The Day Siberia Came to Rome

For those who wonder what a Mediterranean city looks like in the grip of a Siberian winter here are a few pictures taken today. Above is the view from my bedroom window in central Rome this morning.

The Tartaruga Fountain, where Gastrognome's parents fell in love at first sight in the heart of the Jewish Ghetto was extra romantic today with the turtles and nymphs frozen in time.

The bridge leading from the Jewish Ghetto to  Isola Tiberina, an island in the middle of the Tiber where many Romans are born in Fatebenefratelli (Do-Well Brothers) hospital funded by an order of Catholic priests. In the summer Romans and I stand on this bridge around midnight and watch films on the open air screen located behind it.

This is a Roman ruin situated in Largo Argentina but more importantly it is home to Rome's most famous and unofficial cat sanctuary.  Today not a moggy in sight! 

There's a cycle path under the snow but no bikes today, in the summer the trees make this route the coolest, shadiest way of getting from one end of the city centre to the other with a break for a lemon Grattachecca when you start overheating. You could make your own one today!

                                               No queue outside my local gelateria.

                                          No aperitivo on the neighbour's roof terrace then

   No open air piano recitals in the ruins of Teatro Marcello...

Compared to London, parking in the centre of Rome is remarkably fair. Most roads have blue parking bays along one side which function on a pay-and-display basis. Then on the opposite side the bays are white and parking is free, officially three hours so as long as you like.. Today nobody can tell the difference.

Most Romans have been on foot today as the Mayor of Rome announced that apart from taxis, cars could only be used with chains on the wheels. As a Briton, trying to be a Roman I have tried all day not to keep making comparisons between London and Rome but never in my life have I seen cars in central London with chains on their tyres when the tarmac is clearly visable....a slight over reaction...

                                             and then some came out with their skis....

 and much to the delight of all Roman motorists, nobody came out on their bikes, not even me! 

                                                           more snow has been forecast.....

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It's The Result That Counts!

Eight months in and the ghost of my New Year’s resolution is mocking me yet again as the power shorts out in my apartment. Last New Year’s Eve while savouring a wedge of vegetarian haggis, I resolved to improve my efficiency in 2011. Evidently the gelid Edinburgh wind had brought on an attack of the perverse given that this planned increase in personal productivity was being scheduled to take place in what many conceive to be the most inefficient 580 square miles in our solar system, otherwise known as Rome. Rome, the Eternal city, where one can’t stand in one’s nightie, toasting bread under a grill while simultaneously boiling a kettle to make a cup of tea without turning one’s fusebox into firework display. This could explain why most Romans choose to stand in a bar and eat breakfast. (see above!)


As I flick the power back on and unplug the kettle, I consider more deeply a population which thinks well-run only applies to marathons, and streamline to fast red cars. Multi-tasking is viewed as a suspicious practice involving slight of hand and time-saving devices are more mythical than the Lord of the Rings: it took me years to track down self-raising flour, unaware that as a result of the time saving properties found in the supernatural mixture of flour and yeast it goes by the name of “magic flour” in these parts. I switch off the grill and as I plug in the kettle, I remember enthusiastically buying it then shortly after, back at home, throwing myself deflated onto the shredded packaging when informed I should have also bought a “presa Siemens” adapter as Roman plugs don’t necessarily fit Roman plug sockets. I also remember on the same shopping trip the look on the tobacconist’s face, handing me a tube of glue as I spat out the pieces of a non self-adhesive postage stamp which hadn't responded to licking and I can still hear the inconvenienced tone of the pharmacist’s voice, intermittently recommending cough mixtures whilst balancing on her lover’s knee.


As I finally sit down to my breakfast, it dawns on me that unless I stop exaggerating the importance of reaching a goal without wasting time or getting sidetracked by pleasure, I will always stand out as a Briton. As a new Roman I must focus on glorious results and not foolish timekeeping. It’s doubtful Michelangelo was ever scolded by a Pope for dithering over the Sistine Chapel ceiling, for sure Turner could have wrapped it up in half the time had he been sent up the ladder. But who cares. The result is there for all to marvel over and in the end my toast with Frank Cooper's Fine Cut Oxford marmalade was a triumph and now I’m running hideously behind but perfectly in sync with the rest of Rome. Result!

