Chiacchiere da Roma

Siamo arrivati a Roma!

We have moved into our apartment in via Santa Maria dell' Anima, a narrow street of 17th century buildings in one of the the oldest areas of the centro storico, just one street removed from the Piazza Navona. The apartment has its own name, Dioniso Ro, after the divinity of of energy in the natural world, particularly of vegetation or mature plants of life (read Vino), so it is a perfect location for us to land!

The street takes its name from the chiesa in the area, Santa Maria dell'Anima, a church and priests' residence with a history of six hundred years, that in its beginnings, served as a hospice to the German-speaking Catholics of Rome. This is a densely-packed neighborhood tucked between the river Tiber on two sides, and consists of a warren of narrow and winding vine-covered streets, filled with Medieval and Renaissance palaces, Baroque squares, picturesque courtyards, and artisans, shopkeepers and bottegas of all varieties. Our apartment is located on the 5th floor, high enough to see the dome and the bell tower of the chiesa, Santa Maria Agnese in Agone, over the rooftops out one side, and a lovely cityscape view of Old Rome with the dome of St. Peters in the distance, on the other.

Directly to our right one hundred feet away, lies the Piazza Pasquino, a wedge-shaped square so densely packed with cars, bicicletti and motorini, it allows just enough room for pedestrians to pass and traffic to edge by. The piazza takes its name from the statue in the corner of the square, nicknamed "Mastro Pasquino" after a local hunch-backed tailor of the 16th century famous for his wit, who plastered its trunk with satirical edics and written letters, many in Latin, and primarily political in nature, to express his views to the general populace. It is one

of the many "talking statues" throughout Rome, still being put to good use today in the same fashion as over 500 years ago.

Leaving the square you follow the street of Via Governo Vecchio, lined with important family palazzos and monuments, and a street that for many centuries served as the route of the procession of the new Pope from the Vatican to the Lateran church. It is now filled with popular and picturesque bars and restaurants and upscale fashion stores, and further on, the Italian Language Scuola, Leonardo Da'Vinci, where Jeff takes his lessons every afternoon.

The Piazza Navona is the largest square in Rome, and since its inception, has served as a central piazza for the gathering and entertainment of the populace. It is still the most popular place to meet, greet, to see and be seen. Its origins are the Emperor Domitian's Circus, or racetrack, but

through time and change, it now presents itself as a lovely 17th century square of Baroque fountains and architecture made perfect by the artists, Bernini and Borromini. Its history has seen Roman games, medevial races, renaissance carnvials, and even a few executions of early Christians, which back then was a form of entertainment to some. Throughout the day, thousands of camera-toting tourists, and everyday Romans cross through the square on tour or to work or to take coffee, part of a constant moving party of musicians, street performers, artists and their wares, small children on bikes, teens eating ice cream, and lovers strolling hand in hand.

Jeff and I join this sea of energy, walking and discovering our neighborhood, attempting to understand its rich tangle of 27 centuries of history and architecture, and its sights with curious names; via della Cuccagna "the greased pole," Botteghe Oscuri "the dark shops,"Torre della Scrimma "tower of the monkey." According to the myth, in the 15th century a pet monkey ran amok, snatching a baby and climbing to the top of the tower. The parents and the residents fell to their knees praying for intercession, and when the miracle actually came and the monkey brought the child safely down, the father built a perpetual lamp next to a statue of the Virgin at the top of tower in thanks. The lamp still burns, although there is no mention of what happened to the unfortunate monkey.

Ciao Amici, piu presto'!

Arrivederci Roma

November 1st is a holiday in Rome, the day of All Saints, and most of the local stores and businesses are closed. The day is quiet and the air is crisp and cool. The afternoon shadows have already begun to lengthen because of the change of time, and as I lean over our terrazzo to view the scene, I can smell chestnuts roasting on the corners and a hint of woodsmoke. People are hurrying down the streets bundled in sweaters, coats and scarves. Fall has finally come to Rome. It is our last week here in the eternal city.

