Caffeine, Cafes, Crypts, Cappuccini, and Cervidae...

Most people probably don't group coffee and mortality into the same blog post but I like to include coffee in all things.

Glossary of today's blog:

Capuchin - An order of Franciscan Friars

Cappuccini - Italian spelling of Capuchins

Cappuccino - Espresso coffee with a dollop of milk and foam

Cappuccini - A plurality of Espresso coffees with a dollop of milk and foam.

Cervidae - Latin name for deer family

The Crypt of the Capuchin Monks is something that I have wanted to see for a long time. It is under the church of Santa Maria della Concezione on Via Veneto. When last in Rome, Jess, Landon and I tried to go. Though incredibly disappointed that we couldn’t go back in 2007, I have never forgotten that the Crypt is closed on Thursdays.

In Europe, there is a different attitude toward the dead and reliquary. I have always supposed that had something to do with the crypts. Americans seem to be afraid of bones. When I think of skeletons, I don't think of something jumping out 'to get me' which seems to be the only contemporary association with corpses and skeletons. I am not a fan of horror films and I don't particularly enjoy the macabre but I am not unduly anxious about seeing bones or confronting the idea of death. Probably because I've confronted this idea before.

One of the few things that Jessie and I actually had on our agenda was a visit to the Cappuccin Crypt. The other things were the Aventine and cappuccini at S. Eustaccio. It was then that we discovered that cappuccini are so named for the color of the robes of the Cappuccin monks. Every morning (late morning, afternoon, and later afternoon) when I drink a cappuccino, I look into my cup as I gently swirl the coffee. It is the same gently swirling brown of the robes of the Cappuccini as they walk through Piazza Barberini.

The Cappuccins themselves took their name from their robes. The hood of the tunic, which they are allowed for bad weather though they are not allowed socks, is called a capuce.

The last time the Capuchins moved churches, in the 1500s, they also moved the bones of their bretheren from the cemetery. This is where the idea of organizing the bones developed (I think). Over 4000 monks are represented in five of the six chambers under S. Maria della Concezione. The first room is an allusion to the Christian concept of Resurrection with a capital R. I think it’s worth mentioning because it presents the idea of the crypt and why it isn’t considered macabre. One is confronted by bones completely out of typical context. Radii and ulnae appear vulnerable and spindly as they create wall medallions. Light fixtures are carefully wired vertebral columns with ribs protruding and a skull above. A painting of Jesus commanding Lazarus to rise from the dead tells the viewer, surrounded by the earthly fragments of the departed, that death is inescapable but another life is attainable through salvation.

The next room is devoid of bones as it is a chapel and mass was, though no longer, actually held here. It is lined with marble plaques with Latin inscriptions. I was quite puzzled because I couldn’t read the plaques. Then I realized that this was Medieval Latin and I read Archaic...it was all Greek to me. Jessie noticed a peculiarity in the corner of the room. It is the heart of Maria Felice Peretti in a marble box. She was the grand-neice of Sixtus V (which I believe to be the best name ever) and her heart is with the Cappuccini at her request. The marble inscriptions that pave the floor are worn down to pure white. The inscriptions are no longer legible. I recalled the slate markers of the old cemeteries in Boston that had so impressed me of the corruption of earthly remnants. Exposed to the weather, the gravestones preserve for the living the reminder that attempts to venerate the dead expire and fall into anonymity.

The next room is literally filled with skulls. It is skull upon skull and they shape an homage to Classical Greek temple architecture with a columnar/pedimental facade. Jessie is a counter...stairs are her specialty. She got to work on the skulls and stopped because the number was staggering. Honestly, I don’t think I want to know how many human skulls can fit in one room. That made me wonder if I am more susceptible to our cultural rejection of seeing bones. I think skulls are harder for us to see. When Mark Twain visited the Capuchin Crypt, he told the following story:

“Then [the good natured monk who accompanied us] took a skull and held it in his hand, and looked reflectively upon it, after the manner of the grave-digger when he discourses of Yorick [Hamlet].

‘This,’ he said, ‘was Brother Thomas. He was a young prince, the scion of a proud house that traced its lineage back to the grand old days of Rome well night two thousand years ago. He loved beneath his estate. His family persecuted him; persecuted the girl, as well. They drove her from Rome; he followed; he sought her far and wide; he found no trace of her. He came back and offered his broken heart at our altar and his weary life to the service of God. But look you. Shortly his father died, and likewise his mother. The girl returned, rejoicing. She sought every where for him whose eyes had used to look tenderly into hers out of this poor skull, but she could not find him. At last, in this coarse garb we wear, she recognized him in the street. He knew her. It was too late. He fell where he stood. They took him up and brought him here. He never spoke afterward. Within the week he died. You can see the color of his hair –faded, somewhat – by this thin shred that clings still to the temple. This,’ [taking up a thigh bone,] ‘was his. The veins of this leaf in the decorations over your head, were his finger-joints, a hundred and fifty years ago.”

The Innocence Abroad, Chapter XXVIII

I am less struck by the love story (I am about as unromantic as humanly possible) as I am by the stories that are represented by the bones of all the men in these chambers. Visiting a cemetery where granite markers are laid in an orderly fashion is no match for being inundated by bones in every direction, laid prettily but overwhelmingly in cherubic ensemble and floral motif. Twain seems to be more struck by the idea that the bones were identifiable to the guide (which may or may not be so). In any case, the bones are ‘chicken-wired’ in place these days. The chambers are open and without guides and no one picks up the skulls anymore.

