Italian Days, Part IX
Rome and ‘il bello della vita’
Dear readers: The previous parts of this journal can be found at the following links: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII.
Travelers who arrive at Rome’s main train station, Roma Termini, spill into the Piazza dei Cinquecento, the “Square of the 500.” Who are they? They are the men killed in the Battle of Dogali, in 1887. Dogali is a place in Eritrea, then part of the Ethiopian Empire.
The history of Italy and Ethiopia is very interesting, and ghastly. So is the history of colonialism at large. But we are skipping on …
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Man, is Rome big. It seems especially big when you have been in small towns for a while, as I have. Not only is Rome big, it is grand, monumental.
These are cliché words about Rome—and perfectly true.
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Here is a shot out the window of my hotel room. I think this is a particularly Roman look. But maybe I think that only because I’m here.
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Across the street is an African barber shop—billed that way, I mean—and I have a haircut from a Nigerian, who is trying to make his way in the world. I admire his entrepreneurial spirit and his (literal) get-up-and-go.
Peach of a guy, too. Warm, humorous.
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A nice name for an ice-cream parlor: “The Gelatist.” (I should say, the name is in English, I have not translated.)
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Down the street from me is a liceo, a lyceum, which is a secondary school that prepares students for serious higher education. A plaque says that Enrico Fermi studied here.
Is he the greatest Italian scientist since Galileo? Yes, said David N. Schwartz, when I asked him this question in New York a few months ago. He is the author of The Last Man Who Knew Everything: The Life and Times of Enrico Fermi, Father of the Nuclear Age.
David is the son of Melvin Schwartz, a physicist who shared the Nobel prize in 1988.
May I say that my grandmother, when she was a college student in Michigan, attended lectures by the great Fermi? She was mainly an arts-and-letters woman, but she knew plenty of science …
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I can sort of picture the meeting: “What shall we name our new store? It has to be a name that says to passersby, ‘Stop here.’” Well …
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Upon arrival, I made a little rule for myself: no Colosseum, no Forum, no Victor Emmanuel monument. No pictures of them in my journal. I traipsed around these places when I was a student, and there is no need to go back. Readers don’t need pictures of them, any more than they need pictures of the Empire State Building or the Space Needle.
I dropped my “rule” in about two seconds.
Isn’t this a peaceful scene, on a June evening?
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On a sign, there are “Rules of Conduct,” in both Italian and English. I like the Italian phrase: “norme di comportamento”—“norms of comportment.”
At home, from a certain political type, I hear a lot of snorting about norms. Maybe that lets us know how important norms are.
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On this evening, jazz is played in the area of the Colosseum and the Forum. It is arising from loudspeakers somewhere. I don’t see the source. The music is incongruent with the setting, I think—still, kind of pleasant …
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Would you like 80 pictures of the Forum? One would be better, right?
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Formally, the below structure is the Victor Emmanuel II National Monument. Informally, a lot of people think of it as “The Wedding Cake.”
Do you like that bird, flying near the king? A nice “photo bomb,” in my opinion.
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Maybe I could quote from a journal I wrote in Mexico last year:
In Teotihuacán [the ancient Mesoamerican city], there are many vendors, hawkers, trying to get you to buy things. This is occasionally annoying (or more than occasionally). I have to stop myself and think: “They’re just trying to make a living. And, as a rule, they have so little.”
I remind myself of the same thing here, near the Colosseum, Forum, and Wedding Cake. They’re just trying to make a living. Still, I would ban them. They are a constant intrusion on a visitor’s enjoyment of the sites.
At the Pyramids, over in Egypt, they were intolerable, and intolerant. I wanted to scream at them: “Can’t a person look at the f***ing Pyramids?” But the worst I ever experienced was in Istanbul. A person has a right to make a living, I know. But do we not also have a right to move about in relative peace?
A big subject, too big for my journal …
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I get a cup of ice cream (as might be expected). The size I choose is “colosse”—“colossus.” At home, this would be a medium, I swear. Kind of embarrassing.
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Earlier in my journal, I was speaking of Gigli—Beniamino Gigli, the great tenor. I visited his tomb in Recanati. Well, here he is in the Rome Opera House:
(That green arrowy sign behind his head is a little rude, but the world isn’t necessarily designed for picture-takers.)
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Give you a shot of the house?
Another one, of a darker hue?
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While we’re on the subject of music, here is my review of the opera I attended that night, La traviata, by Verdi (another man we have seen, via statues, in my journal).
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I am texting with Luca, master of the hotel, after he has gone home. “Sorry to bother you,” I say, “but I have a very American question: Is there any ice in the hotel?” “Unfortunately, no,” he answers. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I reply. “Cultural differences!” He answers, “Il bello della vita!” which is to say, “The beauty of life!”
Friends, I have a lot more Rome for you (not to mention what comes after), but maybe you’ve had enough for one day. See you tomorrow. Many thanks, as always.