Rome

Rome

Up until my last full day in Rome, the eternal city, I struggled with trying to find just one word that captured exactly what the city did for me. I tried exciting on for size and that seemed too pedestrian, beautiful fell short too and in the end my friend Ray delivered the word directly to me…inspiring. For me, Rome is inspiring and I think that I’m hardly alone in this feeling. For millennia the eternal city, the city of seven hills, the city on the Tiber has inspired humanity.



I could easily point to a thousand ruins or church edifices or frescoed ceilings but I actually found my inspiration in more ordinary settings. I found the layers of the city captivating. There is the obvious new tacked upon older, tacked upon even older and then integrated with ancient which I adored. There are also the layers of level, something at level with a building above at an odd angel followed by an arch connecting other structures followed by spires and domes gently floating above.



Rome’s layers don’t always draw the human eye up; this city draws the eye down too.
Most dramatically the Tiber has been boxed in on its level, low; followed by ribbons of walkway running along the banks some ten feet above water level to streets, promenade, parks and the city itself resting fifty to a hundred feet above the river. There is Trastevere set below the road yet above the river, there are ruins set below the city but above the river, there are catacombs which start at present city level and run way deeper than the river. Like an Artichoke’s leaves Rome is layers of civilization gently resting and pushing against one another reminding all who visit and all who reside that this has been and still is a very complex place.



Romans like their city are a complex layering of behaviors, habits and idiosyncrasies. I have never visited a city where so many people smoke cigarettes in so many venues. I saw a man light a cigarette up in the Vatican, no not the basilica but at the Vatican museum courtyard. There were no ash trays, no butt cans and no butts on the ground, a rather uncommon situation, but nonetheless this man did light up. The tracks at Stazione Termini are littered with millions of cigarette butts. No one seems to ever clean them up so they pile up. The streets are littered with butts too but I imagine that those missed by clean police eventually end up in the Tiber. Other than butts, Rome is clean, in large part to a veritable army of clean police who sweep, scrub and pick up the piazzas, the graffiti is troubling though.

Roman traffic and driving patterns are an experience in insanity and idiosyncratic behavior. Taxis fly at well over the speed limit, scooters jockey in and out of traffic, horns honk, drivers gesture and the streets seem always busy and busting at the seams. Yet, let a pedestrian step into a cross walk, stare down the manacle vehicle drivers and everything comes to a stretching halt. If in doubt that traffic is going to stop, I suggesting finding a nun or grandmotherly type to follow into the street and you’ll be assured traffic will stop…buses too. In the narrow streets around the piazzas and off the beaten track, Roman drivers will not hesitate to sneak up behind pedestrians and blare their horns forcing all into doorways or crevices between parked vehicles.



Waiters and wait staff run the gamut too. Meals are events; they are not intended to move quickly. Drinks are ordered, delivered, the meal is ordered and eventually delivered and then, you are left alone. Anglo Americans should be quick to speak up and question if they perceive things to be wrong. Roman waiters can be quick to lay blame on a victim or under served.

While eating in Campo de Fiori on Wednesday I ordered a bruchetta as an appetizer. Our waiter, we’ll call him Paulo, was inattentive from the start and I made note to my friend Ray that Paulo was not tuned into us. I ordered mineral water with gas and before he’d left the table to put our order in he had to ask me what I wished to drink for a second time. Paulo was also very interested in a soccer match playing on a television next door to his café.

My first course and drinks came and the food was exquisite. My brushetta also came but Paulo tried to deliver said appetizer to our neighboring table. Our neighbors politely pointed out that they’d eaten their appetizer. I watched the interplay, I watched Paulo spin around the patio looking for the orderee of the brushetta and then disappear into the kitchen. A side note here, there were perhaps four occupied tables that night. We finished our lovely meal and asked for the bill; another European necessity, don’t wait for it to be presented or you’ll spend endless hours waiting; using the international, my index finger is a pen and my other hand is a pad pantomime is fully acceptable so long as wait staff is looking your way. Paulo delivered the bill.

