Voce I

The voices I’m listening to here are often gravelly from smoking and talking at length over coffee or on the telefonino, and exhaust fumes from tiny vehicles (the Twizy beats them all in size – and it still seats two people!).  Pitches are all over the place, but by far the deepest one yet has come from an unlikely source:  our new Italian veterinarian. 

Everyone who spoke at any length with us about our new living/working adventure knows that yes, we brought our family.  Our furry children are Smokey – a more or less reformed feral, long-haired 14 year old feline – and Salvador – my ‘I don’t need a man’ Humane Society adoptee.  He is 21.  Sal is a ‘classic tabby’ who is, by most standards, a large framed cat with what I’ve heard vet techs call ‘the Garfield gene.’  At his largest, he weighed almost 18 pounds.  When the Spouse and I were just beginning to date and he first met Sal, he exclaimed, ‘That’s the biggest cat I think I’ve ever seen.’  (NB:  he’s a veterinarian too)  More recently, Sal has slimmed down to between 15 and 16 in the last couple of years.  He was never a human-food-eater or a fanatic for treats.  Heck, he has never even been partial to soft food.  He doesn’t gorge or hound us for meals.  He grazes. 

And he sleeps.  A lot.  It's what you do when you're approximately 105 years old.

6 years ago, Salvador was diagnosed with diabetes.  For 5 years, we administered insulin twice a day and kept him on a special diet (low calorie food that reportedly tastes so awful, his doctor would say, it’s a miracle that anyone would eat it…and of course because she defies logic as well, Smokey adored it).  Last year, when he dropped two pounds and his diabetes went into remission, our home veterinarian shook his head in disbelief:  how can he possibly be this old and still more or less ‘maintain his figure’?  Older cats tend to lose weight and become hyperthyroid.  Not this guy. 

The weight has taken its toll in other ways, too.  His lower spine and knees are quite riddled with arthritis.  So, he does have pain meds.  We have adjusted our home environment here and there to promote his comfort and mobility.   

But we packed him up and flew him and Smokey here with us.  I won’t go on and on about what he means to me.  A 20-year relationship is commitment defined, I think.  

And because the Spouse is sure that his new job will entail travel, it was important to him that we establish a relationship with a Roman vet, get all of the medical records transferred well ahead of time, and then visit the clinic together…in advance of said travel.  This way, if something happens and I need to take one or the other old cat in for aid, the groundwork would be laid.

So off we went, on July 4.

Best buds.

First lesson learned, before we ever left the apartment:  don’t try to phone for a taxi and use perfect Italian to do it when you are unprepared for the rapid-fire response of the taxi service.  Haven’t many of us done this kind of thing before?  Master and confidently utter a sentence or two of the native language and then become utterly stumped at the response, which is neither textbook nor slow enough nor perfect in enunciation.

Second lesson learned: there is a taxi stand very close to our apartment.  The taxi rule in Rome is that you never flag one down; you find a taxi stand and get the one that is next in the queue.  This cuts down on traffic hazards (of which there are plenty, already).  Lucky for us – and probably because we are so close to the Italian Senate – there are a couple of stands, and one was close enough to help make up for the time lost when The Spouse was learning lesson one. 

Third lesson:  not only will Italians concern themselves with overweight people, they will also concern themselves with their overweight pets. 

He barely fits in this carrier.

So here we are, with Dr. G.  A tiny Italian with a booming, deep voice, giving Sal the once-over.  She made quite the loving fuss over him.  If he spoke (and he does talk a lot, loudly – because he’s now as deaf as a post), she cooed in response with a ‘mi amore.’  She kissed him on the head several times.  And she patted his girth, remarking:  ‘Eez lihke a PEEH-loh!’

Sal is heretofore unfazed.  Lots of people want to rub the Buddha belly.

But then the amusement was over.  The Q&A:  what did we feed him, how much did we feed him, was there anything other than cat food involved, did he get exercise…and the questions came more than once, as if we American owners, so guilty of gluttony on a national level, could not properly see ourselves and our own behaviors.  Surely we let our 21 year old guy get like this, and surely we could do something about it.

How appropos that a friend of a visiting friend would choose this restaurant for a meet-up and Neapolitan-style pizza.