There is also a room of pelvises and it was quite interesting to see them fanned out. I remember that Catherine di Medici’s pelvic bones were practically worn flat from having 13 children. Obviously, these pelvises were quite well formed.

The fifth room was remarkable for two things: the allusion to Greek Architecture with column and pediment and the Franciscan coat-of-arms. Either I’ve never seen the Franciscan coat-of-arms before or I’ve never seen it made with actual arms. It’s like a skull and crossbones except one of the crossbones is the arm of Christ and the other is the arm of St. Francis but it is still in its sleeve. Also, there is no skull but there are some rather nice jawbones in this room.

The only thing that I found to be disturbing was located in the last chamber. There were several tiny skeletons, obviously of children, but I cannot find why they are there. One of them hangs from the ceiling with a bone scythe in one filangilar cluster and a set of bone scales in the other, indicating that death is coming and then judgment. If you are up on your Italian (not Latin), you’ll easily be able to read the sign that sums up the crypt: 

Quello che voi siete noi eravamo, quello che noi siamo voi sarete. 

 What you are now, we were; what we are now, you will be.

Mark Twain wasn’t the only famous writer to visit the Capuchin Crypt. The Marquis de Sade wrote about it as well. I think he said that he never saw something that struck him so. Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote about it in The Marble Faun but I don’t really know what he said. I usually think of Little Edie from Grey Gardens when I think about The Marble Faun because she says that the boy Jerry looks ‘terribly like The Marble Faun’ and I wonder if she ever really saw the faun of Praxiteles. I haven’t but I suppose I will make it up to the Capitoline (where I think it is held) at some point.

Speaking of fauns and Cappuccini, I’ve both heard and read about the exceptionally amazing coffee at the eponymous cafe of S. Eustaccio. I am always looking for a new coffee joint since I don’t like to go to the same place more than once a day and I drink about four or five on a week day.

I start at home with a Bialetti stove-top espresso maker and a Bodum milk frother. I read the news and look over my homework around 6:00.   I run off to Italian class where I start to nod off around 10:30. I  trickle downstairs to get a quick cappuccino from Sergio at Glub (yes, it is called Glub).  Sergio asks me out dancing and I accept since I know he has no intention of actually taking me dancing and since I have no intention of actually going.  He prefers to Rumba and I prefer to Tango.  I suppose we could Salsa as a sort of common ground but I don’t think that either of us is fond of compromise.  Next is my Urban History class.   After that, I eat a sandwich as I cross Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II to get a not-so-great cappucino out of a self-serve machine.  I only do this because it comes in a to-go cup (portar via) and I have to get back in a hurry for Latin at 14:00.  After Latin is Travel Writing in Italy from the 18th Century.  The only reason why I don’t fall asleep in that class is because it is very participatory. Or at least it is for me.  No one else ever seems to volunteer information.   I don’t like to be the one talking in class all the time but I’ve read a lot of travel writing on Italy and you all know that I am never short on opinions.   I get out of school at 18:30 and then I’m able to leave the area of Piazza dell’Orologio and find a more leisurely cappuccino with a book or a companion.

This famous coffee of S. Eustaccio was a bit of an annoyance. I had read about it in a dozen different places. It was touted as the best caffe in Rome, better than Tazza d’Oro. As it turns out, there are three cafes in Piazza S. Eustaccio and each have well-known patrons who swear that one of the three is the best in all of Rome. I have now tried each and think that none are as good as Sergio’s cappuccini downstairs at Glub. Okay, maybe that’s a bit harsh. But I am far from a coffee connoisseur. I just know that the cappuccino from the dispenser isn’t great. Once I get to great coffee though, I can’t really say which is greater. Latin has taught me more about comparative and superlative adjective forms than I’d like to know. Technically speaking, I could use rather great instead of greater whereas very great would mean greatest. But then I would just sound like an ass.  

If you don't know the story of Sant Eustachio, you can read it here.  There is a whole district in Rome that is named after the church here and the emblem featuring the Cervidae stag with the vision of Christ between his horns is found on the plaques of the district but more importantly, on the yellow mugs of Bar Sant Eustachio.  Thought I love the egg-shaped man who shuffled over to my table with a tumbler of cappuccino at the cafe across the street, I believe that Bar Sant Eustachio is THE place that most people rave about.  It is worth stopping by...since it is near the Pantheon and all.

Adventures and such

I talk a lot about the Pantheon because I’m slightly obsessed.  Even Jessie says that if it had a bathtub, it would be her idea of a perfect structure.  But once you’ve seen it, you think If I could only see the Pantheon while it is raining…

My good friend and confidant, Marietta, says this every time I mention the Pantheon.  Jessie and I were speculating that after having seen the rain reverently falling through the oculus, now we are forced to think If I could only see the Pantheon while it is snowing…

Jessie and I had a little joke that whatever you may be doing in Rome, you’d just drop it and run to the Pantheon if it started snowing. 

It’s been raining lots and hard.  I was happy to have my rainboots and two coats, one for me and one for Jess.  I was making breakfast and had the shutters open and Jessie said,

" It sure is raining hard."

I looked up.

" That’s not rain, that’s snow. Fuck me sideways, it is snowing in Rome!"

I do not generally condone leaving dishes in the sink (I bet you thought I was going to say that I do not generally condone swearing).  But there are some things that are just such occasions that they warrant immediate action.  I quickly threw on five layers of clothing and we rushed out into the fresh white world. 

