Roman Holiday

Reprise.....

We are flying south, winging away over the clouds, beyond the Alps.....

Yes, we are all going on a...

Amor vincit omnia

But, ok, let's get a few things straight....  I am neither Gregory Peck, nor am I travelling with 95-year-old Aubrey Hepburn....  But I am going on holiday to Rome, and we are, for a moment, in the Palazzo Colonna, where Joe Bradley last saw Princess Ann....

It is quieter today, the Rococo decorations half asleep in anticipation of an upcoming rugby match:

Though I still feel a sense of dislocation as I turn away....

No!  Wait!  This isn't me....

So.  Where were we?  Ah yes, the Colosseum:

No!  The Colosseum is in colour......

OK.  So we take a ride on a scooter:

I said - a scooter:

No!  Not an E-Scooter.....

Nor an E-Bike....

For St Peter's sake!  Where's William Wyler when you need him?  We'll take a bus.....

And we'll watch the full moon rise over Santa Trinità dei Monti

Omnia mutantur

Let me take you by the hand, and I will show you the rubble-filled streets of the Caput Mundi.....

It is morning, and I have parked the bike.....

So let us stroll, from Santa Maria Maggiore:

The last resting place of Pope Francis:

Through the Terme di Caracalla:

To the Aventino, where the curious queue to peek at San Pietro through a keyhole in the Piazza Cavaliere di Malta....

While others make for doors, such as those of Santa Sabina, that are more open:

Then down the Clivio di Rocca Savella:

To watch the swollen Tevere wash the shores of the Isola Tiberina:

And then across to Trastevere, where I lived so many years ago.  We pause, briefly, to listen to the Benedictine nuns chanting their prayers in the Basilica of Santa Cecilia, the patron saint of music....

Then we lunch at the ever popular Fieramosca, in Piazza dei Mercanti, once owned by my eccentric acquaintance Remington, and the favourite locality of my late wife, Amanda. I raise a glass of Colli Albani wine to her, on the second anniversary of her death, thinking of our girls.....

Ad vitam aeternam

The following day, blessed by sunshine, we revisit the Colosseum, then walk on the Palatine Hill, looking back over the Arch of Constantine, then watching the Ring-necked parakeets feasting on oranges in the Orti Farnesiani:

The Musei Capitolini, which were founded in 1471 by pope Sixtus IV, contain many of the greatest treasures of Rome, from the modest Capitoline Venus, upstairs in the Palazzo Nuovo:

To Gian Lorenzo Bernini's bust of Medusa, whose shadows seem to writhe across the floor:

And I am tempted to offer assistance to a Dying Gaul whose marbles seem to be in perpetual pain:

Elsewhere in the Palazzo dei Conservatori, illuminations cast diverse shades to tell their stories:

While, from the Terazza Caffarelli, outside the Caffetteria dei Musei Capitolini, the sun is dying beyond the Teatro di Marcello (inaugurated in 12 BCE by Emperor Augustus). The upper floors of this ancient pile actually constitute the 11,000 square metre Palazzo Orsini, which was acquired by Iris Origo, author of War in the Val d'Orcia, and her husband in 1950.  In 2012 the Palazzo was put on the market by Iris's daughter for £26 million.

Looking out the other way, from under the Palazzo Senatorio, the view over the Forum at dusk is occupied by the spirits of ancient Rome, whispering around the Arch of Septimus Severus:

Night falls, again.....  As it seems to every day.....

Aubrey and I - sorry, Greg - sorry, Joe - retire to rest in the Via Margutta, near where Federico Fellini and Giulietta Masina lived.... 

Rome takes on a different life after dark, with government buildings washed in the tricolour, and the detritus of millennia lost in obscurity. 

Then the city perks up on a sunny day, though grey skies and rain don't wash away all the attraction. 

Tempus fugit

In a packed week's holiday, there isn't enough time to do more than scratch at the superficialities of history, but we do our best. I could tell you about Frascati, where we lunch with friends in the caves of the Osteria Fraschetta Trinca. Or I could wax lyrical about lunch at Arianna al Borghetto, after a dove-grey morning under the pines of Ostia Antica. I could tell you about meeting Enrico Terrinoni (President of the James Joyce Italian Foundation and translator into Italian of Ulysses and a parts of Finnegan's Wake) in The Fiddler's Elbow.... Or I could expound on the beautiful cloister of the Basilica Papale di San Paolo fuori le Mura, or the extraordinary juxtapositions of the marvellous marbles alongside the generators of the Centrale Montemartini.....

