A Typical Day in Rome

I have been taking Italian classes for two weeks now, I can speak a bit and understand even more. Gestures are still a big help and always a welcome supplement though. Today was my last day of classes and Josh's last day of work before vacation!

I have a nice group of classmates who have been toiling away with me everyday for our four hour lessons. Pietro is a priest from Poland, Kerri is from New Zealand and works on a cruise ship, Iuba is a Russian student and Ann Marie is a fellow American, currently studying law in California. Sandeep was nice enough to take our picture, he is Indian, his parents live here in Rome, but he has been living in the US and went to school at Virgina Tech. A most interesting group of characters. Our teacher, Simona speaks only Italian, the class is "complete immersion" which on some days translates to complete cluelessness.

Class starts around 9:30 each morning. We work on grammar until a little after 11:00. We have a 20 minute break and on most days we enjoy a bit of sacred English speaking over coffee and continue the lessons with conversation practice from 11:20 to 13:30.

On most days after class I meet Josh for his hour lunch break at 13:30. We usually have a mini picnic in the Campo on the statue of Bruno, or in the shadow of the Piazza Farnese and every once in awhile wander over to the Pizza Navona or the Pantheon for a bit of people watching entertainment during our lunch. More often than not it is unbearably hot, so our first priority is to search for shade!

In true Italian style we usually have a panini (tacchino o prosciutto con formaggio) and some fresh fruit and then perhaps followed up with some type of frozen treat or a cafe freddo at the local bar. After this it is back to work for Josh and off to an afternoon of Roman adventures for me.

Poor Josh...

Mi Primo Correndare a Roma!

This week the evening wind shifted ever so slightly to include a wisp of fall in the air, just enough to tease the soul. Perhaps this is just wishful thinking, but the break in the heat was a welcome friend, imaginary or not. This type of weather is good for all sorts of things, my favorite being sleeping, but as, literally, a close runner up, going out for a job in the evening breeze seemed to be an appropriate thing to do. Up until now, I had been unmotivated, too tired and uncomfortably hot to think about going for a run. I also have seldom seen anyone out running around the city. Although the younger Italians seem quite svelte, I don't get the impression that they are a culture of physical activity. They are lucky they have such a genetic code. My American genetic code said that I was eating too much pasta and gelato and if I didn't want to expand my code further, I had better get out there and get my heart rate up.

Finding a place to run is trickier than I thought. First, I like to be amongst "my own kind" when I run. I much prefer to at least see other runners if I am out there sucking the air and turning three shades of red. Misery loves company perhaps. Second, the area isn't well suited for these types of expeditions. The cobblestones are a constant threat to the ankles and sidewalks are nonexistent on many of the tiny streets. The hordes of tourists will stop most unexpectedly to look at a map or a site. They seem to have the uncanny ability to wander not in a straight line, but in a zig-ing and zag-ing path that is undoubtedly always in your way. They also don’t travel in orderly groups, but in clumps, preferably three or four abreast to ensure that the sidewalk is completely blocked. The vehicle traffic… I will not even begin to describe the nightmare that is Roman traffic. Let me just generalize and say that the traffic laws here are always "optional" and are loosely, very loosely, interpreted by the locals.

Despite all of these setbacks, I scoped out a route while Josh and I were on a walk the night before that I thought might be acceptable for a run. I left our house and skirted around the Coliseum, where the sidewalks are fairly wide and steady, to get to the Circus Maximus. The Circus Maximus is just like it sounds, a big circle. It was the site of ancient chariot races (think "Ben Hur"). Now it is big open field with a few lanes of circular track, perfect for a run! For the spiritual running types, it was fun to think of the essence of the place as I made my way around the track. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, Romans were racing chariots around this track! I am going to ask Josh to upload "Chariots of Fire" on my iPod to really get the full effect on my next trip there. I think it will supplement current my Neil Diamond and Kanye West mix nicely (hey, whatever motivates you).

Even more exciting to me than the historical significance was the presence of a familiar species of man, “the runner”. There weren't a ton of them, maybe only ten or so, but the site of fellow runners was very comforting to me as we all trotted our way around the dusty circle. They weren't American tourist runners either, I am sure they were part of the small group of bona fide Roman runners. The dark socks and spandex give them away every time. A guaranteed way to tell if a man is not American is by seeing him in any type of spandex apparel. I was running with real European runners! How exciting, and very euro chic I think.

All in all, a very good run. About a 30 minute trip door to door, so I will have to make another loop or two around the circle or expand my route to add in some mileage, or kilos as we Europeans say!

As for an official running status report for my likeminded pedi-friends (Christine, Jamie and Pa), I felt pretty good. It mostly was just nice to get out there again, a little soreness the next day in the ankles, a memento from the sidewalks, but nothing that would put me on the bench. I'll need to add in some distance, and there are plenty of hills to train on as well. Although, Pa, none of them are nearly like the Peter's township mountain!

Charlie was pretty tired afterwards...