 

New snow in a city is always pretty.  It’s like that in NY and Boston as well.  Fresh powder falls softly, dusting Fiat 500s, the Italian stone pines, Renaissance porticoes and Baroque flourishes.  Ours were some of the first footprints in the snow.  The uneven streets of Rome are often difficult even without snow sticking to our boots.  The undulation of the cobblestones was evident at first as it made a geometric pattern of snowfall.  But after a few minutes of the heavy stuff, slipping in the street would be quite an easy feat.  So hurried as we wished to be, we carefully made our way down to the tram stop. 

 

[Em]

  

[Jess]

A small child, approximately two years old and of indeterminate sex due to the overzealous bundling by the parent, shouted at us in delight. 

"Regazze!" and lobbed a snowball at Jessie.  

It was one of the most hilarious things I’ve ever seen.

In a frustrating manner that was not at all surprising, the tram never arrived.  I’m sure there was a reason.  Like the driver wanted to stay home and play in the snow with his children.  Or it could have simply been that Rome does not operate in the snow.  We waited at the stop, agonizing over the minutes ticking by.  More and more people began to accumulate and I realized that the situation was only worsening.  We decided to hoof it.

Walking as quickly as we could, given the conditions, it still took about an hour to get up to the Pantheon. 

The snow had subsided. 

We stood, cold and disappointed on the marble floor, wondering what to do next. 

Suddenly, I didn’t care.  I elbowed Jessie, "Do you realize that we just saw it snow in Rome?!"

 

 [Unknown Dome]

It probably won’t snow again while I’m here.  It only does every decade or so.  And there hasn't been accumulation since 1986... 

But another time my visit will coincide with snowfall and I’ll be sure to blog about it then.

 

Just to prove a point, the day after the snow, Jessie and I went on a picnic.  You see, we are weird…and so is the weather.  We have been planning routes, itineraries, and must-sees for our parents who will be coming to visit next month.  Jessie says that her top three things in Rome are: the Pantheon, seeing Rome from the basilica of St. Peter’s in the Vatican (this involves countless stairs, even SHE can’t remember how many), and ‘looking through the keyhole.’ 

We decided to walk up the Aventine Hill to the keyhole because walking there is something we’ve never done before.  It was a gorgeous day.  I happened to bring sandwiches (but only for food) and we crossed the Tiber, past Santa Maria de Cosmedin (which houses the Bocca della Verita) and started up the hill.  On the left was a splendid view of the Palatine.  There were two churches with small gardens on the Aventine and so we stopped for a view of Trastevere and a sandwich.  I swear, a sandwich of rough Italian bread, from a loaf as big as my head, with nothing but butter and prosciutto, is the best sandwich ever.  There were quite a few orange trees in the garden but all the oranges within the range of the average arm’s reach had been already plucked. 

 

I know lots of anecdotal bits of history but I am not a great student.  I know names like Borromini and Bernini and have vague ideas about their contribution to the Arts.  Piranesi was a name I knew in theory but I was surprised to discover that he was not an architect.  Then why on earth do I know his name?

Giovanni Battista Piranesi contributed much to the body of architectural history in his etchings.  Famous for his 18^th century etchings of landmarks such as the Pyramid of Cestius and the Arch of Trajan, he was known for realizing the ‘potential’ of ancient ruins, recreating it at times.  He has only left us one architectural work.  You can find it at the Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta.  

This Piazza is home to what is officially known as the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta but for everyday purposes it is called the Sovereign Military Order of Malta or Knights of Malta.  SMOM has been caring for the poor and less-fortunate for almost a thousand years and after the First Crusade, it became officially Catholic.  It once had sovereign territory in Malta but Napoleon retook the land. The SMOM now resides on the Aventine Hill.   The main difference between such non-Italian entities operating within Italy as the SMOM and the Vatican, I can best explain as similar to the United Nations since they both are exempt from Italian laws.  Both the Vatican and the SMOM have their own stamps but the Vatican is a country and has its own domain name (.va) whereas the SMOM does not, nor does it actually claim soil since it is an extraterritoriality.  I thought that extraterritoriality was a really awesome word.

The reason why people care about going there, besides Piranesi, is to look through the keyhole.  I had already done it.  But I went to do it again because it is WITHOUT A DOUBT one of the most amazing things I’ve ever experienced.  

The keyhole at the Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta was no less stunning the second time around.  The concept is just so crazy.  A military tank stands on permanent guard (it feels very strange) in an otherwise quietly beautiful and somewhat ornate piazza of white marble by this aforementioned Piranesi fellow who also remodeled the interior church, Santa Maria del Priorato, sadly off limits without special appointment (and who also happens to be entombed there).

 

[via www.imageandnarrative.be]

You stand, with your feet solidly on Roman soil.  You cup your hand around the brass keyhole in a green gate.  And through this tiny porthole, you see a tunnel of foliage, this greenery is in the Sovereign State of the Knights of Malta.  But through that tunnel of green, you see the perfectly framed dome of St. Peter’s in the Vatican, itself a city-state.  Three countries are represented in this one peculiar and spectacular experience.  It reminds me that Italian has a better command of language since this is the exact moment where it isn’t ‘seeing’ the view but rather experiencing the elements that make this view so extraordinary.  Seeing, yes, there is a beautiful vista.  But there is also the fact that you are looking through a literal keyhole, that you are standing outside, looking inside, and looking through...and that you are looking across theoretical edges, boundaries, and distinctions.  Italians would use the verb ‘to sense’ rather than ‘to see.’  I concur.