We resist the urge to see just one more church or museum, and instead take long walks through the neighborhoods, revisiting all of our favorite sights and the many small corners of the city that we have discovered in the past few months. We love the beauty of the light on the lovely pastel yellow, terracota and gray historic buildings, set against a blue sky that is like none other. We still feel the awe of entering the Pantheon, or sitting in front of the Palazzo Farnese at night, and the experience of catching our breath as we round the corner to some incredible view or new piece of architecture.

Every day we come across something new and fascinating that we haven't noticed before that continues to make the city alive and constantly engaging. A 16th century marble marker on the corner that notes an historic flood line, a small arched door that cuts through a building from the street with its own altar lit with votives, its light flickering on the solemn image of a early christian saint, a small piazza sitting in a timeless setting, ivy tumbling down its walls and one tiny table outside its corner cafe, and standing on the granite disc in the Piazza of St. Pietro that allows us, for just one moment, to see the columns perfectly aligned, making us wonder at the genius and brilliance of the architect, Bernini. Every day in this extraordinary city is truly extraordinary.

What is picturesque and charming for us is decidely wearing for the Romans. Rome is a 21st century city living in the shadows of a medieval-renaissance fabric miraculously intact, struggling everyday to meet the needs and demands of its modern citizens. Graffiti scars the landscape, while at the same time, there is a constant and ongoing cycle of restoration and preservation of historic monuments. The noise, traffic, pollution, and heat all affect daily life, as does the inconvienence of the random bus or taxi strike and inadequate transport to compensate. Added to it all is the inefficiency of a country that still tackles many tasks by hand, unsettling politics, and the changes in currency with the euro that has made daily life more dear.

Despite it all, the Romans continue on with the same indomitable spirit today as they have for over 2000 years. They have weathered plagues and sacks, dictators and emperors, the papacy, the Nazis and Berlusconi. Their view on life is cynical and jaundiced, and very much one day at a time. Nevertheless, they love their city and the drama and energy of everyday life. They work to stay connected with their families, clinging to the old ways of closing down business middays and Sundays, and taking their holidays in August, despite the demands and pressures of a global economy. This is a balance of daily life for Rome, the battle to modernize and yet still hold onto the beauty and tradition.

Looking back, what we have gained most is that sense of connection to something larger, a sense of history, a sense of place, that we haven't experienced before in America. Our friend Alan Epstein has said that everything that we know today, socially, culturally, politically, spiritually, has had its beginnings here, in this place,at one time or other. There is a sense of sadness, too, for all that has come before and is lost and forgotten, except for a fragment of ancient plaster, marker or tomb, its relief and detail worn smooth by time. We are just one small presence, moving through and becoming a tiny part of Rome's history at this one point in time.

We have become comfortable here, adjusting to the slower pace, taking the time this last week to indulge in long lunches, spending time with friends, drinking wine and coffee in the afternoon sun, and relishing in the roman tradition of chicciarari, the art of chit chat. We take the Luisi family our lemon tree from the terrazzo for their giardino at home, have a final dinner with the Epsteins, and give bottles of wine to our friends. Everyone exchanges hugs, and emails and addresses, and promises to keep in touch. Last night, Alessandro and the staff at Roscioli present us with a large, signed bottle of wine to take home as a remembrance. What a wonderful adventure we have had in Italy, in the opportunity to place ourselves in a new city, to look through the lens at another culture, and learn something more about ourselves. Time has gone too fast, but we have put down some shallow roots here in Roma. We will return.

Amici

I am reading a book on our terrazo in the warm afternoon when I feel his steady gaze upon my face. I am aware of his presence at the window from the apartment across the street, and I know that with his big, brown eyes, he is willing me to look up and notice him. There is a small movement of the curtain, as he edges closer to the sill. I stretch out the time, allowing the tension to build as I finish the last paragraph, before I lift my eyes and look directly into his. For a moment, we stare at each other. Then, he barks and wags his tail.

This is just one of our new amici in our daily life in Roma. I call him Cane Nero, because he is a scruffy, black mutt of an undetermined breed, and since we have never officially met, I don't know his true name. He lives in the apartment across the way, and has developed the habit of coming to the open window in the afternoons or evenings to check in and chat. Like every other Roman that lives in the city, he just wants to communicate.