The Immaculate Beatle

To a Briton such as myself, the 8th December will always be foremost remembered as the day I heard the world had lost a Beatle.  Here in Rome today, I was distracted by a National holiday which kicks off with the Pope swinging past the Spanish Steps in his Popemobile and officially opening Christmas on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary.  Back in England, most supermarkets and chain stores will have already been torturing their clients for at least a month with gaudy tinsel, Slade and billboards defying them to create anything less than a perfect Christmas.

In Rome today, the city began to twinkle with fairy lights and the churches proudly displayed their nativities, minus the hundreds of figures of baby Jesus still stored away, lovingly swaddling in bubblewrap until the eve of the 24th when they will be placed in the empty cribs. By lunchtime, I’d already seen a handful of these charming stable scenes and Catholic Gastro-gnome had gleefully confirmed the date of this year's carol service at the Protestant church near the Spanish Steps, not for a possible change of denomination but in anticipation of the homemade mince pie sale which dangles from the last note of Come All Ye Faithful. 
 
As this day draws to an end, stacks of Panettone and Pandoro will have been purchased and devoured around the capital today, another 3000 Euros will have been faithfully tossed into the Trevi Fountain pool and hundreds of candles will have been lit by pensive visitors to the capital’s 900 plus churches. How many were lit silently along with mine, in memory of Lennon on the 30th anniversary of his loss, one can only imagine...

Just don't breathe!

Temperatures plummeted last week and somewhere between devouring a cream filled croissant and downing my second cup of Fortnum’s smoky Earl Grey, I was forcing to carry out an emergency "cambio di stagione".  Traditionally it takes a whole weekend to store away the linen and unwrap the cashmere but masterfully I achieved it in under 15 minutes partly due to the absence of my mid-weight early Autumn outdoor collection which went up in smoke last September after the coat stand in my hall got jammed up against a 17th century Venetian wall light and carbonized its entire contents.  Another time saving was to leave unexamined and packed away the mounting reserve of trousers no longer able to find their away around my waist. It’s not just the annual arrival of  Pandoro and Panettone which will hinder any attempt to squeeze back into these clothes but recently, a Roman friend confirmed what I had always suspected: Roman air is in fact fattening.  The calorific output and daily exchange of gastronomic pleasure from a zillion pasticcerie, gelaterie, and trattorie dotted around the city releases something intangible into the atmosphere which facilitates the delightful Roman phenomenon of ” Passive Eating”.  It doesn’t matter where you sit, there are no compartments which can save you from the effects of passive eating in Rome. Your ears will hear flowery descriptions of food, your nose will pick up the aroma and even if you keep your mouth firmly closed, you will never be far from a chef prepping, a barista grounding or somebody’s grandma peeling.  If you really insist on losing weight in the Eternal city (why would you?), the only solution is to actually stop breathing.

Alternatively, go and breathe in the skinny, low-fat, semi-skimmed air at the biggest fruit and vegetable market in Rome: “ Il  Mercato Esquillino” in Piazza Vittorio.  Here, one could forget they were in Rome with the mountains of ethnic spices, nuts and vegetables from all over the world. In November the glow of autumnal orange throughout the market is due to Loti season. Known to Romans as cachi they are a delicious fruit grown locally , are too delicate to transport and look like a piece of a Pre Raphaelite still life.  Here the air is proported to be much less fattening and if you walk from Termini Station, you just might lose a kilo, if you can hold your breath for that long. 

The Importance of Being Bulgarized!

If Oscar Wilde had been Roman, he would most certainly have written “The Importance of Being Important.”  For many Romans, “Earnest” is about as unfamiliar a concept as buying shoes from a cash-and-carry.  "Important" on the other hand means extra special dispensation and social distinction above all others. In other words: Special. Who knows if this goal to be special could be an overreaction to having been bossed about for most of the last century by a succession of balding spinning midgets but it seems to go much deeper than the desire to wear a uniform and terrorise people with a whistle, although they do that pretty effectively here too.  Once I taught English to the president of a local company who after an obscene amount of lessons could only ever master two three-word collocations: “Wife big problem” and “Very important person.”   Instinctively he knew it was all the English he would ever need in Rome.

Importance in Rome relates to who you know: who can recommend you, operate on you and or just save you from wretched insignificance. Tell a Roman you have a fine or a ticket and his reflex response will be “do you have to pay it?”  I wouldn't propose an earnest British reply of “Yes of course”  as this will only provoke pity.  Even if in reality you are about as prestigious in Rome as a bottle of plonk from an English vineyard, the secret is: always fake it.  Faking importance can be achieved either subliminally by for instance:

Using a Mont Blanc fountain pen for everything, even when fidgeting around for something to sign for a delivery.