 [The Grand Tour, 2007 (that's Em in Blue)]

 

 [Whit 2007]

  

[Marietta 2007]

 

 [Jess 2007]

SPOILER ALERT: this is the view 

I’ve searched my books on Rome in the hopes of finding some great literary gem that describes the absolute fantasy and wonder of this spot.  The best thing I found was a paper written by a PhD candidate at Yale.

Like the tombs along the Via Appia, the piazza sets a place apart from the city and designates it as a symbolic locale. The piazza lies within the city, but it conjures up this city selectively, through recourse to representation, reference, and allusion. The result is a pictorialism by which architecture invokes existing artifacts through images of them, a process allegorized in the entrance screen's famous keyhole, through which one views a perfectly-framed, but disproportionately large image of S. Pietro's, itself an out-sized icon of Rome. Just as this image is mediated through the architectural frame, so the piazza mediates the site's history through visual emblems that call its own past to mind. With the piazza, however, the citation is not direct: the historical artifact is passed through representation before it is returned to material form. The piazza is thus a historical mise-en-scéne  in which " Rome " is neither wholly imaginary not wholly real. The piazza frames, in short, an idea of Rome.

Small, I. Polarités. Piranesi's Shape of Time. Image [&] Narrative [e-journal], 18 (2007).

The Aventine is quiet.  It is residential.  There are churches, little schools, and houses.  But there is quite a nice hotel, The San Anselmo, away from the bustle and just steps from the Knights of Malta.  I’m wondered what it would be like to stay there.  Being outside of the City Center has its merits and one can always take a taxi into town, or walk down the hill to the subway station.  Being able to look through that keyhole every morning would be worth something. 

The piazza really is quite lovely and deserves lots of photos.  But just off the square, something caught my eye.  It completely captivated me.  Though it was nice to finally read and learn about Piranesi, I didn’t much care for his flourishes or white marble.  What I saw was just a turquoise door and a Madonna.  But it was an exercise in quiet simplicity that I hope I never forget.

Monday?

Hello Lovies,
I'm senza computer again so I hope to post on Monday with an updated Macbook.  Happy weekend to you all! 

The PARIS Posting

[Arc de Triomphe]

Paris is a magnificent city.  I never knew that it was my Mom's favorite city until a few years ago when she remarked, "Paris is what every city hopes to be."  She is absolutely right.  

[Saint Germain]

Paris is always Paris, which is to say that it is lovely and infuriating and all together delightful.  I have now been three times and each time is strange and beautiful, foreign and yet, I am completely at home.  There is so much to the history of Paris, the Haussmann Boulevards, and meandering streets of the Latin Quarter, the French philosophy in regards to its own architecture and monuments, plus, of course, the food.  I recently came across this 'stunning' visual and thought that it is a rather good introductory tour of Paris.  

I was fortunate enough to be invited to Paris on a 'work' trip.  Shelley, who plays the Laurel & Hardy game with me, and I tripped off to Maison & Objet (the international Paris Gift Show) to order some lines for the store, the Marais for some steak frites, and to Bon Marché to remember what a REAL department store is like.  

[Hotel Saint Thomas in Saint Germain]

I have previously recounted my travel from Rome to Paris.  Once I had arrived at our sweet hotel in Saint Germain and had thé with Shelley, I was sufficiently revived and excited to run about the town. 

[via The Sartorialist]

Yes, women in Paris do look like this.  I don't believe in taking people's photos and posting them online without their consent so this photo is just a link to The Sartorialist.  However, I do have a few very specific things to say about Paris and fashion just briefly.  There is NOTHING like Paris for fashion.  At least, I've never seen anything like it.  Not even in Rome.  The little children here are dressed to perfection and they wear it as though they came up with the outfits themselves.  The men are impossibly handsome and well-tailored.  I, who do not like to show emotions in public, have stood pigeon-toed with my jaw slack and openly stared at the most gorgeous men I've ever seen.  Granted, it was men's fashion week and there were models aplenty.  But in all seriousness, there are reasons why Paris is 'that way' about fashion.  As Whit has often noted, Carine Roitfeld, editor of French Vogue, once said (in her French accent), '(H)Ugg boots are (h)ugly' and I think that sums up the Parisian philosophy.  Stepping out of my taxi, I saw a tall young woman with pale blond hair, dressed to the nines in black and wearing not a brush of make-up except for two dashes of red lipstick.  Ah yes, I'm in Paris...

[Quintessential Paris]

We tromped down to the Bon Marché and around the area, popping in and out of small shops, looking for inspiration and gathering a sense for the store and what we might be looking for at the Maison gift show.  Le Bon Marché is commonly known as the first department store.  It is first in my estimation of what a department store should be.  I know that everyone loves Galeries Lafayette or Printemps but my money is on Le Bon Marché.  Partly because it is on the Left Bank and partly because you can buy millinery supplies on the sixth floor...I do really love hats.

['Guilty Brotherhood' Billboard]

We dined at Relais de l'Entrecote on rue Saint-Benoît which only serves one meal: steak frites.  I’m sure you already guessed that.  First there is pan rustique and a little salad.  Then out come tender sirloin steaks, dripping with a green ‘secret’ sauce and a side of ‘French’ fries.   The curious green of the sauce really had me guessing.  I would have said that it was olive oil, whipped and thickened with white wine vinegar, minced thyme (not tarragon even though I'm sure you are thinking Béarnaise), green peppercorn and something else which I just couldn’t quite identify.  Le Monde, the main newspaper in Paris, reports that it is a butter sauce with white dijon, pressed chicken livers, and both fresh thyme and thyme flowers.  