Every morning, and most afternoons, we make a trip to our local bar for caffe, cornetti and somtimes spermuta ( fresh orange juice), or a cold beer or campari/soda. We go not only for sustinence, but for conversation and connection. The visits give us the chance to practice our meagre Italian, rehash the soccer game scores,and build a relationship with real Roman people. Each morning, as they set up our order, we discuss what we are going to do for the day or the weekend, and everyone joins in with suggestions and advice. Do we think the weather will hold? Then, maybe a trip to Tivoli or Ostia? Have we seen the Vatican and St. Peters (yes) or the Quirinale Palace (not yet). You are going to Umbria? Bella! Did you know it was St. Francis's feast day tommorrow?! When we leave, they shout out a lusty ciao raggazi, a domani!

Our neighborhood bar has been owned by the Luisi family for 40 years. This long ownership of a family business over many generations is typical of most Italian families. The building has no evident identification on the outside, except the "Tabacci/Snack Bar", but its official name is Antonio's, after the senior member of the Luisi clan. Antonio and his wife, Maria Grazie, are the genitori of Pietro, who works the bar, and keeps an eye on the general operation of things. To complicate matters, Pietro is married to woman also named Maria Grazia, and their 22 year-old son is named Antonio, after his grandfather. Maria Grazie, the younger, presides over the counter for lottery tickets, stamps, toys,and candy. Young Antonio, who wears tight t-shirts and stands around hoping for some notice from the young girls, waits on the tables outside, while Nonno Antonio floats about the bar, engaging in conversation, and when he can get it by his wife, winking at attractive women and kissing their hands. Maria Grazie, the Nonna, works the cassa. She is a large,Italian matron that sits in same place everyday like a monument made of stone, and gives everyone the occhioli, or evil eye. For many weeks, Jeff and I would see her everyday when we paid for our coffee or drinks, and she would give us no attention what-so-ever, and little response to our pathetic grazies. Jeff vowed he would win her over, and now recognizing us as regular patrons, she has taken just recently to giving us a trace of a small, grudging smile and a nod with our change.

We have also made good friends with our restaurant downstairs, Roscioli. Alessandro and Pierluigi are the second generation sons who are running the wine/cheese/salumeri and the forno across the street. This is our favorite "neighborhood" spot, especially late at night, since we basically exit our door, turn left, and enter the next one to get there. We have met almost all the staff and hear about their plans and aspirations, how hard they work, and what they would like for their future. Most young people in Italy would like to have more, and many travel and study outside of the country. They would love to be in Italy, but are frustrated by the bueracracy of getting anything accomplished.

Last week we were priviledged to be part of a special evening when one of the head waiters, Cristiano and his fidanzata Samantha, arrived late in the restaurant to announce the good news that she was pregnant. There were shouts of Auguri, Auguri, and everyone was talking, and laughing and crying at once. Bottles of champagne and wine began to break out, and we were swept up in the middle of the celebration lasting well into the night. It was a sweet moment when Cristiano grabbed Jeff in a hug and said " This is a great night, Mr. Jeff, the most wonderful night of my life."

Of course we cannot forget Diane and Alan Epstein, and their sons, who have been so kind and generous to us during our stay here. They have taken us in and shared their home, introduced us to interesting friends and their favorite restaurants and bars. We have had many good hours over long meals, discussing politics, family, Italian culture, the challenges and enticement of being Americans living in Rome and the character of the Roman people. Jeff has entered the world of AS Roma, and attended the soccer games at the Stadio Oliympia with Julian and Elliot, who serve as his mentors in the etiquette of football in Italy and the Roman transportation systems. Every week, Alan takes us out on our arranged history tour where we tromp the hills and streets of Rome and listen to the multiple stories and facets of history about this ancient eternal city.

The Piperno family who still reside in the neighborhood of the Ghetto where they have lived for generations. Bruno and Celeste are friends of clients of Jeff, and they have invited us to dinner at the end of the fast of Yom Kippur, at the family home of the matriarch, Miriam. We are part of a group of 25 family members, including grandparents, uncles and aunts, children and grandchildren. I know that Jeff is thinking of his Oma that died earlier this year, and being included as part of this special and sacred ritual gives us a sense of family tonight. We feel blessed with our new amici and the kindnesses they have extended to us to include us in their lives during this short time.