My brushetta was on the bill. I gestured and another waiter came to my table, Paulo was busy with something else, maybe watching his game. Waiter number two found Paulo. Paulo and Mario for lack of a better name conferred in Italian about the bill for brushetta and then approached the table. To whit Paulo quipped, “You didn’t get brushetta?”

Pleasantly I stated, “No,” but I also noted that I’d seen the brushetta come out, visit the table next door and then return to the kitchen after a waltz around the patio. Paulo wasn’t happy.

He retorted, “Why didn’t you say something? You should have told me.”
Yes, perhaps I should have. I didn’t and that was a cultural faux pas on my part. I used that rather snobbish American attitude that I shouldn’t have to tell someone else how to do his job, and I was wrong for that. I give myself comfort though…Paulo shouldn’t have been so enthralled with soccer and the hostesses and should have been more tuned into his paying customers and yes I let my huge mouth get the best of me.

Wittily which didn’t read across cultures I said, “I didn’t want to distract you from watching your soccer game.”

It didn’t go well and Paulo offered me a lame denial that he was watching television, yet he knew, I knew and the diners to my left knew that I’d embarrassed him.

My revised bill was brought back to me, less the brushetta but some three Euros higher in cost than it had previously been and lacking was the actual ticket. Paulo had only brought the debit slip for signature. Now I really was invested in the conflict with this waiter. I stood and went into the restaurant. In error I'd given Paulo my debit card without the bill in proper order trusting that he'd simply make it right.

Once inside Paulo immediately confronted me and asked what I wanted. I told him I wanted to see my bill. I was asked why. I said that why really didn’t matter; I wanted to see my bill. By now he was in front of me, blocking my way and really challenging. I was not going to back down or back away and he knew it. So…

I said, “This slip appears to be wrong and I’d like to compare my bill with the debit slip that you’ve provided for signature. I believe that I am being overcharged. I don’t think that this is an unreasonable or difficult request.”

Paulo and Mario then embroiled in a somewhat animated conversation, the shuffled through papers, they retrieved slips from the trash can, they compared a slip to my debit slip, they tapped on the computer screen that sends orders to the kitchen, they talked some more, all in Italian, and then Paulo returned and said that it was not possible to provide me with a slip that it was all on the computer. By this time I’d snagged a menu and I said, “Well then let’s add up everything we had to eat. It wasn’t that much and I ticked off everything that had been dined upon.

The owner or manager who’d been sitting inside eating was now up and standing with us. Paulo knew I had him and quickly without any consultation to the menu the owner/manager quickly opened the register and handed me nine Euros. The cost of the brushetta was six Euros plus the mystery three, a sarcasm charge I believe.

So, long story short, Paulo was so unhappy with my quip about his soccer watching that he not only did not remove my appetizer but he tacked on a three Euro tip. I was wrong for insulting this man’s machismo and for not speaking up and snagging my appetizer.

This episode had been preceded the night before with a four Euro charge for bread. Ray and I had wandered into the Ottavanio neighborhood adjoining the Vatican, San Angelo and the covered elevated walkway built to link the two, the Passetto. The neighborhood is a charming amalgamation of sixteenth century buildings and really has a very neighborhood feel. We found a lovely outdoor restaurant and in spite of a chilly night we dined outside. The food was fantastic and the host was very interested in us, where we were from and he shared that his grandfather was Italian and his grandmother was from Boston, MA. A cool story I thought. Grandma had fallen for a dark Italian...gee I wonder why?

Our bill came and there was a four Euro charge for bread. Ray was paying so this battle wasn’t one for me to invest in. We hadn’t received any bread. When Ray questioned our waiter, who by and large had been very disengaged and short, the waiter dumb-foundedly questioned, “You didn’t get bread?”

A simple succinct no was tendered and this waiter then had the audacity to say, “It’s not a charge for bread, it’s a service charge.”

