Rome with the 'rents

Me and Mum looking at the Theater of Marcellus

Mum and Dud at the Flavian Amphitheater...sometimes 'people' call it the Colosseum.

Father

They snapped this photo at the Janiculum Hill...it's not every day one sees this sort of rainbow over Rome.

The Palazzo, cont...

Some houses are very grand.  I've seen them in books and Shelley's copies of World of Interiors.  There are lots of neat houses in Santa Barbara, cool houses in California in general.  Some fancy ones have been made into museums like Hearst Castle.  

Palazzo Massimo is really still a house.  It sits on a prominent stretch of Corso VE II and has a history that I can't even begin to describe.  I stood in line, waiting for the doors to open.  It was not yet ten o'clock.  Several clergy came to the gate and were admitted immediately.  A taxi arrived with three well-dressed personages, who were clearly invited, not simply gawkers like the rest of the crowd.  

Sometimes it is easy to forget that the huge Renaissance palaces, with their immense facades and seemingly impenetrable walls, almost always open directly into a sun-filled courtyard.  This courtyard has a fountain, some greenery, and in the case of Palazzo Massimo, several cats.  It was a small, intimate courtyard with silly little garden pots of uninteresting plants, the kind that people keep without knowing why.  

The staircase and landing were open to the courtyard for at least four storeys.  But when one is allowed to enter such a house, given the circumstances, it is hard to know where to go, how far to go, and how to stay as long as possible without being intrusive.  The corner staircase, the cold grey stone, the tiny double doors that were thickened with years of paint; they captivated me and I almost didn't want to ascend to the next storey.  

On the third floor, the hall wasn't open to the courtyard air but was windowed and paneled in wood.  The floors were polished wood and decadently trimmed.  Sofas, which were really divans, were striped in heavy silk or silk velvet.  Oil paintings and sculpture, both Classical and Contemporary, filled the rooms.  I walked through, conscious that I didn't belong in this world, my bookbag over my arm.  Two girls about 11 or so, twirled around one of the salons as their nanny watched.  These girls were obviously used to the annual intrusion of strangers and took absolutely no notice.  It was as if we weren't even there.  We were simply traipsing through their living room.  

Up the stairs was the chapel.  I've been instructed not to call it a chapel, but I don't know another way to describe a church in someone's house.  The walls of the anteroom were tromp l'oeil to look like sumptuous curtains with medallions and rosettes.  The paint had worn through to the plaster in many places, giving that nonchalant air to a grand house that could otherwise have been pompous and austere...I mean really, it has it's own chapel.  The chairs in the anteroom looked as though they were from the Renaissance as well.  Worn linen velvet, faded into pinks, high-backed, and undoubtedly uncomfortable, even if they didn't break if sat upon.  This anteroom was separated from the chapel only in this aesthetic regard.  The ceiling of the chapel was gold mosaic.  Marble columns trimmed the red velvet walls.  The inlaid marble floor was carpeted.  Candles were lit and two separate services in this tiny space were being performed, and I do mean performed.  This was clearly an occasion and there were literally clergy waiting their turn.  

Costumed footmen ushered the distinguished guests from the taxi into a side room where I was able to just briefly glimpse a reception.  The cognoscenti were sipping flutes of prosecco whilst a string ensemble played softly enough to keep the hush of the house intact.

I wanted to stay, to drink it all in.  I am not the least bit Catholic and somehow I am mesmerized by the decadence, the pageantry, the excess and the ritual that is now so ingrained in the idea of this religion.  I left, reluctantly, knowing at the very least that I had never seen anything like it before.  This was one of those days, those priceless days that make me think, "So this is what it's like to live in Rome..."

Since no photography was allowed, you'll have to make do with the few (very few) links I was able to find.  Remember, if you are ever in Rome on March 16th, you are to make this Palazzo priority ONE!

Article on Palazzo Massimo, etc...

Don't let the header of this blog get to you...the guy looks like a smug something-or-other

Best photos (practically only photos) of the house.

Palazzo Massimo and the feast day of St. Fillipo Neri

You know how the story goes, I’ve got much to say and little time in which to say it.  Technically, I only have three things to recount but I want to recount them in detail and with photographs.  Since I have midterms this week, now is really not the time. 