Domenica

If you are going to spend any time living in Italy, you must find a way to deal with Domenica, or Sunday. Every other day of the week, the city bustles with frenetic energy, traffic, people and commerce. On Sunday, the pace of Italian life is different. On Sundays, you must do something very counter-intuitive to Italian culture; plan.

Chances are, your local bar will be chiuso on Sunday. This in itself is very disconcerting, as your morning caffe is a very big part of the start to the day. You have chosen your local bar, or it has chosen you, because it is close, comfortable, and friendly. Once you make this unspoken decision, you are as loyal to your bar as any Roma football fan is to their soccer team, and the owners and patrons become part of your family, your neighborhood, and the fabric of your everyday routine. At your local bar, you are greeted with a handshake and a smile, accompanied by a cheery buon giorno, and your espresso or cappuccino, "the regular, per favore," being set up and waiting for you when you walk through the door. On Sundays, one must go out in the neighborhood and seek an open cafe, where the coffee and cornetti may be as good, but the experience is not the same.

Almost all businesses close on Sundays. The mercato in the Campo dei Fiori, full of fruit and vegetable vendors, shoppers and children six days of the week, is broken down and quiet on Sunday. Shops on the perimeter of the square, and up and down the streets, are shuttered and closed, their graffiti covered doors pulled down. Even the foreign immigrants that sell the fake Gucci and Prada purses, Ray Bans, and Rolex watches, are not to be seen. Everyone that has needed groceries for the next two days, for produce comes in Tuesdays fresh, has already planned ahead. If you have run out of milk, water, or toilet paper, you will have to walk into the next neighborhood and hope to find an open supermercato. Precisely at noon, thousands of bells begin to ring throughout the city, signaling the close of the churches after morning masses. Even God takes a break on Sundays in Italy.

Only public transportation may be used on Domenica, not automobiles or motorbikes, and even so, the buses run infrequently and cabs are difficult to find. This is actually a wonderful thing, as Rome is a city of human dimensions and made for a leisurely pace. People walk through all parts of town, and the quiet allows you to hear again the voices of people talking on the other side of the street. One of our favorite walks is to the Borghese gardens, where entire families, young and old, often with their dogs, stroll through the green, leafy avenues for hours. Some ride bicicleties, some even jog, although this is a rarer site, often looked on with bemused expressions by the Romans. Sitting on benches, steps, or any other seat at the small snack kiosks for hours, watching everyone go by, reading two or three newspapers at a time, and eating icecream in incredible quantities is a favorite pastime on Sundays.

Some may also go to museums, or movies, or cemeteries, but something every Roman does on Sunday is go to lunch. Pranzo is the main meal of the day on Sundays, and if you don't have an invitation to Nonna's, you learn early to be strategic and reserve to get a table at one of the smaller number of restaurants that are open. The Italians already know which restaurants are open, and quite possibly have a standing reservation, because they have probably been going there for generations. By one o'clock, every trattoria and ristorante in the city begins to fill with large groups of well-dressed families in their sunday best, where they settle and spend the next three or four hours talking, sharing stories, eating, and drinking wine. The young children fall asleep at the table and across laps and shoulders, as the adults leisurely finish their espresso and digestivos.

Finally, Domenica in Italy is about family. If you don't have family or friends to invite you over or share a meal, you find yourself wandering back to a quiet afternoon at your home or hotel to pursue solitary activities, waiting for the small bit of nightlife to begin after the sun goes down. On Sunday, tourists float about in a disoriented fashion, drawn to the squares and gelato stands, small islands marooned by inactivity. One Sunday, our neighbors in the next building are having a small get together, and we can hear their laughter and conversation floating through our open windows in the early evening hours. Neither Jeff or I talk about it, but we both find ourselves drawn to the back door, where we steal glimpses of their activities and good times, and find ourselves missing our own friends and family on this Domenica. Sundays can also be lonely for two Americans living in Rome.