But tempus fugit and so I will be brief. Amongst the unforgettables within this whirligig stay, I rank the National Roman Museum, Baths of Diocletian:

And the neighbouring Palazzo Massimo is remarkable for many classical items.... mosaics, frescoes, statues and bronzes, such as this one of  a Boxer at Rest (the one on the right):

In the Galleria Borghese the statues seem to be in the act of flight, while their custodians seem indifferent. It is a wonderful gallery, but I cannot help but feel a tad claustrophobic at this stage....

Better the outside. Better the air, the sky, the rain (if it has to be.....)

We pass through Piazza Navona, where Charlie Chaplin is anxious to gain my acquaintance.....

And then, from the Terrazza dell’Angelo of the Castel Sant'Angelo, we look toward Michelangelo's great dome,

Or down onto the flooding Tiber,

And then make our way toward the Basilica di San Pietro, where the faithful align themselves with umbrellas akimbo in the great Piazza:

Alea jacta est

I lived in Rome for years, and hithered and thithered day after day, falling asleep some times beneath statues, or making my way home with a fresh , warm, cream-filled cornetto under a vast yellow moon.  

Now, a visitor on holiday, the city envelopes me and my friend, enticing me to imagine the past world, encouraging me to marvel at the artistry, the skills, the imagination of our predecessors.  How amazing, I think, that some thousands of years ago people could do that?

And then I think.....  Where are we now?  How amazing, perhaps, that we are still no better than 'they' were 'then'....  How is it that Nero or Caligula, or Trajan are still with us, toga or suit, tonsure or wig?

I love Rome. I feel at ease here, even though it is no longer my home. From the eager tourist by the Fontana della Barcaccia at the foot of the Spanish Steps:

To the umbrella girls a space away, photographed in front of I'll Be Your Mirror by Portuguese artist Joana Vasconcelos....

I have lost count of the times I have visited Rome, and that doesn't include the years I lived in the city, but I am repeatedly inspired by what I find..... Nowadays, for me, it is always a Holiday, and, perhaps, that is something I/we should appreciate as life begins to slip away?  As time goes by.....

Ex nihilo nihil

With sincere thanks to my friends in Rome, and with many thanks to my companion on this trip.

As Scotland lose to Italy in the pouring rain, 

As the clouds cover the face of the earth, it is time to return 'home'.... a concept that gradually loses meaning in this dizzy, worrying world.....  

Carpe diem

*****

For my B E J

*****

Roman Holiday....

Looking for a Further Christmas [Dies Natalis Solis Invicti ]....

I didn't want another Christmas at home alone.....  Even if I wasn't alone, last year was miserable as it was the first apart from Amanda in nearly forty-five years.  Also, having had my trip to the gluepot truncated in September by the so-called Covid, I had old friends to catch up with..... So I didn't decorate my cell, and planned to fly south.

As things turned out, our elder daughter would also have been alone, so we arrived in Rome together, escaping from responsibilities and the dark-wet Norfolk winter, sharing a plate of amatriciana and a glass of vino Rosso on our arrival.

The sun shone blue and yellow above the short green sparks of grass as we took ourselves down the Via Appia Antica on our first day.  We had first descended into the underworld, the endless doom and gloom of the catacombs of S Callixtus.  For those not familiar with cats or combs, I advise you that they are all pretty much the same, and these days you can't take any bones away with you.....

But then we entered the monumental mausoleum of Cecilia Metella,

Where the lady herself appeared, suitably distant and careful netted, to welcome us to her afterlife, and to offer a wonderful audio-visual display projected on the rocks of the igneous substrata of this ancient road, as well as a vertiginous Virtual Reality headset display of the continuous development of this site over many centuries....

For me, it is a strangely haunted road. Once, with Charlie Borromel (recurrent extra in Fellini films), we made a pop video here and for years some of my pupils would say, I saw you on TV last night, Sir!  though I never saw it.....  Then there was a party at the house of the Canadian Ambassador, when La Lolla sat on the stairs as natural as a domestic cat.....  (fond memories, Andrea....)

Despite H's broken foot, we march as the legions did, ever disregarding the crucifixions, until we reach Santa Maria Nova, where another wonderful audio-visual display links the Appia to history and contemporary culture, such as La Dolce Vita, and the sprawling Villa dei Quintili with its views across the airport of Ciampino to the Colli Albani......

Back in Rome Sol Invictus sparkles at us across the graveyard of bread and circuses.  This is a city of brave confusions, holy days of obligation and the obligations of holidays......

In the evening, I take H to my old stomping ground - Trastevere - where I lived for seven years in the last century (! That sounds soooo creepy!) Here we notice that my front door, for so many years on recent visits completely defaced with graffiti, is now clean.  A jazz band plays in the street nearby and a random bagpiper honks in the Piazza di Santa Maria.

