Civita [9-24-10]

Americans are "tourists" all over the world, so we must get something important out of traveling overseas. I think one reason we travel so much is to inject a little adventure in our otherwise routine lives. Many Americans live relatively non-adventurous lives – not that there’s anything wrong with that, necessarily. Some professions are, by nature, "adventurous," like "Fire and Rescue" - - "Forest Ranger" - - "Law Enforcement." Perhaps, when those professionals do go on a trip, what they are looking for is relaxation - - not more adventure. Many of us have desk jobs or home jobs that, although important, can get a little humdrum. Our adventures surface now an then - - having to go to the grocery store in a rainstorm, or cleaning the leaves out of second-story gutters - - but more and more modern Americans seem to be satisfied to have their “greatest life adventures” through the purely surrogate experience of Hollywood movies, video games, History Channel specials, and the occasional novel. It wasn't always that way. Our ancestors had real (i.e., non-digital, non-virtual) adventures throughout their lives: escaping persecutions, packing up the family and shipping off to a whole new world with no sure job and a new language to learn -- fighting off predators, hunting for tomorrow’s meal, discerning between real allies and real enemies. Their world, far more “macro” than ours today, was filled with quests, threats, challenges, and (since you and I exist today) victories, all of which kept them on the edge, dealing with dire, sometimes dangerous, circumstances - - which had the added virtue of actually existing. In stark contrast, the modern couch potatoes among us tend to stay home and have their adventures through the electronic media. The irony is that never before have there been so many relatively easy ways to travel far away and see more of the real world we live in while we're still here. Those comparatively few who do opt for "distant travel" typically do so not out of necessity, but for something else: enjoyment? relaxation? education? -- or even the emotional stimulation brought about by a kind of “other worldly” experience. SCUBA diving off the Cayman Islands, after all, isn’t usually done so the diver can learn more about fish, and skiing down the front bowl of Whistler Mountain in Canada isn’t for the purpose of arriving at the bottom. These things are done because they are exciting, new, adventurous experiences that plunge the actor into a fairly safe but alien world which, yes, “could” be seen at the IMAX, but cannot be truly experienced except by direct physical contact … whether by sinking into the clear salt waters of the reef, or throwing your body down into the frozen white-powder abyss sprawling in front of you.

Are there good reasons for foreign travel other than "adventure?" Absolutely. Many subtle experiential gifts lie in wait for the American traveler to come stumbling along. The only requirement is a truly open mind. Those little "experiential gifts" pop up continually. It might be brushing elbows with the undeniably colorful people who populate and give context to exotic locations. It might be getting an opportunity to spend time with family away from the ordinary distractions of regular life. It might be to further a romantic relationship, to rekindle bonds with old friends, or even to get bragging rights. “Sure! I know it well. In fact I was just there last summer.” Or it might simply be to experience a new reality, profoundly different in time and space from the world we know in our common hours.

Which brings us to Civita di Bagnoregio (“chee-VEE-tah dee bahn-yo-RAY-jo”). Given all of the great reasons people gravitate to famous destinations, why would anyone go so far out of their way to enter the gates of this tiny, modest, even insignificant place in Central Italy? What’s more, why do so many people come here? A town with one little hotel, and perhaps three cafés where you can grab a bite - - a delicious bite, to be sure, but still.

My journey to Civita was for that hard-to-describe “other worldly” experience. Prior to my first visit to this little hill town in 2007, my sister had recommended I read a short novel called The Miracles of Santo Fico by Dennis L Smith. It was an utterly charming book, with interesting characters and situations set in a tiny Italian town precariously perched on top of a hill somewhere in Tuscany. I loved the people who populated this little book and wanted to go to Santo Fico, except for the fact that it was fictional. Fictional, at least, until one sees from a distance, for the first time, the tiny but proud Italian hill town of Civita. With a little conjuring, this would be Santo Fico for me, and it played the part to perfection.

Of course, the little shops and cafés in Santo Fico – I mean Civita – were not hurt by the fact that when travel-advice guru Rick Steves was once compelled to answer the question “What is your favorite hill town in Italy?” … he wrote, “Of all the Italian hill towns, Civita di Bagnoregio is my favorite.”

I’m sure he had his own reasons for making such a singular declaration (he could have easily responded with something silly like "Oh, they're all my favorites!"), but once I saw the town across the valley from me, I immediately understood. Civita is like no other place I’ve ever seen or heard of. It is that suspended-in-time village you hope still exists somewhere in Tuscany, even if it could never be found, living only in your imagination. As if to add to the mysterious aura of this town, we know that Civita will not last forever. The Italians call it the Dying Village ("La Città Che Muore"). This is literally true. Civita is dying on a couple of levels. First, erosion has taken its toll on the town over the past 2,500 years of its existence (it was here long before the Roman Empire), and today the townspeople do everything they can to prevent any further washing away of the steep limestone cliffs that support what’s left of the town. It is also dying for the same reason that so many of its sister cities are dying in “old Italy.” Its young people have moved away for better jobs and modern lives in the larger cities, leaving behind only their aging parents and grandparents in the little villages of their birth. Yes, rich folk from the big cities, like Rome to the south, purchase buildings here, or sections of buildings, and, after a good updating, use Civita as their personal retreat. As non-authentic as they may be, these new dweller/investors may end up saving the city, in the same way skiers have “saved” some of the old mining villages in the Rocky Mountains -- by bringing hard-earned dollars from home to spend on vacation.