La Notte Bianca

La Notte Bianca, "The White Night", is an all night event that happens once a year in Rome at the end of the Estate Romana summer arts festival. This year over 400 events were planned, and over 1000 artists participated, in the visual arts, cinema, theatre, music, dance, sports, and special exhibitions throughout every neighborhood in the city. All the major churches, libraries, and museums stayed open and were free to the local public, tourists and students. Highlights included tightrope walkers, pyrotechnic spectacles, magic performances, video installations and screenings on the Tiber, poetry readings, and dance parties in the major squares, continuing through the night on Saturday until dawn on Sunday.

Our evening begins at 10pm with a glass of wine at our local bar. The owner Pietro who on a normal evening would close at 8pm, is doing a serious and steady business. He tells us he plans to stay open through the night until dawn, as the next day is Sunday and he can sleep all day. The neighborhood is already filled with people joining in the celebration. Down the street, the fine arts cinema in the Campo dei Fiori is showing a special selection of european films that have won the Golden Lion, or Leone d' Oro in Venezia. In the nearby Largo di Torre Argentina, a Shakespearan group is re-enacting the death of Julius Caesar among the ruins where emperors once walked. There are small parties in the side streets where groups of neighbors and friends have gathered with food, wine, and candles to have their own private celebrations. They send a cheery buona sera our way as we walk past. All the trattorie, bars, and shops are open and blazing with light, filled with revelers spilling out onto the pavement.

Most of the major streets are closed to traffic and open only to pedestrians, a vast improvement from the first La Notte Bianca in 2003, where we heard stories of Italians abandoning their cars in frustration, snarling traffic throughout the night and into the next day. As we cross the street and head into the Ghetto, we see the rocking disco buses that are traveling about the perimeter. They all have their own Djay, and you can you can jump on and off at will and dance through the night as they giro all about town. This culminates in the Piazza della Republica, where the buses unload near dawn, and there will be what is billed as a "sound-clash finale," a huge dance party with jazz and rock musicians in the square.

It is amazing to walk up Via Teatro della Marcella with thousands of others, a frenetic street where normally you would put your head down, take a deep breath, and pray to the Madonna that you make it across in one piece. We are heading toward the Piazza del Campidoglio, where Gianni Morandi, a guitarist, is having a concert, one of four popular artists that will be performing there tonight. There are so many people that we are unable to get close, and instead settle for the square where large video monitors and speakers have been set up to televise the action. The energy is incredibly high. The Piazza Venezia, the largest square in the centro storico, is filled with people as far as the eye can see. Italians are swaying and singing to the songs and sharing food and bottles of wine. Many have climbed statues, fountains and light posts to try to get a better view. La Notte Bianca is the perfect venue for the Romans, as it suits their need to congregate and to celebrate with both a festive, flamboyant exuburence, and in amiable chaos at the same time.

Our destination is to make it to the Piazza del Popolo to see the Ara Pacis, or the tomb of the Emperor Augustus, which has a special opening and will be lit tonight, but we are diverted by the crowds into smaller streets, and find ourselves at another wonder of the ancient world, the Pantheon. Seeing the magnificent building from the exterior at night is striking, but being able to go inside feels mysterious and timeless. We get a true sense of the scale of the the oculus, the 40 foot opening at the top. Set against the black velvet night, it feels like the eye of the gods watching over all inside. Some of the restaurants are closing, but we find the last two seats at a nearby pizzeria. We are a group of night travelers, and there is an atmosphere of shared conivial banter and laughter in the room.

The title "White Night" has a double meaning, also referring to the full moon which is shining overhead. As we walk back through the streets, the city is bathed in a patina of silver light, which washes and spills over every stone and crevice of the architecture. We reach our apartment a little past 3pm, but the festa continues on into the first light of dawn.

The next day, Roma sleeps in. The paper reports an estimated two and 1/2 million people in the streets for the White Night. The headlines read "Si accende la Notte Bianca: alla citta insomma." The White Night lights us up :all of the city is well.

Chiasso

We are amazed at the chiasso (noise) that the Romans can make.

