Cow The Eternal City

Every week, I like to rename Rome, usually inspired by whatever has been the most frustrating, joyous or comical peak of my week, always favouring a one syllable word so the city doesn’t lose its ring.  Once I named it “Why?” after a week of mouthing the word, bemused expression trying to fathom all things bewildering in Rome, such as why the booking of hospital appointment is only achievable by visiting the hospital in person? Why when I activate the pedestrian crossing in Via Luisa di Savoia, after waiting 6 minutes and getting as far as the concrete island in the middle of the street I have to activate it once again and wait another 6 minutes, choking on exhaust fumes, to complete my crossing? I mean, do some people decide to stay on the island and not need to cross the whole street?  Once I named Rome “Nun” after spending an hour explaining the difference between a Bloody Mary and a Virgin Mary to one of Rome’s thousands of nuns in an English conversation class about cocktails.  Since January I’ve called it “Rain” as it just hasn’t stopped. Anyone visiting Rome this Spring might have thought they had been diverted to a grey Northern European destination as their plane touched down, rerouted by the Icelandic volcanic ash cloud which continues to hang like the Sword of Damocles over our summer holiday travel plans this year.  

Last Friday the sun finally came out and as I sat outside amidst an art installation which has been flying around the globe since 1998,defying the volcano by arriving here, I renamed the city once again:  “Cow” after the herds of sacred, funky fiberglass beasts grazing around the historic centre, sponsored by commerce,raising money for Help the Aged in Rome. This morning the pantene cow blocking the entrance to my supermarket reminded me I was out of shampoo. Moo!

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The Man in the Emperor Purple Shirt Says Yes

What is it about Roman DNA that sends many of them haring around this magnificent city, oblivious to the existence of anyone they don't know by name, driving like rabid dogs frothing at the sight of yet another sparkling fountain?  Could it be that many are suffering from ESS: "Emperor Slave Syndrome"? This condition causes sufferers with a rich heritage of invading, conquering ancestors to emulate the behaviour of their ancient relatives, regardless of their own modern day status.  Those unrelated fall automatically into the role of submissive slave.  That would be you and I. 

Those in possession of a whistle, golfing umbrella or pocket-sized car seem to display the severest symptoms which include: exiting buses and trams with one’s umbrella already fully open into the faces of passengers waiting to board.  Taking one’s good old Valentinian time strolling along narrow paths littered with other emperors’ dumped scooters and finally failing to even acknowledge those who stand aside patiently waiting to get through.  Bunking off from work or striking on a Friday to enjoy 3 days at a Terme-Wellbeing centre (modern day Roman bath). Abandoning one's Smart chariot wherever one sees fit ,whether it be up a slave’s driveway, in the middle of a cycle lane or blocking the exit to an entire car park. 

As a new Roman (rebellious slave), I find the secret to living amongst this epidemic is the recognition of the sufferers’ perspective, ie: all pedestrians are bothersome slaves, cyclists are bothersome slaves running errands and anyone else who dares to block their ancestral highway is part of an invading army and will hear the emperors' battle cry in the form of an insistent car horn, even at 3 in the morning. Commonly, this condition causes queuing, punctuality and seating-plan blindness. I'm sure modern day Caesar wouldn't line up to weigh fruit and veg in GS or let others leave a room or a metro carriage before he entered.  As regards meetings and dates,usually the prospective audience will have already arrived and be losing patience, before the afflicted one finally swoons in , medicinal espresso in hand.  

Many Romans who suffers from this syndrome find they are unable to work in customer service, particularly in clothing retail as the sight of slaves unfolding garments can further aggravate the condition and ensuing action is generally not conducive to high sales.  Many prefer employment which seats them behind a glass divide or requires them to use a whistle.  As yet there is no cure although recent statistics have shown a marked reduction in sufferers' symptoms following a trip to London.  Sufferers’ colleagues and carers will need to top up their pleasure levels regularly to build up their immunity or they will find themselves prone to impromptu bouts of uncontrollable griping about life in Rome.  

The latest of my restaurant recommendations and a perfect pleasure top-up point is Dal Paino, (Dandy's place) an excellent informal pizzeria, run by a man who dresses like an emperor but doesn’t behave like one.  If you want a table, track him down in his emperor purple shirt and give him your name.  Don’t fret about the ESS sufferers clumped around the entrance protesting their right to steal in ahead of you.  When the man in the emperor purple shirt says yes, you are in and they will be on their way to nearby Da Baffetto, (Little Moustache's place) hyped up in guide books but not a patch on Dal Paino. (check review 10 on TripAdvisor) Pizzas are thin crust, cooked in a wood-burning oven, pastas are good too. The service is friendly and efficient (except on Saturday nights, peak season) and the prices are good value.  The location is central, tucked in behind Piazza Navona which Gastro-gnome told me was once known as Pizza Navona due to the high volume of pizzerie nearby. Note to SuperAli: Beware of emperor humour! 

 Dal Paino. Via Parione 34. No Metro. 87 Bus, direction Piazza Cavour.

 Get off in Corso del Rinascimento.