I will never forget seeing Civita from across the valley for the first time, or walking the long, inclined pedestrian bridge up to the main fortified gate of the city (there are no automobiles here) – the same pathway once used by the donkeys of the town to haul provisions up from the rich farmlands of the valley below. “It’s like a Hollywood set,” I thought. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s the reverse. This is what Hollywood sets try to look like; this is the real deal.”

As the town got closer and closer to me, I was mentally losing centuries of time. One step closer and I was in the post-World War II era (Civita was right here, resisting the Nazi troops when it could, holding out for that blessed day when the Allied armies came to this valley); another step and I was in the time of Napoleon, next was the Italian Renaissance; then came the looming darkness of the Middle Ages and the Great Plague of 1348. By the time I touched the warm stone corner of the massive city tower gate, I was touching the solid work of the Roman period, built in an opening in the natural stone façade cut by the Etruscans more than 2,500 years ago. Time travel without H. G. Wells, and with no need of his magical machines.

My sister, brother-in-law and I (in 2007) stopped first at the little bed and breakfast (& café) called the Trattoria Antico Forno (the “Ancient Oven Café”) and had lunch. The proprietor of the café and bedrooms was Franco - - a jovial man sporting an olive green shirt and a wine colored apron (appropriate, right?), who advised us on ordering the perfect little lunch to fill our bellies, while he sat with us and practiced his English telling us about his establishment, the town, the people here, and how proud they all were that the American, Rick Steves, loves the town and has sent to Civita so many nice travelers. With great pride he pointed to a photograph on the wall nex to the fireplace showing him and Rick Steves in front of the restaurant. His is the only (currently known) establishment in Civita where one can, with reservations made over the Internet, stay the night in Civita. Angela and Kevin and I fantasized about the possibility of coming here to spend Christmas some day in the future, with snow on the cobblestones and roaring fires in every fireplace. Franco said we should definitely do that some day. He says Christmas in the little village is magical. I bet he's right. Our lunch was accompanied by a fine local white wine in the Orvieto Classico style. After Franco departed from our table to let us finish up, I noticed a nearby window standing open with little translucent cotton curtains on either side. I got up and walked over to it to see what the little town square would have looked like to one of the residents of this building during the Middle Ages. I’m sure it was the same view I saw.

This 2010 trip to Civita would be my second, and I’m sure Walt and Brenda soon picked up on my eagerness to be in that space again.

We had breakfast at our country inn and then jumped into our rental car for this year’s first “day trip” (what touring Tuscany is all about). The country road in the direction of Civita is certainly well maintained, but requires patience as one navigates through the high hills west of Orvieto. Soon enough we were entering the larger town of Bagnoregio, the protector of little Civita. One “travel tip” I learned from my trip here in 2007 was not to park the car at the first parking lot in Bagnoregio and undertake walking to Civita from there. Too far – even though the signs around the first visible parking lot indicate “Civita Parcheggio.” Don’t fall for it. One can drive on through Bagnoregio, carefully following the little signs for Civita, and arrive at a small parking lot at the base of the foot bridge to the town. You can even get a nice cone of gelato there at the parking lot to sugar-fuel your ascent into the village via the long, inclined ramp.

On our walk up, we met and stopped to talk to several other people just coming down from the city. These occasions never present a loss for words of conversation, even among strangers. “Was this your first time?” “Did you find a neat place to eat?” “Where did you park?” These and many other inquiries thinly disguise the climber’s need to stop and catch breath on the way up.

Reaching the top of the long bridge, we walked through the great tower gate, furiously taking pictures in all directions. It’s exciting to have a digital camera (i.e., no concern for the expense of film or eventual processing) when practically everything you see could easily result in a beautiful and/or fascinating photograph. One of the first things I like to check out when walking through the gate in a city wall is the remaining evidence of the clever ways the town had, at some point in history, devised to "bar the gate" against marauders. Often you can see deep grooves in the stonework on either side of the gate's interior that allowed huge iron bar grids to quickly drop out of the tower above, sliding into place to create a reinforced barrier. Other gates have odd looking iron rings, brackets, and crevices in service to their defense plan, as well as deep triangular cuts built into the wall opening with only a narrow vertical slit on the exterior of the wall, allowing archers inside the wall greater freedom of angle and aim at their foes, while greatly limiting the "target" opening for the returning arrows of attackers outside.

As we walked under the wall and into the town, we quickly came into the sunny main plaza of Civita, with a small number of local citizens and tourists sitting around on benches and at tables. Humble in comparison to the town squares of most Italian towns, this well-maintained opening in Civita's layout has been the center of life here since long before the time of Christ. There was no doubt that the rock pavement under our feet once felt the sandals and togas of Roman tax collectors, where today it had to put up with our fashionable boots and New Balance sneakers. A church, naturally, held the most prominent position among the buildings that fronted onto the square. We looked around and tried to spot other fellow "visitors" to Civita that morning. It seemed that perhaps as many as 30 other tourists were dispersed throughout the town, wandering down its few little streets or happily tucked away in rustic shops and cafés.