It begins each morning as we are awakened by metal doors rattling up on the caffes and bars opening for the day. Delivery trucks arrive with supplies and begin unloading, accompanied by shouts from drivers and the clattering of metal carts over stone. Young and old roar into the piazza on motorini, motorbikes, and in small cars at furious speeds. Soon, there is a situation of too many Romans trying to occupy too little space. Horns begin to blare, voices rise, and insults and opinions are exchanged. Throw in for good measure the car alarms that will be set off an average of every 15 minutes, the siren of an occasional emergency vehicle, the background noise of the construction project down the street, and, of course, the church bells ringing throughout the neighborhood, but rarely on the same hour.

In this calcophany of sound, the biggest culprits of chiasso are the Romans themselves. A part of Italian life involves having one big chaotic conversation with everyone around you. This need to manifest sound of all types seems to be a part of their self-expression and well-being. Conversations among friends, a customer's appraisal of merchandise, vendors hawking their fruits and vegetables, shop persons talking across, and up and down the street at one another, waiters shouting orders, lover's quarrels, a chorus of children's voices and their Mamma's reproach or compliments, float up through the air to our terrazo during all hours of the day, at a decibel level that often seems to verge on the edge of hysteria or violence.

Their love of sound is also augmented by modern technology through the use of the telefonio. The cellular phone is a necessary accessory for any Roman of any age with the faculty of speech, and it is used constantly and loudly with absolute oblivion of personal privacy, or of that of anyone else. Whether in the street, museums, public toilets, restaurants, bars, churches, offices, buses, riding a scooter, driving a car, alone or in groups, the telefonio is used with abandon.

As the day progresses,and the passagiata, or evening stroll commences, noise and momentum builds, and a carnival atmosphere ensues as everyone pours into the streets to shop, snack, drink and converse. Street musicians began playing jazzy little tunes on various corners, groups of sports fans head toward the bars singing their club's anthem, and at least one political assembly parades through the streets, gathering followers and beating drums.

All activity culminates every evening in the Campo dei Fiori. The market stalls have been cleared earlier in the day, and as the night progresses, the tables of the bars, enoteca, and trattorie that line the perimeter fill with tourists and locals. Everywhere is evidence of the bella figura, the art of looking and appearing well, one of the most singular traits of Italian people. One notices the shot of color in the sleeve of a well-cut suit, a scarf flung casually over a shoulder, the dress that complements not just the figure, but the color of the stone of the buildings, women in layers of jewelry and impossibly high-heeled shoes, who have mastered the art of walking tiptoe across the ancient cobblestones. Everyone is talking to each other, or on a telefonio, or both at once. There is a great sense of choreography in the gesture of the free hand that emphasizes the conversation, coupled with pacing back and forth and the pirouette of turns. The Campo is the stage that fulfills the Romans' need not only to be seen, but also to be heard.

Later at night, Italian teens and foreign students pour in from all over the city, filling the bars and crowding the center of the square, shattering it with a noise and boisterous energy that will reverberate until early morning hours. In the middle of it all, sits the somber and morose statue of medieval philosopher Giordano Bruno, marking the spot of his execution, his head bent, black hooded cloak hiding his eyes from the present spectacle.

At the end of the night, Jeff and I make our way back through the crowds streaming down the street toward the square. Every evening we marvel that the pulse and energy and noise of the city seems to only continue to grow as the summer holidays have come to a close. We shut our bedroom doors to the terrazo to shut out the sounds, and fall quickly asleep, already becoming accustomed to the chiasso that is part of our life in Rome.

Ferragosto

"A week in Italy is a day in America, " our friend Alan cautions, with a subtle lift of his chin toward the waiter for another espresso. "One must move slowly and appreciate the details."
Alan Epsten, a writer and historian that fell in love with this city as a student, and his wife Diane, have lived here as expatriates for twelve years. They have joined us for a morning caffe, and have kindly offered to help sort through a list of our questions regarding setting up our new apartment and Jeff's office.

We have arrived in Rome in the last two weeks of Ferragosto, the Italian summer holiday where the entire country closes down and takes a vacation anywhere from two weeks to a month. Indeed, nothing is moving fast. The air is warm, and the atmosphere lethargic. Street sweepers and garbage men lounge against marble fountains whose basins resemble oversized bath tubs, cigarettes glued to the bottom of their lips, chatting and shouting taunts to one another. Circles of tourists, tired and sunburned, bob and weave across the piazza, their heads buried in their guidebooks. Well-dressed Romans in groups of two and three, stroll casually with no apparent destination in mind, stopping to chat for long periods with neighbors and acquaintances.

