black cobblestones for centuries. Teams of orange vested trash collectors were sweeping through with brooms, street cleaners and litter luggers. Each day a major effort was undertaken to clean up Trastevere of debris from the night before. Drunks and vagrants asleep in the early morning seemed to know better and were out of there when the army of orange vests arrived.
Looking past the cleanup, a different sort of eye sore could be seen. The walls, doors, bridges, fountains, churches, signs and metal shudders within arm’s reach of something to stand on were thick with graffiti. Nothing seemed to be spared. Some of it was good art and a lot of it was tagging. Nick had started a photo record of graffiti in Israel and Greece but Trastevere was an unequalled potpourri of graffiti art beyond anything I have ever seen. While Nick referred to it as street art like many young Italians as modern art I struggled to look past it. A lot has been written about Roman graffiti from ancient times and it literally means etched writing. The Pantheon is covered with it. Pompeii is famous for it as is the Catacombs; political expression, historical significance, folk art all of which is part of being Roman. I read a recent blog by Paul Baines that describes current politics surrounding graffiti art including an August 5, 2009 announcement by the Mayor of Rome Gianni Alemanno to crackdown on its proliferation. The blog presents two forms, street art and tagging, the tagging is explained as an underlining political commentary. From my perspective there was a third kind of expression which was purely ego-centric. It’s not political at all but rather the embodiment of making a mark on the world to say that the person writing their name or making their scribble is more significant and important than the structure it is written on. I have a problem with that. Its one thing to use a public canvas for the sake of art and quite another to say you exist in the world. The best example of the good kind of art form was a later street scene we saw in Florence where artists drew with chalk, extraordinary reproductions of Renaissance work knowing that the street sweepers or the elements would soon take it away, a selfless street art for the sake of art and a handout worth making.
An interesting factor in Trastevere was explained to me by Alessio. Any work legally done in this historic district requires months of bureaucracy to obtain permits including painting over graffiti. It’s just simply not worth it to the merchants and building owners. The church on the other hand can get things done. In preparation for a weekend of religious festivities the very next day in the same spot looking at the Piazza Trastevere, all the walls had been cleaned or painted over.
You know the last time I was in Rome in October said Sal as we sipped our granites. There was an expose on a local politician promoting the sorting of “organics” from plastics and metals. With the cameras rolling in an interview with the fellow, the news station pointed out that one could see the sorted garbage pointlessly being mixed into one garbage truck.
Some things never change. The orange vests stopped in front of the café and emptied the garbage bins of beer bottles into a truck. The clash of sound was defining. You can’t really trust what you see on the surface here in Rome. Romulus would have been proud.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Travel Day
Traveling days are a challenge। I pre-purchased our plane tickets on line from Rome to Athens, Crete to Athens and Athens back to Rome through Aegean Airlines, sort of the Greek version of Southwest Airlines. Nice planes, helpful staff but it does not take long to figure out travel arrangements made on line are for the most part non refundable, non transferable and totally inflexible. What should have been an easy 30 minute flight from Crete to Athens and 2 hour flight from Athens to Rome turned into an all day affair.
Can I get an earlier flight from Athens to Rome? I ask the nice lady on the phone। We have 7 hours between flights। I am sorry sir but we cannot do that। Ok। Can I catch a later flight from Creta. No, sir I am sorry you cannot do that. Ok.
I can issue your boarding pass for the flight from Creta to Athena said the very nice Greek lady at the counter but not from Athena to Roma. Why not? Because you made the reservation at a separate time and I cannot print the pass from here. But if I had a printer I could go online and print my own boarding pass myself. I am sorry but the system will not allow me to do that. Ok. Which gate do we go to? We don’t announce the gate until 30 minutes from the flight. Ok.
We started our day dropping off the car at 730 AM and we finally got to our apartment in Rome at 9 PM। It’s the last night of just Nick and I. We are exhausted but we are greeted at our Rome apartment in an ancient neighborhood of Trastevere by Alessio Angeli our host here at Via San Francesca di Ripa 166, a large two bedroom unit above what must be one of the busiest areas for nightlife in the world. Lined on both sides with cafés people somehow manage to maneuver their cars, scooters, bicycles and bodies through the narrow alleys. While Nick rested I chased Alessio around the area as he showed me his favorite pasta restaurant, the best pizzeria and gelatoria, the apartment where he grew up and where he lives now, the local cathedral, a restaurant from the scene in a Fellini film, the Piazza, the best seafood place, the best bar, best sushi (not like you get in San Francisco), and the best brioche (where they still make them by hand) and cappuccino in the morning. In places the streets were so crowded we had to shove our way through the throngs.
Alessio is a young man, with a curly mop of hair and an infectious personality। A surfer, he has been to Hawaii 13 times and was headed that way in the next week. He owns 9 properties that he rents out to tourists and has traveled the world including working on a Kibbutz in Israel for awhile. He treats me to gelato and buys a pound for us and then walks me back through the crazy maze of people and alleys.
Nick…you got to come see this। It’s like the Plaka in Athens. Thousands of people out: let’s get something to eat. We go out walking and wander the streets for several hours, have dinner at the Pizzeria and Alessio was right…it was great pizza.
Can I get an earlier flight from Athens to Rome? I ask the nice lady on the phone। We have 7 hours between flights। I am sorry sir but we cannot do that। Ok। Can I catch a later flight from Creta. No, sir I am sorry you cannot do that. Ok.
I can issue your boarding pass for the flight from Creta to Athena said the very nice Greek lady at the counter but not from Athena to Roma. Why not? Because you made the reservation at a separate time and I cannot print the pass from here. But if I had a printer I could go online and print my own boarding pass myself. I am sorry but the system will not allow me to do that. Ok. Which gate do we go to? We don’t announce the gate until 30 minutes from the flight. Ok.
We started our day dropping off the car at 730 AM and we finally got to our apartment in Rome at 9 PM। It’s the last night of just Nick and I. We are exhausted but we are greeted at our Rome apartment in an ancient neighborhood of Trastevere by Alessio Angeli our host here at Via San Francesca di Ripa 166, a large two bedroom unit above what must be one of the busiest areas for nightlife in the world. Lined on both sides with cafés people somehow manage to maneuver their cars, scooters, bicycles and bodies through the narrow alleys. While Nick rested I chased Alessio around the area as he showed me his favorite pasta restaurant, the best pizzeria and gelatoria, the apartment where he grew up and where he lives now, the local cathedral, a restaurant from the scene in a Fellini film, the Piazza, the best seafood place, the best bar, best sushi (not like you get in San Francisco), and the best brioche (where they still make them by hand) and cappuccino in the morning. In places the streets were so crowded we had to shove our way through the throngs.
Alessio is a young man, with a curly mop of hair and an infectious personality। A surfer, he has been to Hawaii 13 times and was headed that way in the next week. He owns 9 properties that he rents out to tourists and has traveled the world including working on a Kibbutz in Israel for awhile. He treats me to gelato and buys a pound for us and then walks me back through the crazy maze of people and alleys.
Nick…you got to come see this। It’s like the Plaka in Athens. Thousands of people out: let’s get something to eat. We go out walking and wander the streets for several hours, have dinner at the Pizzeria and Alessio was right…it was great pizza.
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