There is one story that I just must, at the very least, begin to tell: 

I’ve noticed that on almost every trip I’ve taken, there is one moment that stands apart from all the others.  An intensity, a vividness that doesn’t fade.  Sometimes it is a shared experience with a close friend in an unusual or improbable occurrence, like the time in 2007 when Jessie and I met in Rome, sat in Piazza Navona directly in front of a classical guitarist and I said, “This moment could only be better if he started to play my favorite piece.”  Of course, that’s exactly what he began to play.   There is always a moment like that.  Sometimes it is a quietness that can only exist when you are all alone in a beautiful city.  Years later, you can quite easily look back and say it was the highlight of your journey. 

One of the things I love about Rome, and Italy in general, is that there is always some newly discovered bizarrity, which ends up being an unforgettable experience.  Today was no exception. 

Some of the finest Renaissance palaces are still intact as they were 500 years ago.  One such palazzo is Palazzo Massimo on Corso Vittorio Emanuele II (not to be confused with the Museum of Rome with the same name).  I’ll be telling the full story later but for now, I’ll leave you with this:

The palazzo is still inhabited by the Massimo family as a private residence.  But for one day every year, they allow visitors.  That day was today.  Like Rome, the experience involved history, religion, family, community, tradition and art.  If I see nothing else for the rest of my time in this city, I would still be full of the richness of the few minutes spent in that house.

Ciao a presto...

Italy, anyone?

I'm swimming in exams and papers and parents at the moment but I'll catch up this weekend.  Of course, you could all consider today's tip from Daily Candy: Travel...

Ciao a presto!

A post of several subjects, which I’m sure could be linked together properly if I took a bit more time and if I were a bit more clever...

As if I planned for a mood change to coincide with Lent (which I didn’t), I’ve been fairly contemplative this past week.  I certainly haven’t given up any vices (read sweets) but still, contemplative as if I were the one wandering the desert.  I’ve been doing all that ‘personal work’ which sometimes requires silence and aloneness.  Earlier this week I realized how much I missed playing music when I found myself at Piazza Mattei, staring into an art gallery with a grand piano.  It just sat there as a woman, clicked away on the keys of the computer against the back wall.  After a few minutes, I realized there was no reason why I was standing there.  I hadn’t had any luck inquiring after a practice room through school and it wasn’t as if I was going to be playing the piano at this gallery.

I came home and started work on the next blog post, which was supposed to be about Brooklyn, Italians, and Brooklyn Italians. 

I have spent some time in the Rome’s Jewish Ghetto.  Bakeries have a fair amount of magnetization where I’m concerned and while I can’t commit to trying every single Jewish bakery, I have tried a few...several.  I kept hearing about this special pizza/cookie that is sweet rather than savory, which comes in one flavor: burnt.  But since I hate to wait in line, and there is always a line for this bakery, I just keep moving along to the next bakery.  The next one happened to have a window display of apple cakes as big as my head.  It took the accompaniment of at least a dozen cappucini, but I managed all right...

One of my professors says that for her birthday every year she goes to Da Giggetto in the Ghetto and has a deep-fried artichoke, zucchini flowers, and grilled lamb chops...As much as I have wanted to go there every night since she told me that, I thought I might wait for some company to arrive and make an evening of it.

The Jewish Ghetto is well located, both in modern times and in ancient, being directly on the Via Peregrinorum (the ancient Pilgrimage route to St. Peter’s) and with easy access to Tiber Island, the hospital, and the river.  There has, of course, been a Jewish population in Rome for quite a long time, which is itself is an interesting concept for a city that houses the center of Catholicism.  This particular area was set aside and the Jewish population forced to live there by the popes around the 1500s.  This was intended to expedite their conversion to Catholicism...it didn’t seem to work so well.  

The reason I bring it up, apart from the bit about the food, is because later in the week, I had left the Ghetto and wandered into a rather nice shop.  It made me wish I were shopping for menswear (for some reason I love shopping for menswear).  The store had some neat and unusual things.  I bumped into two women, Brooklyn Italians, shopping for their husbands. Their accents sounded harsh and biting after hearing so much of the lilting Italian. Hearing that accent was something I didn’t know I missed.  We chatted briefly about cabbages and kings and they mentioned that the presence of Jewish bakeries made them feel right at home.  Since they were from Williamsburg, Brooklyn (where I spent a delightful but frozen birthday not so long ago), they well knew Jewish Bakeries that stood beside Italian markets.   They were quick to mention that all the Italian stuff was new and strange, perhaps not as advanced or as fast-paced as they had expected.  It was the Jewish thread that they had latched onto as being familiar. 