Our small outdoor table sits overlooking the Renaissance square of the Palazzo Farnese. The 16th century palazzo was commissioned by Alessandro Farnese, a cardinal with high aspirations who would go on to become Pope. It is a grand and imposing composite of three stories of Renaissance and Baroque architectural style , begun by Antonio da Sangallo, worked and reworked by a successions of artists and architects over time, including Michelangelo. The piano nobile was frescoed by Anniabale Carraci in the 17th century, and when the lights dim at night, the piazza and palazzo are beautifully illuminated, allowing one to catch glimpses of the paintings through the open windows. It now serves as the French Embassy, overlooking one of the most romantic stage sets in Rome.

"The Alaskans have over 25 words to describe snow, but the Italians must have 100 to describe rest," laughs Diane. Riposo, pausa, sostegno, rimanenza, poggiare, pisolino.

Nonetheless, they cannot quell Jeff's typical American resolve and enthusiasm to accomplish his long list within the week. After discussion, it is decided to call Julian, their eighteen year old son, to assist us as our consigliere during the next few days before school begins. He is perfect in that he speaks both english and italian fluently, knows every part of the city and the bus and trans-portation systems, is a typical teenager in his computer skills, and can whip out a cell phone at a moment's notice and determine whether places are aperto, open (rarely) or chiuso, closed (usually) their hours of operation, addresses and location.

The next morning after espresso at our local bar, Jeff and Julian take a bus to meet Andrea Marzioni, head of the Foreign Desk for Deutsche Bank. We need euros transferred from our account in the United States to a new account in Italy. When can it happen? Andrea shakes his head. If you are not an Italian national and want to do anything finanical or official, you must acquire a codice fiscale, the equilvalent of a social security number in the United States. To do that, one must go to the Ufficio dell Entrate, loosely translated, "the office of entering". You must take your passport, and after getting the proper forms stamped and signed, return to the bank to open an account. Jeff is anxious to go right away, but the office is across the city in Trastevere and will be closed for the day after lunch. Julian and he agree to go early the next day before it opens, because as Julian warns, there might be many people and they will be "physical."

They arrive to find a small crowd outside the government office. More people gather, and suddenly, as though there is an unseen signal, everyone charges their way inside the doors. People jostle to form a loose line for a ticket with a number. Jeff has number #12 and feels encouraged, but Julian warns that the number system is a bit idiosyncratic in the way it works. That becomes more evident as numbers 50, 26, and 4 are called first. Finally, after sheafs of paperwork, Jeff emerges triumphant with the codice fiscale.
"If we get to the bank now, I can call my office and get the euros transferred today by 5pm".
Julian raises an eyebrow. Sorry, the bank is closed at two for the day, and we cannot possibly make it back before then. Bankers in Italy only work until 2pm? Yes. Tomorrow then.

They are at Andrea's desk when the bank opens the next day. Following problems with the fax machine and a flurry of calls to Milano, the account is finally opened, but it is a question on when the transfer will occur. Andrea shrugs, "It is, after all, the holiday, and we are in Italy, Signor Green." He smiles, "But you are persisent, so perhaps it will happen."

In the two days that our euros are unaccounted for in the virtual world, we make good use of Julian's time in accomplishing other tasks on our list. We buy cell phones, and computer equipment, rugs for the bathroom, wine, water, office supplies, batteries, and a hair dryer. We locate the nearest internet cafe for faxes and copies, the ASRoma ticket office for soccer tickets,
and our closest teatro and cinema. He takes us on the bus to Eurogarden, a lovely nursery that overlooks the ruins of the Caracalla Baths, and we purchase flowers, pots and soil to plant a garden on our terraza. We stuff all of it and ourselves in a taxi, and struggle to bring it up to the top floor in our ancient cage elevator. We have apertifs on the terrazo with Alan and Diane on Thursday night, and they are amazed at our progress.