"Ses ingrédients sont le foie de volaille, le thym frais et la fleur de thym, 

la crème fleurette, la moutarde blanche, le beurre et l'eau, le sel, le poivre."

Since the owners of the restaurant have dismissed the report as false, it simply must be true.  Then just as I had finished, out came second helpings.  I am a good sport so I worked through it.  Despite only featuring one dinner, they had a dessert menu of at least ten.  I chose chocolate profiteroles and a peaches with vanilla ice cream something or other that blew my mind. We had been seated immediately since Shelley and I dine early.  By the time we were finishing our second steaks, the line to the door had snaked down the street.  That's the thing about dining in Paris.  Many places don't take reservations and since no patron is ever so rudely abrupted as to be presented with l'addition, it is nearly impossble for a restaurant to calculate turnover.  So places that take reservations will almost never assume that they can have more than one seating per evening.  As we watched the line grow from twenty minutes to forty, Shelley and I talked more leisurely, knowing that tomorrow, chances were that we would be the ones waiting in line.

The following day we scuttled out to Maison.  What a change from LA and NY.  Elaborate dream-like houses, small gardens, mod set-ups, every type of structure that could somehow display product had been implemented.  Photography was prohibited so there are no visuals but just follow along: the Tadé booth had a bathtub/fountain with running water and dry ice…and that booth was hardly worth mentioning. 

Unfortunately, the euro against the dollar doesn’t leave much available for us to actually order.  Even with Greece, Portugal, and Spain pulling down the value of the euro, those 'laggard periphery', as reported in last week's NY Times.  We ordered a few of our standard lines, (Lisa Corti) perused some that Shelley would be ordering in NY (Society), revisited some that we have previously carried (Oyuna), and picked up a few new and fun things.  But you’ll have to come into the store to find out what we got!  We stopped into say hello to John Derian but didn't order since it is more fun to order from his shop in NY.  Shelley and he are great friends so she was going the next week.

Saturday was my birthday.  Since the onset of adulthood, I have now spent more consecutive birthdays with Shelley as I have with any other person.  She, as always, ensures that I have a marvelous day.  As a gift, she took me to one of the oldest umbrella shops in Paris and I had the choice of any in the store or any that I could imagine, as they do custom work.  Out came the champagne and the Chocolate Lab to keep me company and help me decide….his name was Chocolat.  The store, Alexandra Sojfer, has been in business since 1834 and its venerable name and provenance was only confirmed by the fact that Suzy Menkes walked in while I was there.  She is one of THE most influential people in fashion today.  Though she maintains a somewhat low profile, she is easily recognizable by what can only be described as 'the bangs from ‘There’s Something About Mary.’'  Since she is the fashion editor for the International Herald Tribune, I though she was in Paris to cover Men’s Fashion Week.  I was surprised that her French was so flawless but now I know that she actually lives in Paris.  She did, however, write up Men's week and her report (glowing of Lavin) can be read here.  

 

[The Shop]

  

[Chocolat]

 

[Shell and Em]

Though I was instinctively drawn to a classic black and grey model with a silver handle, I decided on something slightly more interesting and a tiny bit quirky.  It really is my philosophy that classic is pleasing to the eye but I enjoy a dash of ingenuity to keep things from being too staid.  I chose a French blue, lined with chocolate brown (inspired by Chocolat, of course) with a uniquely curled bamboo handle.  It is absolutely divine.  

[Park in the Marais]

We hit up the usual targets like Galeries Lafayette, where I found a fun flannel smock/shirt for Whit.  After going to Le Bon Marché and Lafayette, I have to say that the most impressive things were really coming from Valentino.  Since he is headquartered in Rome (and I know exactly where) I decided not to even worry about looking at the divine skirts and the sweet tees that he was using in the RED Valentino collection.  Maison Martin Margiela does some really interesting things (I coveted a large white handbag) and Alaia's silhouette would REALLY suit my frame...sadly, I do not have $1500 for a day dress.  Or for anything, really.  Shelley and I discovered a new cashmere line that is not yet in the States (such a satisfying feeling).  We both made purchases and then jumped down to the Marais where we found more of the same line and both made additional purchases and had tea at Mariage Fréres.  Most people know and love Mariage Fréres' Marco Polo tea.  I admit that I bought some during my first trip to Paris and carried it on the plane with me.  I am slightly obsessed with the black tin canisters and I loved having them pop against the turquoise tile that lined my kitchen counter.  While Casablanca is typically my favorite 'ambiance' of tea, whilst in the tea room, I tried Marco Polo Rougé just to be fancy.  Lordy, but did I feel fancy.  We capped off the evening with savory crepes for dinner and then street crepes with Nutella for dessert.  You simply cannot go to Paris without walking along the Seine (a la 'An American in Paris') or having a crepe from a street vendor.  I recommend either citron avec sucre or Nutella.  I had never spent any time in Le Marais (sort of the 3rd and 4th arrondissements) but it is known for its quirky shops and vibrant nightlife.  What a delight...that's all I really have to say.