Wearing a shirt with your little red initials embroidered prominently somewhere. (men only please)

Training staff in the bar below your apartment to address you by your professional title at all times; “Espresso professoressa?” 

Waiting at a traffic light about a metre in front of everyone else, usually on a crossing where pedestrians can pay homage to you as they walk around the full circumference of your vehicle. (A friend who now lives in Paris used to pay homage with a briefcase full of Cambridge KET exam preparation text books hard against the bonnet)

Or more obviously by:

 BVlgari accessorizing "Bulgarizing" yourself to death, (the bejewelled eye glasses are an essential statement of "I matter"  even if you have 50-50 vision.)

 Buying a Smart car just for grocery shopping and dumping it practically in the trolley park by the entrance to the supermarket.

 Displaying your full name, engraved onto an A3 piece of brass as close as possible to the entrance of the building where you practice your very important profession. A key profession in which to be worshipped  is a legal “notaio”, a type of solicitor who specialises in property sales law: curious in a city where the housing market has been dead nearly as long as Caesar. 

Or on special occasions: birthdays, wedding anniversaries. Flowers and cards don’t say “You are special” half as eloquently as dumping one’s giant four-wheel drive half on a zebra,  and half across the full span of a path, demonstrating to passing mothers and nannies with pushchairs and people in wheelchairs alike just how “special” you really are.

Eat Pray Did You Love the Film?

My great love of film has already predisposed me well to becoming a Roman as what I lack in my vegetarianism, I can claw back as a film buff.  For a Roman, going to the cinema is up there in his top 5 pursuits of pleasure during winter, so when a film opens which was actually filmed in the city, its release is greatly anticipated and then slammed if it doesn't represent Rome the way Romans see Rome.  Last Sunday, I finally got to see Eat Pray Love with Gastro-gnome by my side, painfully groaning at any hint of a stereotype. Mario Lanza singing Arrivederci Roma in The Seven Hills of Rome made him howl like wounded animal years ago. Eat Pray was considerably more enjoyable for both of us although less so for the Roman press. You be the judge. 

  

Filming took place in and around Piazza Navona which doesn’t stick strictly to the  locations in Elizabeth Gilbert's much loved, best selling memoir, but it is visually stunning on the screen. Elizabeth is played by Julia Roberts and the book was described as "a travel map for those lost in the middle of their lives" For those who would like a travel map of the locations visited in the film and book read on... 

Julia Roberts as Liz stays in an apartment in Via dei Portoghesi which had remained shrouded in tarpaulin and scaffolding ever since the film shoot until a few weeks ago.  Presumably the influx of funds from Hollywood has paid for its complete overhaul. The building is stunning but unfortunately has lost the crumbling, ivy clad beauty it had before. I shudder to think what Rome would look like if there were enough money to renovate the whole city in this way. Liz in the book stayed nearer to the Spanish Steps in the back streets where Audrey Hepburn wandered with Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday.  

Julia Roberts as Liz chats to Luca Spaghetti in a Barber's shop which can also be found in Via dei Portoghesi below the same apartment . It is a barber's shop in real life too but not as antiquated in style as it appeared in the film. 

Julia Roberts as Liz exchanges language with the handsome Italian in what appears to be a typical Roman trattoria with red and white tableclothes.  Strangely with a huge choice on hand, a bar was adapted for the shot. The bar in question was “Caffe delle Pace”, a wonderful place to sit outside for an aperitif around 7pm or inside to curl up in winter with a delicious slice of sachertorte chocolate cake.  H E A V E N !

Julia Roberts as Liz sending her final email to David may have also been filmed inside the same location.  I believe Liz in the book wrote the email in a much less attractive venue, namely the sleazy Easy Internet Cafe in Piazza Barberini. It has since closed and become a bank.

Julia Roberts as Liz shows off her Italian by reeling off everyone's food order on a leafy open terrace. The terrace belongs to the Santa Lucia Restaurant in front of the Hotel Raphael which is almost completely obscured by a wall of ivy. I can't recommend this restaurant as I've never tried it. The location is fabulous and romantic but possibly a little touristy.  I can however recommend the luxurious Hotel Raphael for its fantastic location and roof-top terrace, tucked away behind Piazza Navona. The service can be indifferent but it's in Rome; Romans don't do servile unless they have little else to offer.  I promise you that's not the case here.  