10 years ago, I would have (and should have) faced this fact and taken charge.   I could have fought the valiant battle of putting a large cat on a diet.  I could have tossed the softball more often for him to chase (what – your cat isn’t into softballs?  I’m telling you, mine is BIG).  I could have leash trained walked him around the neighborhood house.  But now?

The Spouse can tell a story from his vet school days, in which a well-respected professor was dining at home with some grad student guests.  A few of them noted the little, very old overweight family dog lolling about underfoot.  And they observed the dog’s ‘butter-loaf’ appearance (the analogy for a dog that is so fat that it resembles – from above, along the back - a loaf of bread split and buttered down the top).  The professor defended his pet, saying that the dog was old and happy, and it just made no sense to put the dog on a diet just so she could die thinner and less happy.

We can see the rationale for Sal.  His warranty is long expired, he's on bonus time, and so if he wanted cake for breakfast, heck, we’d probably let him have it…on his birthday, maybe.   Since he issues no call for cake for breakfast, we are keen to just manage his arthritis pain. 

We could tell that Dr. G was not buying into the philosophy of the our transplanted Rest Home for Geriatric Cats.  But she prescribed a ‘not-drug’ drug (check in later for what that means, because I’m still puzzling over it) for what she suspects is partly a neuropathic issue, and wished us well. 

We’ll let you know if it merits serious consideration.  A few days have elapsed since Sal’s taxi ride, and he’s still resting up from the excitement.

While Sal naps, we take our passeggiate. For those who asked for 'more pictures,' how about a gratuitous shot from a bridge over the Tiber?

Who is Your Good Neighbor?

“Who is your ‘Good Neighbor?’” she asked. 

“Good neighbor?” I repeated, “What do you mean?”

The question was put to me after I’d received my security briefing as well as a jam-packed information session in the customer service center at the U. S. embassy in Rome (sorry folks, no pictures...not allowed).  This next segment was run by Community Liaison Office personnel, who were more than a little excited about having an artist/art historian present.  It seems that there are weekly tours of the embassy compound given by volunteer docents, and the docent roster is a little thin these days.  The buildings are historic and there is a fair amount of art at the compound.  Looks like I might be conscripted.  Stay tuned.

Good neighbor? My knowledge of my neighbors thus far is, in one respect, quite limited.  I hear chairs scraping on tile floors above my apartment, where people study the French language.  There is a German business of some type on the floor below me.   I’ve greeted an employee as she entered the door.  I’ve seen and briefly greeted my across-the-hall neighbor, a fairly non-descript, middle-aged man, once as well.   Our building attendant is Domitilla, but while she is usually visible in the office on the first stairwell landing, she is thus far not the type to come out of said office and chat. 

We are trying to get to know neighboring businesses better.  When we experience good food and/or service at a place, we endeavor to establish with them that we will be back because we’ve just taken up residence here.  We want to build some relationships.

Seafood Still Life with Smiling Spouse

Of course, our first attempt at this was a total failure.  We loved both the food and the service at a place on Via dell’Orso (‘the street of the bear’), and we told the management so.  And once we successfully conveyed our wishes to return and why, they told us that they planned to move locations - across town! – next week. 

Probable 2nd failure at 'neighborly' conduct:  a purported teacher for the French language school, who was loitering just outside the building's front door (which he'd left ajar), having a smoke.  When we walked out and almost completely shut the door behind us, he expressed his dismay:  'je suis un professeur!' and 'je ne possede pas de cle!' he exclaimed with disgust, as he puffed away.  He couldn't prove the former, and thus, we couldn't trust the latter, we explained.  This is a large, international city and we are supposed to be careful.  He sighed heavily, reached up to pull the large door knocker to alert his students that he'd been locked out, and therefore DID pull the door completely shut, truly sealing his fate.  Insert multiple French expletives here. 

I don't think that he'll be inviting us out for coffee any time soon.  

But we remain undaunted in the pursuit of formulating our ‘neighborhood.’ 

Any other neighbors?  Good neighbors? Why yes, there are some, in this rione.  Their names are Caravaggio, Sansovino and Raphael.  (We’ll address Bernini and Borromini later.  They’re like the Baroque-era HOA of the neighborhood – pervasive and heavy-handed on the upkeep of standards).

San Luigi dei Francesi – the French National church of Rome – is behind our building.  (We can hear organ music and choir rehearsal while we’re brushing our teeth in the bathroom.)  Three of the alleged ‘best’ Caravaggio paintings of the artist’s brief career are installed in a chapel located directly behind our apartment.  These scenes from the life of St. Matthew were his first public commissions. They made him famous.