[THE macarons]

As I was leaving on Sunday, we just had a leisurely stroll into the original Ladurée on Rue Royale and since that’s all we had planned for the day, we decided to stay for tea.  I never have enough time in Paris to buy anything other than macarons.  So many other beautifully tempting delicacies line the old glass cases, but I know that the gorgeous colors of the mini macarons (they are really a macaron sandwich with ganaché in between) will last long enough to be sent back home to friends and family and the particular shade of celedon green of the Ladurée boxes elicit a certain squeal of delight in recognition.  In fact, the founders of Anthropolgie had their kitchen cabinetry painted to match a Ladurée box.  I've heard that 15,000 Ladurée macarons are sold every day.  Judging by the line (in the afternoon it is literally intolerable), I would not disagree.  Someday I’ll stay in Paris long enough for a little party in my apartment and buy a whole slew of cakes, teas, and small divinities.

[Whit and Em eating every available flavor of macarons, Paris 2007]

While tea at Mariage Fréres is more of a tea experience, tea at Ladurée is more of an experience.  It reminded me of having tea at The Plaza when I was 13.  I had realized that the grand piano was unlocked and decided to play Chopin in the Palm Court.  Okay, so I didn’t play the piano at Ladurée, but I did stop in at Shakespeare & Co. and play Chopin in the reading room upstairs.  

  [The Piano]

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast." -E. Hemingway

[The Reading Room]

Shakespeare & Co. is my absolute favorite bookstore anywhere ever.  It was once the Shakespeare & Co. of Sylvia Beech, who would loan Ernest Hemingway the rarely available English language books that he could not afford to buy in his twenties.  Thinking about this, I picked up a copy of A Moveable Feast, which is my favorite of his work.  Anaîs Nin also mentions Shakespeare & Co. but I bought her the last time I was in Paris.  As is my custom, I picked up a book for a friend as well.  Andrew mentioned that he wanted to re-read some Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (as a defiantly principled gesture towards Hollywood) so I sent him a copy of a compilation of short stories and novels called The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.  

[Rue de Faubourg]

Goyard was, thankfully, closed on Sunday but I hope that 'next time I'm in Paris' will be the time that I spring for the handbag of my dreams.   Goyard is one of the three oldest malletiers in Paris (among Le Malle Bernard and Louis Vuitton) and my particular favorite.  A white Goyard tote is one of the few 'luxury' items, and one of the few 'status' items, I've even been interested in owning.  Coincidentally, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had a custom Goyard trunk with a desk and space for a typewriter.

 [Shop window in Saint Germain]

Inspiration is typically hard to come by in window shops in the States.  When I think of amazing windows, I think of Simon Doonan or displays of grand scale, walloping budgets, and excess.  I enjoy all of those things, especially Simon Doonan.  One thing that Shelley and I were looking for in Paris was small-scale inspiration; one simple and extraordinary thing.  There are many charming shop windows.  There are the windows that display charming things and are thus made charming themselves.  Think cashmere baby lines and stuffed toy polar bears.  There are the windows that are incredible in their quirkiness; the shop that sells stuffed real polar bears (also crocodiles, rats, butterflies, and a sweet little fox).  But I like things that are really inventive.  So I loved this Bertoia chair, woven with men's silk neckties.  It was both charming and inventive.  Below, is the window that for me, 'made' the trip.  The premise is simple enough; two chairs with bits of them whittled down into only skeletal remains.  It was really quite extraordinary to see.  The joints were fully exposed.  The caning pulled away leaving only a faintly striped reminder on the wood of the seat.  The knots in the wood were shown as knobbly little knees, treated with care.  Between the two chairs lay the splinters and dust of what had once made them useful.

 [Gallery window in the Latin Quarter]

I'm not sure if the full force of the display will come across a photo.  In fact, I'm sure that it won't.  But one thing I really believe, is that merely looking at photos will not take the place of seeing things with your own eyes, discovering for yourself rather than looking threw the view that someone has framed for you.  It is one of the reasons that I do not like to take photos during momentous occasions.  I do not want to see life through a viewfinder.  I want to use my peripheral vision to pull in everything in the moment.  Sometimes I think that the only reason I take photos is to convince other people that by not traveling, they are missing something truly amazing.

[ via Wikipedia]

It was really another whirlwind weekend in Paris.  On my way back to Rome, I thought about how I never plan on going to Paris, but I always end up in Paris and it is never time enough.  I still have never been to the Rodin Museum.  I have never been in the catacombs of Paris, about which I know so much.  I have never been to the French Pantheon, which has always been on my list as I’m sure you’ve guessed.  And though walking across the Ile de la Cité and seeing Notre Dame de Paris is a sort of touchstone of being in Paris, I have never actually been inside.  But the thing about Paris is that no matter how many times you’ve been there, you’ll always want to go back.  There will never be enough visits.  Paris is always Paris. 

The Latest...

First, there was the Mac-crash that left me without.  Then, the arrival of my twin-idiot.  These two elements have thrown me slightly off of my blog-game.  Here is a sampling of what I've not been able to share with the 'sphere...

The 'crash seems to be a hardware issue so tomorrow I shall be taking the little albino down to the local Mac-servicing establishment and explaining in Italian that the little guy is still under warranty but will not cooperate.  My Latin partner has been kind enough to lend me a replacement whilst we are on a week break from school.  So I have some access to the interweb from my apartment and am back on email and such. 