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Mamma Mia stole the Bikers Thunder

I’ve yet to be convinced the uber-stylish residents of Rome really want to see herds of cyclists taking over their streets any time soon. I’d be the first to concede that I can resemble a giant 8 year-old, pedalling through the rain in my flowery Cath Kidson cag in a bag. Romans on scooters on the other hand, generally look effortlessly chic gliding around on what amounts to motorized display stands in some cases.  Those who flit around by car, with ubiquitous off-centre blue light above, relish the opportunity to boost Roma's negligible green bella figura  in Bruxelles by pretending to promote cycling around the historic centre.  I’ve always felt more than a little suspicious about their sincerity, never more than on Sunday last, when the voice of "Annual Roma Bike Day" was drowned out by the deafening horn of Festa della Mamma (Mother's Day).  Fortuitous schedule clash? I think not.

The common push bike, albeit an eco-friendly superstar,  couldn't hope to compete with such a mighty adversary as the Roman mother, especially as Roman men even by national standards are considered to be “Mammoni da Guinness” (record-breaking big mummies).  The questionable English press once reported a growing trend: Roman men were choosing to live at home with Mamma well into their late-thirties to save money for beauty-enhancing plastic surgery, namely the addition of an essential dimple in their chins (and still I came to live here...)  This smacks of shameless stereotyping although the first part is indeed true. In a city where jobs are often won in competitions, inherited from dead relatives or commonly offer no more than pocket money to adults with PHDs, where would they be without their Mammas? Even Julius Caesar had to call on his for backup when he found himself on the wrong side of a Roman dictator.  Families are as economically important as spiritually here and Mamma or more effectively "Nonna" (grandmother) are the big guns behind all domestic operations.


So if you are planning an awareness day in the eternal city, the secret is to check your calendar and don't go head on with Mamma or heaven forbid Nonna.  There's a proverb which says, " A man loves his sweetheart the most, his wife the best and his mother the longest."  Never could this be more true than in Rome, every day of the year.

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In This Season: Burgundy and Orange?

A good deal of Romans are currently suffering from an extra virulent fever, which is causing many of them to sleep, work and socialize in burgundy and orange lycra. The fever has risen to 71 but thankfully not on a thermometer. Instead, it’s registering on a league table, as Roma Football Team "La Magica", still have a fighting chance of winning “lo scudetto”, Italy’s premier league championship but only if nobody tempts fate by saying anything about it out loud. 

As the season comes to an end, doubtful that their team’s sporting prowess alone will clinch them the title, fans of  La Magica won’ t be found surmising, or calculating their teams odds for all to hear. Such behaviour ‘porta sfiga’, brings bad luck and will certainly jeopardize their hopes of glory.  When pushed for a reaction, one ardent fan will only say she fears Inter (who currently stand between La Magica and this holiest of prizes) will rob them of second place. As a supporter of the rival Roman team Lazio,  I'm always eager to vocalise, whenever possible, that victory is still mathematically within their grasp.

So support for La Magica remains strong but silent, choosing instead wordless, visual symbols of devotion, encouragement and solidarity. Even a tourist would have to be seriously colour blind not to notice the city’s burgundy and orange hues right now.  Take-away pizzas arrive with a pile of alternating burgundy and orange paper napkins, taxi drivers have little burgundy and orange Padre Pio collages stuck to their dashboards. Bus drivers, on their way back to the depot at the end of a shift, silently display their destination as “Forza Roma” on match nights. As a new Roman, I don’t even react any more when I cycle across town to my favourite bar or gelateria, only to find the staff locking up the shutters four hours before closing because Roma are playing.  A few years back, I would have stomped around protesting and mumbling “just watch Match of the Day” under my breath. Now I don’t even expect an apology or excuse. Last Sunday all psyched up for some malaga and rice pudding ice cream, as more shutters came crashing down in front of me, in time for kick off, I just smiled, mouthed "Forza Lazio" and cycled off in search of an aperitivo instead.

The first of my aperitivo recommendations is in the ancient district of Monti, which to most Non-Romans is a secret in itself.  The address and name of the place is via URBANA 47. TripAdvisor reviews in Italian, say the restaurant serves overpriced, non-traditional Roman cuisine. I’m recommending it for it’s great aperitivo. The price is top-end but good value. Instead of the usual cold pizzette and mini sandwich triangles, the food, which is organic, comprises of hot pastas, homemade quiche, pates and bean salads served with excellent quality local wines or cocktails. Help yourself to seconds if you are skipping dinner. The unanimous opinion is that the interior is full of character, some collectable furniture is for sale, and the location is charming in a tiny ivy-clad residential street,  once an ancient Roman high street, leading towards the Roman Forum. As I sat in Urbana 47, all my thoughts of ice cream disintegrated as Roma’s 24-week unbeaten record began to unravel and the waitress brought over a perfectly blended Aperol Spritz, a popular orange-coloured cocktail which thankfully isn’t served in a burgundy glass, not even when La Magica are playing.

Urbana 47: Metro Cavour. Open every day. Aperitivo 18.00-19.30. Fine for daft vegetarians. 

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