The infrastructure of Rome was so advanced in the early centuries CE that the aqueducts carried in 84 million gallons of water per day.  With a population of approximately one million inhabitants, that is pretty impressive.  That means that every person could consume 84 gallons of water every day.  Incase numbers aren’t your game; here’s a way to provide some context.  According to a fellow named Blumensthil, in 1901 the same number of inhabitants lived in Brooklyn and they had the same water supply: 84 gallons per person.  Only the Romans had done it about eighteen hundred years earlier. 

Tonight as I was walking home, I realized that I kept resisting crossing over the bridge toward Trastevere.  I always have lots to do at home; reading, Latin, painting, laundry, there is always something.  So when I resist going home, I usually try and pay attention to why.  Obviously I wouldn’t be bored at home, so I decided that I was too restless to be in the apartment.  I passed through the Ghetto again and decided to try the burnt pizza/cookie...even though it sounds completely bizarre.  The line wasn’t too long and several ageing women shuffled behind counters of what appeared to be burnt homemade energy bars.  Besides a tray of freshly toasted nuts, which one of the women was scooping into customers’ bags with her bare hands, there were no other consumables in the bakery.  Just the pizza...slash cookies.  After paying what seemed an exorbitant amount, more than three euro, I got a dense bar of fruitcake.  That’s exactly what it looked like.  There were nuts in it, dried fruit, and those green bits whose origin no one is able to pinpoint.  Plus it was burnt.  I could not have been LESS enthusiastic.

It was so amazing.  It didn’t taste burnt at all and the center was surprisingly moist.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that it changed my life.  I still have no idea what those green bits might have been but it was probably the best three euro I’ve ever spent.  I ate one third of it, then turned it around and ate the other end.  I considered going back for another.  While eating, I didn’t realize where I was going and again found myself at Piazza Mattei.  I walked up to the art gallery where the piano was clearly visible through the large glass door.  Just as I did so, the older man inside put down his phone and walked to the baby grand.  He flipped up the lid and started playing Debussy.  Then Chopin.  He took no notice of me, with my nose against the glass, pizza/cookie in hand and practically in tears.  This was the reason I didn’t want to go home.  This is what I had to see.  I stood there for about forty minutes.  I knew some of what he played, some pieces I had always meant to learn.  Then I noticed something quite funny. 

He moved his mouth when he played.  I couldn’t tell if he was actually making noise, but he wasn’t quite singing, he was doing exactly what Alfredo used to do.  Alfredo, ‘The Spaniard,’ ‘The Black Cloud of Death,’ aka my last piano teacher and Maestro from the turn of the century (yes, I did just say that), would make sort of ‘mam-mum-mom’ noises while he played the piano out of habit.  Lot’s of musicians have little quirks while they play: Kyle looks like he is having a seizure, Leif’s tongue used to dart out like a gecko’s.  I always used to try and stay quite still when I was an adolescent, deathly afraid that I would look like a ridiculously emotional pianist.  I still don’t like to show emotion in public but I realized that trying to hold still was actually interfering with my performance.  These days, I flare my nostrils a bit when I play.

You know how once you learn a new word, you suddenly find that word everywhere?  I remember when I learned the definition of ‘encroach’ and the next day I started reading ‘Rebecca’ and in the first paragraph, which starts with the famous line ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again...’  It was strange to find this man playing the piano with the exact same musical tick as Alfredo (it’s like a chattering of the teeth but with the lips instead) because I haven’t even talked to Alfredo in almost ten years.  It has only been since this week that we have begun emailing each other. 

When I arrived home tonight, still full from my pizza/cookie/fruitcake/bar and thrilled after my 'private concert' at Piazza Mattei, I still really wanted to play the piano.  So I posted a question on FaceBook, “Does anyone know of a practice room in Rome with a decent piano?”  Within half an hour, Alfredo had suggested a place. 

The loose theme of this post was supposed to be Brooklyn Italian, but then the Jewish Ghetto/Bakery/Piano/Alfredo/Sweets/Lent thing happened.  Life is curious.