Julia Roberts as Liz eats an ice cream sitting in Piazza Navona. Where she bought it isn't shown in the film. I've seen the credit given to Gelateria San Crispino as the American press professes this chain to serve the best ice cream in Rome. I think it's over-priced and over-rated but the flavours with meringue in are a triumph so definitely try it out.  Liz in the book surely tried ice cream everywhere and at one point she clearly makes a reference to my favourite, secret gelateria where she was taken by a food critic to taste the best rice ice cream on the planet.


So enjoy the film, Elizabeth Gilbert is certainly pleased with it and I will go on explaining to Gastro-gnome why she chose to travel to India and Bali to Pray and Love when all three actions are a blissful priority right here in the Eternal City.  Beats me! If it had been called Eat, Pray,Work then she would definitely have been sent on her merry way...

Do Me a Favour!

“No good deed goes unpunished” I was reminded of this once again as I nearly came a cropper on my bike, whilst dropping off a bottle of Prosecco for a friend, as a favour, last week. As I pushed my cycle across a pedestrian crossing, barely a chalky trace of which remained visible on the tarmac, I encountered the most deadly of all hybrids: Roman white-van man. As he edged his way around a corner, his wheels finally crunched to a halt as my bike disappeared underneath them. Clearly my high-visibility cycling outfit, namely blond hair and a short skirt, generally more effective than top-to-tail dayglow, had failed me on this occasion. After the obligatory post-prang phase of shouting and pointing, a period of giggling led to my climbing up into the passenger seat of the big white van and being driven way across town, crumpled pile of metal spokes thrown into the back en-route to “Simone 88” my bike repair shop.  As we inched our way through the traffic along the Tiber what little remained of my British reservedness frustratingly refused me permission to quiz the driver with as many direct questions as he was firing at me.  As we swung round past Castel Sant’Angelo, I caught sight of a familiar street performer: “The Grim Reaper” I remembered him from the afternoon before, his costume bodged together with long strips of brown parcel tape, menacingly extracting offerings from jet-lagged tourists and lovers dangerously entwined on the wall above the Tiber. I recalled the sinister look he threw me and how he stared threateningly at the rear section of my bike as I paused to look at the castle, hands firmly on my handlebars, not fidgeting for change in my bag.  Maybe I would have been wise to have thrown him a coin..

A couple of hours later, after thanking Roman white-van man for his abundant humanness in transporting me and offering to pay for my sparkling new back wheel, I headed back across the city , the mid-afternoon sun’s army of rays marching straight for me. The secret of surviving a Roman sun attack is to take shelter along the Tiber, in the shade of the trees, with an ice-cold grattachecca (granita) purchased from one of the city’s characteristic kiosks dotted along Lungotevere. A glass full of ice shavings with fruit juice drizzled on top is a really pleasurable way to ward off dehydration, especially those which use real fruit potions rather than sweet syrups. In Puglia this summer, my favourite cooling-down drink was “The’ freddo con granita al limone”: a glass of chilled tea with a generous helping of lemon sorbet floating in it. Try it out: D i v i n e!

As I sat by the Tiber with my lemon grattachecca, I deliberated over my current choice of transport.  Maybe I could start fighting back on a Vespa, then I would really start to feel like a galloping knight not an easily dispensable pawn with a piddling bell. But could I really cope in the motorized league? Had I become "Roman" enough yet?  Michelangelo and Raphael had managed to survive on a bike but then again they didn’t have to negotiate Roman white-van man or maybe they just concentrated on their Papal commissions, avoided street performers and never did favours for their friends. 

Granita recommendations:

La Vie en Rose, Nice French Art Cafe, Via del Pellegrino 127 (280 bus along the Tiber, 10 mins walk from Castel San’Angelo, behind Piazza Farnese)

Grattachecche Kiosk: Ponte Cavour by the fountain. Real fruit potions. 

Alla Fonte D'Oro: Piazza GG Belli, Trastevere Ancient Grattachecche. Pieces of fruit in syrup. (Tram 8 , get off by the Tiber.)

Bike Sales and Bike Repair Shop: Simone 88, Porta Portese.  Tell Simone " La bionda straniera" sent you and then haggle for a discount (Tram 3 to Trastevere Station, get off by the Tiber)

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