Former students of mine - or of any general art history survey - may remember the story of Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571-1610).  A supremely bright star in the Baroque art world, the painter left an indelible impression on many artists of various nationalities in both his own century and subsequent centuries.  Italian painters who emulated his extreme use of chiaroscuro (sharply contrasting lights and darks, called tenebrism), his sensitivity for dramatic depictions, and the use of ordinary people as models were called ‘Caravaggisti.’ 

While I like to think of him as a ‘good neighbor’ to my present state of living, I’m not so certain that he would have been an actual one in his own day.  The bright star also had a violent temper.  While he was in the height of this career and still young, that temper got the best of him and he murdered someone.  Exiled from Rome for his crime, he wandered, traveled and died before turning 40.

In another church that is one block from this one – Sant’Agostino – is the fourth of the neighborhood’s Caravaggios.  Here, the Madonna greets two worshipful peasants who have called to see the Christ child.  Note the dramatic lighting (the artist himself uses it in the painting, but as is typical in many churches here, electrical, coin-operated lighting is provided).  My Blue Guide (the guidebook ‘for the traveller who desires to understand more fully what he or she sees’ reads the inside cover) suggests that she struggles to hold a child who is larger than usual – foreshadowing her future burden.    

Also in this church is a lesser known Raphael.  (It's impossible to shoot this from the church floor - so enjoy the link). A very Sistine Chapel-like depiction of Isaiah.  Let’s also remember that the artist – another who died very young - is buried in the Pantheon, which is a very short jaunt away.  Raphael would have probably made a good neighbor in his day, as long as you weren't competing with him for girlfriends or commissions. 

How about Sansovino’s Madonna del Parto, the Madonna of Childbirth?  Expectant and/or grateful mothers leave baby-related tokens near the statue. 

Alternatively – and still in the same church - a grim reminder of the brevity of life:

How very…neighborly.

                                                      *****    *****     *****     *****

“Good Neighbor?” I asked.

“Another Tri-Mission community member who lives in your neighborhood was assigned to be your Good Neighbor; a person who can help acquaint you with tips about places to eat, shop, etc. Who is that?”

“I’m sorry,” I said as I shrugged, “I don’t know who that is.  We haven’t received any information about such a person.”

“Hmm,” she said, smiling through a frown. “I know of a person living IN your neighborhood who should have been assigned to you.  I’ll look them up and prompt them to get in touch.  I don’t know how you fell through the cracks.”

Within two days’ time, we heard from our Good Neighbor, who confirmed many things we’d already learned about our neighborhood (yes, those grocery stores are tiny, and yes, the best gelato in Rome is across the street from the best coffee), and gave us a good tip on a lesser known outdoor market even closer to us than Campo dei Fiori.  

The singular vendor’s a cheery sort, who patiently coached me on how to call a peach a peach and not a fish.  

He sold these, among other things.  

Oddly, the pepper is about the size of my head.  

The tomatoes are smaller than eggs, and fantastic in every way.

Good neighbors?  Si. 

No Sooner Than Now

Buon giorno from Rome, Italy, where I've taken up residence for the next two years.

I write from an apartment in the historic center of the Eternal City, on day 6 of being here.  The jet lag is subsiding, the spouse is reporting to work, and the cats are settling in (this translates to comfortably snoozing most of each day, given their respective ages of 14 and 21).  The kitchen is being progressively stocked.  We are exploring the neighborhood in ever-expanding navigational circles, scrutinizing menus, and doing our very best to dodge the heat.

The heat.  I expected it.  Even though I've brought college students to Italy since 2004, I've always dodged the hottest parts of the Italian year.  But I'm doomed to a life pattern of moving in summer seasons, and so I expected to be uncomfortable upon arrival.  Expectation:  met.  Roman tricks for assuaging this discomfort?  Close and shutter the windows of tall-ceilinged rooms.  If you can cancel out the light and the heat, you minimize the need for air conditioning - which is not prevalent.  Learn to love the shade.