Secondly, Jessie, whose Italian name is Alessia, arrived only yesterday.  I was happy to see her though, admittedly, I was incredibly excited to have just stalked and seen Rem Koolhaas.  He was not happy to have me take his photograph and I was not happy to have a camera that has such a lengthy delay in powering on. 

lousy photo of Rem

Jessie and I left the apartment in almost identical dress, though it was completely unintentional.  Traditionally, we dress as opposites, which is perhaps best explained by the shoes now residing in our little cubby of a closet: white leather ballet slippers and black leather converse.  Traveling seems to bring out our similarities, however, as we noted that we were both wearing Patagonia puffers, the same cut of western shirt, and the same boots.  Our presence about town was met with several 'sister' comments, in at least three languages, and I had forgotten what a stir we seem to make out here.  We tooled around our usual few stops with a little experiment at the Pantheon.  I was interested in discerning the direction of the slope of the marble floor.  I noticed that there are drainage holes in the center, directly under the occulus.  This didn't mesh with my remembrance of the scheme of the building as having a sloping floor for drainage purposes.  I am presiding over the assumption that the center holes were a modern addition, and without going into it (and boring ALL of you), I am happy to report that the floor is, indeed, sloped but more research must be done to allow for any conclusions.  We topped off the evening with a little bit of American cinema and "Up in the Air" and a walk home in the rain.  Now, snugly at home, we are reading bits of Roman lore, eating pasta, with Satie and raindrops providing an ambient charm, sharing Rome together for the third time.  

 

Jess on via della Pace

  

Em just off via Babuino

 

Em conducting the 'sloping floor' experiment with a tube of chapstick

our customary 'travel frog' photo

Disambiguation...

Please note that Whitney is the name both of my dear friend and of my father.  They both tend toward the parental so telling them apart is easiest by remembering that Dad signs his comments with his classic "143"

WHAT?!

Yes, it is sad but true...my laptop has crashed.  There will be no updates until I get it back from repair, and it won't even be seen until Tuesday.  So just quickly, I'll tell what is happening in the next week...

JESSIE IS COMING TO VISIT!

Come to think of it, I probably wouldn't have time to post anything anyways...she consumes most of my time. 

Le Macchine

I have long been wanting to approach the subject of automobiles.  It is, however, a daunting task. 

There are many cars in Rome.  They are all so tiny that they just look scattered across the roads like little toys.  Among them are Fiats, of course, and both the old and the new 500s (CinqueCentos) proliferate the environment.  There are old Citroens, new and old Mini Coopers plus wagons and limited editions, Peugots, and Rovers.  Cars that you forgot about like Lancias and cars you didn’t know existed like the Ford Ka.  The best-looking little bugger (besides the classics, of course) is, surprisingly, the Daihatsu Trevis.  It reminds me of a mini version of London Hackney TX models.  The most famous of Italian cars, the Ferrari, are seen at least a few times per week.  But I haven’t seen many exotics.  Just one Lotus and a dozen Porches.  Unmarked government cars tend to be BMWs or Audis.  The Carabinieri drive really awesome Defenders or Alfa Romeos.    

If you don’t have two wheels on a curb, then you haven’t parked.  Because the streets are so narrow, it is only polite to park on the curb.  The logic is furthered by reasoning that if there is no room for parking, one might just as well double park, park on the sidewalk, or throw the car in reverse for a few blocks until a spot is located.  If there is a parking lot with cars parked head-in along one side, another row of cars laid end-to-end will suddenly appear.  If a street is bidirectional, it is not uncommon to see cars parallel parked in an alternating sequence of nose-to-nose and end-to-end with a few head-in Smartcars, a CinqueCento double parked so that it blocks two scooters, a trash dumpster and someone’s front door or a Citroen parked between two trees on a sidewalk.  Similar to the cultural idea of personal space, there is a different standard in what is a ‘reasonable’ distance from other cars in a parallel parking situation or from people in a car/pedestrian situation.  Some of you may know my penchant for throwing whatever is in my hand (smoothies are best for this type of work) if I am narrowly missed as a pedestrian in a crosswalk by an automobile.  The same logic does not work here. 

It has always amused me that we feel comfortable in cars on the highway at literal break-neck speeds because there is a yellow stripe painted in the middle.  If you happen to be driving out on a country road or where lanes merge and the lanes separations are somewhat murky, you tend to slow down and be more cautious.  Again, the same logic does not work here.  It seems as though one just assumes that the lines are there and drives like Cruella De Vil.  The cars seem to manage and I assume it is because the drivers are used to the idea.  As a pedestrian, however, it is somewhat disconcerting.  

I walk at least two hours a day in a major urban center.  I look both ways but unless I’m on a major intersection, I don’t wait for a crosswalk or a light.  There doesn’t seem to be much of a reason.  Laws exist in Italy, but sometimes I’m not sure why.   I know when it’s safe, when people will stop, and when they won’t/can’t, like if it’s a bus or if the roads are wet.  I haven’t yet been hit by a car...knock on iron. 

Just to round out the vehicle situation without going into too much detail, the trash trucks are tiny and all the people who drive them and gather the trash are incredibly good-looking, young men AND women in their mid-thirties.  Scooters are everywhere and every demographic drives one, in every type of weather, with every type of passenger imaginable.  I saw a woman riding a scooter with her dog between her feet.  Not all scooters are Vespas and there are still those bizarre BMWs with the roll cages that look like this.  But by far, my favorite non-car vehicle is the Piaggio APE.  Someday, I will have one.  It will be purple.  I’ve always needed the love-child of a scooter and a semi-truck.

No, this is not Angels and Demons...