Caffe

A quick entry today, but an important discovery. The two biggest ways in which I think I have changed since moving to Rome. One, I have what I would call a tan. All of the endless hiking back and forth across the city in the Mediterranean sun has at least one advantage (except, of course for the cancerous UV rays). I think it is quite a lustrous bronze, although the Italians still comment that I should frequent the beach more. Still, due to my Germanic roots, even a little tan is an exciting thing for this girl.

Second, I arrived in Rome three weeks ago, and started drinking coffee two weeks and six days ago. I am now hooked enough to long for the caffeinated beverage if I have not yet partaken in the habit for that day. In fact, every day during the break in my Italian lessons, I am almost drooling in anticipation of my coffee fix. I started out strong and went straight to the hard stuff, the "caffe" or espresso. I started with it because it is basically a shot and I could slug it down without bothering to taste it. I moved on to the two or three gulp, cafe freddo. This is basically cold coffee and sugar, very good for a hot afternoon. Today I had my first cappuccino, a regular cup of coffee, steamed milk and my own addition, three packs of sugar. I had been reacting to the coffee pretty well. I felt more awake and alert afterwards and generally liked the Italian tradition of ordering from the barista and sipping it at the bar. Today I experienced a different reaction; apparently the cappuccino packs a bit more of a powerful punch. I spent the rest of the mid-morning and early afternoon on "pins and needles", nervous, anxious and all around just not myself. Will this reaction lessen with time, experience and practice? There is only one way to find out! Perhaps someday I will figure out how to use the Italian coffee maker that was supplied with the apartment.

Sabato Solo

With plans thwarted for a day trip to Florence, today I had to fend for myself. Around lunchtime yesterday Josh was put on a different project at work that meant working most, if not all of the weekend. Although frustrating at first and disappointing, we both were looking forward to a little excursion, it is important to remember that Josh’s job is the reason that I live an hour and a half from Florence that would make a day trip possible in the first place. So, when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. In Rome, life hands you grapes, so you make wine! Today, my glass of Chardonnay was a visit to one of Rome’s newest tourist attractions, the Museo dell’Ara Pacis. Or the Museum of the Peace Alter. Thanks to the book that my friend Jamie gave me before I left, I was anxious to see the Ara Pacis, constructed in 13BC! It is a giant shrine basically and on its walls are some of the best preserved friezes with actual images of August and Agrippa!! Very exciting characters to us Romans! The Alter itself is a site to see, but making the trip even more interesting is the new museum literally built around the ancient site. The museum is the first building to have been built in central Rome since the fall of fascism. It’s ultra-mondern design of glass and smooth, sleek white walls stick out like the sore thumb of an ancient Roman Gladiator next to all of the crumbling ruins of the rest of the neighborhood, including the alter itself inside.

I do believe the architecture folk would call this an interesting juxtaposition. If you still wouldn’t care to see this clash of time, to further entice one to visit, was the current exhibition housed inside, “Valentino in Roma: 25 Years of Fashion”. Hundreds of wonderful Valentino dresses are on display, along with sketches and notes from the design guru himself. All of this combined for quite a spectacle, you have a barn of modern architecture sheltering an ancient pagan alter, kept company by hundreds of gold painted manikins wearing haute couture from the 60’s and 70’s. Now, my academically enhanced friends, that is jux-ta-freaking-pos-i-tion to the third power, don’t you think?

Part of the exhibit included a collection of Valentino dresses worn by celebrities. It was fun to see in person the dress that Halle Berry won her academy award in, a cute little number that was once owned by Princess Di and my favorite, a beautiful white beaded gown worn by Miss Audrey Hepburn, the room was oozing with glamour! It was a dream of any little girl who ever played with a Barbie.

The alter was astonishing, you could peer right up and see the face of Augustus! I think I bit of the majesty of the alter is taken away by the building. The alter is pretty snug inside of its contemporary house, so you never get a chance to feel the vast space around the alter that was part of its original character.

The building, which I am told was quite controversial in Rome, is nice to see as well. Designed by one Richard Meier, whom I am sure we have a book on somewhere. I shall not provide any architectural critique so as not to offend my loyal archi-type readers!

Good Things Come in Small Boxes… And to Those Who Wait

Both of these cases are true for me. After waiting what seemed to be a lifetime plus eternity, finally finally finally I picked up a tiny, indiscrete box from the realtor. It contained, well, basically, the world.

At least my world. Oh blessed sap of interconnectivity, I rejoice in your ultimate access to knowledge and am humbled by your small stature yet mighty influence (sorry, I’ve reading my favorite Helprin novel for the 4th time)!

