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.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
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.
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.
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.
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