 

I am not challenged by this last notion, given that my ancestors came from the British Isles and Northern Europe.  I may well spend two years in this city and learn to maybe even speak a little and behave a little like a local, but I will never, ever look like one, with my sun hat and 70 SPF.  I was encouraged by the slight dip in temperature today, with a mere high of 82, and yet, I caught a look at myself while out shopping, and saw my predictably red-cheeked but otherwise pale, sweaty face staring back.  Dead giveaway to foreigner status.

And while the jet lag is fading, I have fully embraced an additional way to live in this sweltering environment:  the mid-day nap.  This practice is easier to accommodate when you keep interior rooms darkened and cooler.  One downside to this is that it is difficult to gauge the time of day.  So, the heat saps you of your energy, you lie down in a relatively cool room at noon, and the next thing you know, it's time for dinner.  Or I should say:  it's time for thinking about dinner, since that shouldn't actually happen before 8:30 or so.

And speaking of dinner, yesterday was the first day I've cooked in Rome.  Achieving this benchmark was more tricky than you might think.  Our household furnishings and belongings are being shipped mostly by sea (anticipated arrival - 2 months from now, give or take any variety of impediments, because after all, this is Italy) and a little by air (anticipated arrival - who knows, because no one will tell us, but it is ideally supposed to be at least two weeks).  We arrived here with 5 suitcases (4 for the humans, 1 for the high maintenance geriatric felines).  Lest you think we're sleeping on the floor: we did  not arrive to a completely empty apartment.  We arrived to a mostly empty apartment, just barely furnished with some cookware, a very limited number of kitchen items (including flatware, utensils and a couple of small appliances), a remarkably dangerous (read: dull) knife, a loveseat and two chairs, a dining room table and 4 chairs, a bed, two bedside tables, a small dresser, a few wardrobes (there is one closet in the entirety of the place)...and that's it.  Suffice to say:  the first limitation involved the lack of important tools.  My kingdom for a set of tongs!

And the next limitation?  Resource availability.  Anyone who has ever visited a large European city like Rome may pause to reflect on whether they ever noticed a grocery store, and ultimately dismissed their scant memories, perhaps rationalizing that all of those slim and trim locals stayed that way because they must not eat.  Let it be known that those stores do in fact exist, but they are small and labyrinthine.  Not that Americans didn't already know this, but they are spoiled for choice.  The plus side of narrowed choices here is that the shopping time is shortened.  Additionally, Rome has no shortage of outdoor markets.  And they are BIG believers in an extremely abbreviated distance between farm and table.  So with the grocery store limitation comes the happily welcomed alternative:  what IS available is better, fresher and rarely imported.

And after having spent an hour with that dangerous knife and some vegetables, I'm closing this entry for now and attempting a kind of stovetop ratatouille.  But before I do, let me say this:

If this reads as nonchalant or matter-of-fact, I am not.  If this reads as emphatically complaining in tone, I am not.

I sleep about 5 meters from three gorgeous Caravaggios.  A 5 minute walk takes me to Piazza Navona. A 10 minute stroll takes me to the Pantheon. A 15 minute walk puts me at Campo dei Fiori.   This place is a haven for history and art and food lovers.  And I am fervently all of those things.  I have this bizarre and wonderful opportunity to live in the first foreign city I ever visited as a college student.  The first foreign city I fell in love with.

But Rome is a tough broad.  She wants you to struggle.  She wants you to not want to return.  She wants your feet to ache from pounding her rough, ancient pavements.  She wants you to wait forever for a hot bus that may or may not arrive.  She wants you to desperately want her local residents to treat you like a local, too, even though they won't.  She wants you to be simultaneously charmed and brought up short by the rough-and-tumble business of being in a city that is over 2000 years old.

And all the years in which I wondered what it would be like to live here, I mistakenly thought I could be ready for this.  But I couldn't.  At least, no sooner than now.

I had to be this old.  I had to have a number of trips under my belt - a number of experiences with the faults and foibles of the place.  I needed to be a little cynical and old enough to not care whether a vegetable vendor had to look at my flushed, sweaty face while I struggled to tell him how many eggplants I wanted to buy.

I had to be in a good (GOOD, let me tell you) relationship.  I had to be braced for disappointments and ugly surprises...many of which I haven't even encountered yet, I'm sure.  But I had to be in this head-space.  I had to be this educated and jaded and...still young enough and romantically inclined enough to want to give this a shot.

And this sweet spot couldn't have happened any sooner than now.

I am already grateful that I have the chance to experience it.