To install a DSL modem, register it and for everything to actually work is a miracle of the divine for sure. Instruction manuals in English are confusing enough, let alone in Italian, thank god for the pictograms. Actually, perhaps this current technical feat was easier because I didn’t even bother to pretend to read the directions; I just kept pushing buttons until my hotmail worked. A very macho approach I think. Actually, after pushing buttons and crossing wires on and off for six hours yesterday, it was Josh who came home and was finally able to solve the last piece of the mystery which allowed us to connect.
Today is a good day in Rome! Since I now have the sweet sweet internet, I have many things to read, emails to write and time to waste ruining my eye site and developing carpal tunnel. So that my readers are not disappointed, I have decided to offer you blog fans a real treat today, a special guest writer!!
Here is an email from my good friend Matt, who decided that I wasn’t posting enough, so he created an addition to one of my previous musings on banks in Rome. Don’t be confused, he even went as far to write the entry in first person:

“I left all of your blog readers with, "I'm safe and with my husband and my cat. I can't ask for much more than that." But, when I awoke the following morning, and turned my head left and right to gain my bearings following the exhausting trip from the United States, I realized that I, my husband, and my cat had all spent the night in what could have been mistaken for a large cardboard box. It barely had space for the 12 bags that I had brought, and seemed like perhaps Charlie had taken more of a liking to the corner, and my lazy husband had simply ignored it for the past 4 weeks. So, I set out to find a new apartment.
Before starting the joyous search on Craigslist.com, romecityapartments.com, romerents.com, and contenitoreDiCartoneRoma.it
, we decided that we should establish ourselves in Rome by putting some money in a local bank. So we set out on foot, and the first one we came to, and probably the most popular in Rome was the Banco di Roma. It seemed like a nice place, the tellers were all dressed in Armani suits, and it looked like a reliable place to deposit some Euros. But being prudent Americans, we thought we would take a look elsewhere to see what the other area banks had to offer.
Down the street was the Banco di Napoli. Upon entering we smelled something unpleasant. It did not seem to effect anyone else in the bank, which was pretty busy on the Thursday afternoon we were there. When getting to the front of the line and speaking with a teller (all of whom were male) the teller must have noticed that we smelled something. As much as we were trying to hide the fact that this odor was foul, we were unable deceive the teller. He handed us a brochure, as if to explain about the smell. It was completely in Italian, of course, but on it we saw Mount Vesuvius erupting, and lava flowing down its sides directly into the front door of what appeared to be the headquarters of the Banco di Napoli. Aparently they have not been able to get rid of the smokey smell in the past 1,928 years.
The next bank we came to was the Banca Popolare del Verona. When we walked into this place, we fell in love. The atrium of the bank was gorgeous, absolutely luxourious. The staff was friendly and comforting. We immediately decided that this was the bank we were going to put our money in. We had seen two other popular banks, and they paled in comparison to this one. So we were able to speak to the manager, and sat down at the most beautiful desk you had ever seen, to open our account. In Italy, they make you fill out a form with the name and address for the new account, so we did. Josh wrote Joshua E. Mackley, and I wrote Kimberly J. Mackley, we put Josh's work address since we were about to move, and handed the form over to the bank officer. The officer, in the gentlest, warmest way possible shook his head at us, and began to explain something in the most beautiful, but unintelligible Italian we had ever heard. We simply could not understand what he was saying, but it was so beautiful we sat there for a minute listening as if in a trance. After a few minutes of explanation (the Italians can go on talking for ever) he resorted to charades. Still unable to understand the weirdly seductive gestures he was making towards us, we simply put up our arms and said "no lo so!" Frustrated, but still gentle, the officer took the form from us, crossed out a few parts, and scribbled in some other information. Satisfied, he smiled, and walked off with the form telling us, "un minuto." Quicker than we expected, the gentleman came back with some official forms declaring that we had opened the account. At the top of the form we read the names Romeo E. Mackley and Giulietta J. Mackley. We tried to point out that this was incorrect, but the bank officer was not listening to our complaint. Out of fear of having to produce identification to withdraw from the account, and having no ID that said Romeo E. or Giulietta J. Mackley, we sadly left and went back to the drawing board.
Down the street, around the corner from the main street Via Del Corso, we turned down a shadowy street the size of a back alley in the United States, and found the entrance to another bank, the Banca di Nuovo Girsi. Inside was only one teller, although we could see a door partially open in the back and some activity taking place in the room. The teller greeted us with a smile and was wearing a black shirt with a white tie and fedora. He was smoking a cigar, and looked at us as if to say, "how ya' doin'". He seemed strangely familiar, and when we said hello to him, he asked if he knew us from somewhere. Apparently he has a brother named Vinny, and thought that he might had seen us last time he was in the States on a train around Trenton. He spoke English with a heavy accent, but was understandable. He seemed like a friendly guy. Lowering his voice to tell us a secret, he warned us that Trento, Italia was much Trenton, New Jersey, a place that you probably did not want to go. On the side of the Fiat factory in Trento, he said, is a big sign that reads, "marche di trento, gli introiti del mondo". Then before we could ask him about a checking or savings account, we were startled by the sound of silenced gunshots in the back room. Fearful for our lives, we were frozen and unable to move. Out came Vinny from the back room with blood spattered on his white shirt. His fedora was slightly out of place, and he calmly told his brother Guido that he had taken care of it for him. Fearing that we would get fish in our monthly bank statements from this place, we calmly backed away, never turning our back on Vinny or Guido, and rushed down the street to what we hoped to be our final destination.
The next bank that we came to was huge. It was all white, and very modern. On the inside, the floors were brilliant travertine marble, and there was quite a number of white square-sectioned columns and glass. We even noticed that as we approached the bank, there was a big plaza in front, which was very unusual for a bank. ...
Banca Fascista di Como”