To satisfy my nostalgia we drift across the Viale to the Pizzeria Ai Marmi (Antico forno a legna, dal 1931) where nothing has changed since I lived across the road. Filetti di Baccalà, Supplì al telefono, pizze and Peroni beer....

On the way back to our hotel, we pause to wonder at the passage of time.  So many stories.  So many memories....  Iris Origo lived on the right, just here.....

On the 24th H and I take a train (double-decker, quiet, clean, efficient, punctual) to Anzio (approximately one hour ten minutes, three euros and 60 cents), in order to satisfy a yen for fish in inclination to the catholic tradition. As befits, H has a sea urchin, but then we indulge in spaghetti alle vongole verace:

And I sacrifice an ἸΧΘΥΣ (IKhThUS), or ἸΧΘΥϹ, the symbol of the Christ (this is what comes of spending time in Catacombs....Ed):

Back in Rome, in the piazza hard by the spot where Caesar Julius hit the bloodstained deck, there are those who tire of roasting chestnuts, despite the glories of the natural aromas, 

While in the meantime, baby Jesus is about to sprout from the dung and the straw of innumerable cribs, a miraculous fungus amidst the terror of foreign oppression.....

The panting cries of childbirth fill the night air on Christmas Eve.  Thousands of tiny figures mime the events of Bethlehem and the curious and the faithful fill their mobiles with pictures of the revolving doors of the story.....

And over at Santa Maria Maggiore the bells ring out (for Christmas Day)

And so Christmas Day dawns, and the suffering is over (for the moment).  The queues have left the churches, the lights are down, and we lift our weary selves to Stazione Termini to get the train up the Tiber Valley,

to Orte (fifty minutes on a clean double decker, efficient, punctual, quiet....  for five euros and ten cents) where Gino collects us for the drive up to his Umbrian refuge.

The village is very quiet.   Even the motorini are asleep.... 

I meet Sandro who has spent three years constructing a Presepio in an old stable near the church, 

then the family gathers round the table for a generous feast that brings together family and friends as well as diverse European standards (don't get me started) culminating in the immolation of fruits and grains as an offering to peace (thank you so much, dear friends):

The days are slipping, and on Santo Stefano, we pass an hour or so in the Museo dell Terme di Diocleziano... where Amanda and I mused on one of our last days in Rome.

It is a wonder.  The bath complex - bigger than Caracalla - took eight years to build (the joys [sic] of a confident dictatorship, perhaps?) but since I was last here the museum has been advanced and now rivals such poor brethren as The British (we don't need to steal others' marbles....) [but don't get me started....]

Michelangelo was here.  His is the great cloister:

Then we take the train to Frascati (clean, efficient, punctual, quiet, comfortable) [thirty minutes for two euros ten cents]....  

to meet Antonio and Pina, and to nourish our souls in a traditional Fraschetta (wine and cheese and cold meats).  Oh!  How the wine tastes good!  Oh!

Forgive me, please.....  It is good, sometimes, to taste the finer things of life.

Once again, we are back in the city for the evening, and wander down the Via Margutta to pay respect to Federico, and then turn through the Piazza del Popolo, 

back down the Via del Corso to Via della Croce, where we have a little glass of wine 

in the Antica Vineria - in my memory a place where you took your bottle to fill from the tap....

And then we head home via the Piazza di Spagna:

On our last day we revisited Trevignano Romano, seen here nestling by the lake under the Rocca Romana, in the distance to the right of Bracciano Castle:

Our aim was to meet up with friends, though it wasn't possible to see everyone, (apologies!) but the memories began to overcome me and in the end I was saddened that I was there, where we had laughed and danced and played and splashed with our children.  Christmas is family time, and only half the family were here.....

That night, our last night, we had a drink in The Fiddler's Elbow, where I stared at a football match, wondering who Munich were playing that had the initials AVL.  As Munich morphed into Manchester United I couldn't work out how Leicester City were AVL, until Aston Villa came to mind.  Don't blame me!  I am quietly subsiding into a black hole and some things pass me by.....  It is nearly fifty years since I first came here, and televisions weren't the thing then....

In the morning, all went well.  We made FCO in thirty minutes, the flight was roughly on time, but England appeared cloudy and cold:

But it was there, and I got home.  The cat was pleased to see me.  I was pleased to see her.

It had been a good Christmas.  Thank you my friends.  Thank you Italy.  

I felt better than before - a little restored perhaps.

I went to see Amanda.....

It was lovely to see her.....

Roma Eterna

What was that all about?