On Friday afternoon, Andrea calls. The money is in. Jeff is just able to make it to the bank to sign the papers before closing. We have our first visitors, Deborah Van Nest and her daughter Rory joining us for dinner tonight, and we all have a toast on our terraza, now filled with flowers, herbs, and a tiny lemon tree, to celebrate. Strolling through the streets toward the Piazza for dinner, we notice that more and more stores and cafes in the neighborhood are beginning to reopen. Ferragosto is drawing to a close, and we have spent our first week in Rome.

Nostro Vicinato, Piazza Cairoli 17

Salvi,

Amici, let me tell you about our neighborhood, nostro vicinato.

It is part of a lively historical quarter of the city known as Campo dei Fiori, wedged between the bustle of the Via Corso Emanuelle and the Tiber, a small Italian village that has been an important gathering place for romani and foreigners for more than 2000 years. Piazza Cairoli is a fan-shaped square at the end of a bustling, pedestrian street of hip shops and caffes that leads to the Campo dei Fiori square. It is named for an Italian soldier of Risorgimento, Benedetto Cairoli, who fought for a unified Italy under Garibaldi. Benedetto was a war hero from a well-respected family, who, due to his popularity, went on to become a politician. As is often the case, his ignorance and incompetence in foreign affairs and administration effectively impeded development of the country. (Sounds eerily familiar.) He was defeated and disappeared from public life in 1896.
To the right of the piazza sits a little graveled park, encircled with trees, with a fountain whose basin is reported to have come from the roman forum. Kiosks of giornale and stalls of prints, books, and flowers satellite around the edges, while small cars hug the perimeter in the desperate attempt to find parking in the dense urban area. Older Italian men perch on the benches and wile away the morning hours, pigeons flocking around their feet and the base of the statue of Federico-Seismit Doda, a 19th century defender of the Roman Republic, who seems to have fared slightly better in history than poor Benedetto.
To the left the piazza, sits the church of San Carlo ai Catinari, devoted to St. Carlo Borromeo, bishop of Milan and funded by the Milanese community in Rome in 1638. Ai Catinairi refers to the makers of dishes and basins who inhabited this square from early times, and indeed the surrounding streets still go by the names of the craftsmen who practiced their trade in the middle ages; via dei Leutari, lutemakers, via dei Chevari, keymakers, via dei Balestrai, crossbows, via dei Chiodari, nails. St. Carlo was a very pious individual, reported by his biographers to be "the model of pastors and reformers of ecclesitical discipline in these degenerate ages." Referring, of course, to the Protestant Reformation. He is the patron saint of bishops, cathechists, those with ulcers, colic, and intestinal disorders, and incongruously, starch makers. The rest of the piazza is filled with your requisite three caffe, a farmicia, and tabacci.
A step outside our door and to the right, sits Cafe Bernasconi, a family-run bar and patiscceria, with a reputation for fabulous coffee, and the best sfogliatelle, a puff-pastry filled with ricotta cream, in the city. Unfortunately, it is in riposa for the August holidays. We are highly anticipating its reopening in the beginning of September. In the interim, we take ourselves across the square to the tabacci, or around the corner to Bar Rosanna, a bit more upscale, but without the appeal and grit of the local characters that frequent the tabacci.
Marco Roscioli started the forno on the next street over thirty years ago, specializing in fresh bread, cornetti, and a piece of heaven calledpizza bianca, a delicious bread pizza drizzled with virgin olive oil. They cut it by the slice and wrapped in wax paper, so you can carry it with you to eat on the way. The next generation of the Roscioli family has opened a sleek wine store two doors from our apartment, offering copius selections of cheese, salumi, cured meats, and fresh prepared foods that you can take away, or if you wish,lunch and dinner are available in the brick-walled room in the back. Jeff is in heaven.
I read somewhere that Italians can live their entire life in 10 square meters, and I can believe it to be true. Everything thing you might need, from the daily mercato, to the alimentari, to the wine store, bakery and forno, post, dry cleaner, bar, and even the internet cafe, is next door or around the corner. Despite the lure of the city and all there is to be discovered, we have spent our first days exploring our own neighborhood. It is a luxury to feel we have the time to experience it.

Saluti tanti,
Janie and Jeff