The bill clearly said bread in clear bold letters but the fight wasn’t mine, had it been, some bread would have been going back to our flat at Bianchi Vecchi in a bag. Ray took the high road and the bread charge was the waiters tip. That little episode set the stage for my dealing with Paulo at Campo de Fiori, in Café Campo Fiori, located in the north corner of the piazza, just in case you're in the area...you might want to skip it or make sure to double check your bill and leave your sarcasm in your hotel room.

The final waiter episode involved the acceptance of a debit card for tea. After ordering, drinking and sitting at a café in Piazza Navona on our last day I was going to pay for our drinks with my debit card. The waiter told me this was not possible for just drinks. Anything else yes, drinks on a Friday afternoon no. Jokingly I related that I had no cash. The waiter seriously said, “You should have asked before you ordered if debit cards could be used.”

Here again we have a cultural friction. I am of the opinion that it is not my job as a guest, client, and customer to inquire about any establishment’s idiosyncratic rules or mores. My response was quick and to the point and I told this waiter that I did indeed have cash and that it was his job to inform his clients or customers as to the rules in his establishment. This interplay was very quick, simple and really didn’t register on anyone’s radar but mine. It does however illustrate just how different cultural expectations can be. I did learn to be very direct and perhaps this is why where I grew up in northern New Jersey is so spot on direct, there is a huge Italian American population. Being direct isn’t rude, it just is. My lesson is learned. By and large our waiters and dining experiences in Rome were outstanding as was our apartment.



Ray and I stayed at 27A Bianchi Vecchi just off Camp de Fiori and Piazza Navona. We were on the third floor, which is really the second floor. It seems that almost anywhere but the U.S.A. that the main level of a building at street level that is, has no number, one flight up is one and then two and so on. So we were on two but it was really three. The front entrance was secured by a key and the doors were lovely. The flooring inside the common space was all tiled and the rails wrought iron. The doors to the apartment were also double doors and they opened into a wide hallway with maple colored laminate flooring. To the left and at the front of the building was a large living room/salon with double windows which looked onto the street.

The living room was approximately twenty feet long by sixteen wide. The ceiling height was at least fourteen feet, there were two sleeper sofas, a huge entertainment console with flat panel television and an acrylic table between the two front windows. The décor was a cool fusion of antique and modern. To the right of the entry door was a kitchen and breakfast area and beyond that a lovely tile bath. The bedroom I stayed in was directly across from the front door and was perhaps fifteen square with a French door that opened to a courtyard. The flat was well appointed, well furnished and five minute’s walk to St. Peters and less than a mile to all of Rome’s other ancient and modern highlights. The only transport we used in the nine days in the city was the bus to the Appian Way Park and the catacombs at St. Sebastian. Rome is an easy city to manage on foot and it is amazing how fast one can literally walk out of the city.

I can count it one of my life’s joys that I wandered through the Vatican, through countless churches and along the Appian Way, which was splendid as was Villa Borghese. I stood amazed at Rome’s modern monuments, ancient ruins and interesting people. The Palatine hill was a tremendous experience as were the Aventine and Spanish Steps. I count it a blessing to have been able to have prayed in so many ancient churches to have been able to watch the changing of the honor guard at the Italian defense ministry and to have been allowed to saunter through Rome’s neighborhoods peeking in on her people. I found the fact that there are so many religious folk in the city refreshing and was impressed by the fact that Romans, young and old embrace La Dolce Vita. Still yet, Romans are amazing builders. In countless neighborhoods doors stand open and artisans paint, mold clay, restore antiques and ply their wares. Children visit classic Piazzas and learn to draw perspective as their forefathers and mothers did, accurately and scientifically. Rome wears its love of art, beauty, music and food like a badge of honor.

I think that I’ll always remember last night, when at Campo de Fiori, our host was coaxed by his co-workers to sing two songs for us in full beautiful voice. Our host like so many others in Rome feel no anxiety to openly and fully express their zest for life in full voice and for that I am grateful, enlightened and blessed.