In Italian class today, we had a little field trip to the Pantheon (my favorite building in Rome) for a scavenger hunt. The following questions were posed to us (in Italian):

1. Why is the Pantheon so named?

2. What is the name of the Pantheon today?

3. What is the “eye” of the Pantheon?

4. In the Pantheon is the tomb of an important painter. Who is this painter?

5. In the Pantheon is the tomb of a woman named Margherita: who is she?

6. In the Pantheon is the tomb of importance for Italy; whose is it and why is it important?

7. Near the Pantheon is the only Gothic Medieval church in Rome. Locate the elephant and find the church.

8. The elephant a sculptural project of a famous Italian artist: who?

9. What is the name of the church near the elephant?

10. Inside the church is the tomb of a saint: whose?

11. There is another tomb of a painter: whose?

I admit that I did not know the last one but I could answer almost all of these from memory. They aren’t difficult but putting them into complete Italian sentences, differentiating the need for past perfect or imperfect tense and thinking of all the vocab on the fly was a little hard.

Feel like making any guesses?

Number 10 is a trick question: most of this saint is entombed at this church. There is another piece that resides, on permanent display, in Siena.

Women in Rome

It seems only fitting that I follow a post about men with a post about women.  Italian women are all stereotypes at the same time.  The only thing you didn’t know about them is that this season, everyone is wearing purple.  I fit in better than expected with my little purple Patagonia jacket. 

It is not formal to wear fur.  Matrons wear them daily with nude hose and Ferragamos, their hair expertly coiffed with a cane on one arm and a caretaker on the other.  The younger matrons wear their knee-length furs over street clothes to the grocery store.  Heeled sneaker-type footwear is common.  Usually a wedge in black leather.

The fashionistas, 20s-50s in age, wear form fitting short fur coats or belted puffers with tight jeans and true stillettos.  Stilettos are incredibly difficult to manage in Rome.  It’s the cobblestones, the deep gaps between them, the unevenness of the streets.  If you want to prove that you have mastered the art of 4-inch heels, this is the place to do it.  Here are my suggestions:

·      First, insure that you can adequately walk on your toes with absolutely no heel support.  If you can’t do this, don’t bother with heels. 

·      Choose a shoe with a platform.  This sounds crazy but there is a very specific reason.  Cobblestones tweek your feet unless you have the sturdiest of soles.  Even wearing comfortable walking shoes will wreak havoc on the balls of your feet.  When I’m not wearing boots here, I wear wooden-soled clogs.

·      This is another rule that I use in general but is most important here.  Any shoe is possible as long as it has a firm shank.  (There is a dirty joke in there somewhere but I’m not going to fish it out).  But think about it; if you are mostly walking on your toes, then you’ll want support for your instep.  The stronger the platform and the firmer the shank, the less work you’ll have to do and your heel will be carried along with minimal effort.

·      I don’t really believe this to be true in Rome but I do believe that in general it is safer, ankle-wise, to wear heels rather than clogs.  When wearing heels, not only am I more aware of my feet but anyone with me takes precautions and offers and arm.  Your weight may be less equally distributed but also the surface area is smaller and more deliberate.  In clogs or anything with a platform and no heel, one tends not to pay as much attention and stepping on the platform edge or dragging one’s feet is a likely occurrence.

I’ve seen some great handbags here.  Valentino is (surprise to no one) incredibly popular.  Both fakes and the real thing are often seen on the street.  But the most common accessory is the cell phone.  Italians often have as many as three cell phones.  They are not required to have the long contracts that are typical in the States and minutes can be topped up at every ATM.  In fact, school encourages us to get cell phones, which are cheap and easy to manage.  I, however, see no reason why any one should be calling me while I am out and about.  Call me when I’m at home on Skype.

By far, my favorite demographic to observe is the teen set.  Instead of just a purple scarf or hat like their older contemporaries, the younger Italian women will wear purple sneaks, typically Hogans, tight jeans and a wild-looking puffer coat, often in purple as well.  This puts me in their class.  Also, they seem to share my fondness for metallic footwear.  (I am rocking silver clogs at the moment).  Mostly, their coats tend to be short, similar to the fashionistas.   Just like in Paris, NO ONE wears Uggs here.  You can always spot the tourists by their shoes.  Either white cross-trainers with jeans, or Ugg boots.  (More on Uggs in the Paris post).

Because my shopping post ties in with my Paris post, I won’t say a lot about shopping in Rome for now.  I’m still waiting on the camera cord so I can post photos.  I will not ever be taking Sartorialist-type snaps because I believe strongly that individuals should not be subjected to blog posts with accompanying photographic evidence, though describing them (as in the Lady Gaga Bag Lady) is not yet beneath me. 

With the whole idea of women being verbally harassed by every passing male firmly implanted in our minds by the staff of the Study Center, I found it incredibly interesting to discover that four of the five women who work there are not of Italian origin.   They all came to Italy to study, met Italian men and never left. 

Most people don’t realize that prostitution is legal in Italy.  It isn’t regulated nearly as well as it is in places for which it is famous, think Amsterdam.  Being Italy, it does have some very specific and arbitrary laws.  Per esempio, one cannot be a prostitute in Siena if one’s name is Maria.  I suppose that would be sacrilegious in some way. 

Just when you are about to say that all of Italy is sexist and awful and somewhat demeaning, here’s a little sexist tidbit that you’ll enjoy.  I’m not sure if this is just for Rome or Italy in general but if a woman is taking a taxi alone after 9:30 pm, she is entitled to a 10% discount on the cab fare.  Italians think that all women should be able to get home safely.