We checked out the several small eateries lining the edges of the central square, offering tables and chairs and a soothing air of relaxation as several people settled in for a lunchtime break. When we paused in our photographic buzz, we agreed that we were in heaven, and the only thing that could possibly add to our joy would be a bite of something tasty to eat, some chilled white wine, and a little table in a shady corner of the square to watch the townspeople and our fellow travelers wander by. We sat at a little table outside the door of a tiny “bruschetteria” (a specialty café that serves nothing but artfully adorned Tuscan toast called bruschetta -- pronounced “bru-SKET-tah” … not “bru-SHET-tah”). We ordered various toppings on our sampler bruschetta plate, but my favorite is still the classic. The toast was pulled from the wood-burning oven at just the right moment, giving it a light brown, crispy crust (with little points of extra char on sharp corners). When it cooled to room temperature in order to regain its strength, the girls inside the preparation area took fat, white cloves of fresh garlic

and used the crispy surface of the toast as a rasp to eat away at the body of the clove as they lightly rubbed back and forth, leaving behind the flavorful oils and bits of garlic. A light sprinkling of sea salt was next, sticking easily to the garlic oil. Then, plopped on top, was a simple mixture of diced, deep-red tomatoes, local Tuscan olive oil, fine strips of basil and fresh ground pepper. I could have eaten about 70.

When we were nicely fed, and refreshed from the chilled wine, we signaled the cute little waitress with a smiling "Il conto, per favore." She came to our table, noticed our completely empty plates, and said "Non vorreste piu?" (Wouldn't you like some more?). We laughed and explained that, as perfect as her buschetta may have been, we only had a little time and were ready to explore. So we settled our account and set out. Civita has only one pedestrian street (called simply “la strada,” since there’s only one and no need to distinguish it from others with different names), spanning the distance from the main gate, through the central town square, and on to the opposite end where it terminates with a little rock stairway the leads partway down the cliff to a rocky ledge pathway that leads to several Etruscan caves created for burials but now used used by the townspeople for storage. Most of the caves on this hill have long since been filled in with rocks and mortar in an effort to retard the relentless erosion that has threatened Civita for centuries. We spent a little time in the cave area, but decided the best way to spend our limited time would be exploring every nook and cranny we could find in the town itself. So, returning to “the street” level, we began wandering down practically every little alley until it ended, inevitably, at a short wall or balcony overlooking the valley far below. The people of the town were very friendly, but also a little oblivious to our touring around. Like tourist attractions the world over, locals may not be in love with seeing strangers come and go every day, but they do understand that the fresh money they leave behind in cafes and shops allows a number of the townspeople to make a good living. The people here seemed more sophisticated than one might expect. They didn’t have the look of active farmers (as one might have seen 500 years ago when donkeys were used to bring harvests up into the town from the two river valleys on either side of this hill). They seemed to have a sense of dignity and bearing that said “Who we are is important.” I liked seeing them casually conversing with their neighbors in a courtyard or sharing a cup of coffee in the plaza. It assured us that this place was real, and that real people called this town their home. Since all surfaces are rock (they can’t afford to let water seep through grassy lawns, dampen the clay and sand beneath the town, and bring on new threats of erosion), the people of Civita have made a point of softening the look of their town with potted plantings. It seemed every window had a window box with crimson geraniums and other flowers I could never name. Stone stairways would be lined with potted plants, vines and shrubs somehow managed to take hold and grace a wall here, a trellis there. These beautiful plant seemed to have a soul of their own. They, and the houses they adorn, spend the day watching passersby like us come and go, always presenting the smile of particular beauty tucked away in some corner of this magical place.

There is something that many small towns like this share the world over. In Civita you could easily find yourself having wandered down to the end of a pebbled side alley, looking out over the valley below, with no one around, but you never feel alone or at risk in any way. Do the same thing in New York city and your natural defense mechanisms kick into high gear: “Should I be on my guard? I wonder if this area is safe.” In this little hill town, safe aloneness is simply another kind of luxury that invites reflection on the vast span of time represented by all that you see around you. Its centuries old struggle to survive somehow relates to our own quest to resist the ravages of time and to live fully in the days we have left. The fact that Civita still exists today, defying all the geological odds stacked against it, is a kind of miracle. Maybe that’s why this little town will always be Santo Fico to me.

Orvieto [9-23-10]

On Thursday morning we met in the hotel’s subterranean breakfast area and had another sumptuous breakfast, with all kinds of pastries, meats, cheeses, fruit, eggs dishes, various fruit juices, tarts, torts, yogurts and cereals. We had scheduled a noon train northbound, so packing, breakfast and checking out was with some leisure. Our destination was Orvieto.

I had visited Orvieto briefly several years earlier and had always wanted to go back and spend more time there. Located in the province of Umbria (lying just to the east of Tuscany), Orvieto is a classic Italian “hill town.” We arrived at the train station, eventually figured out where the car rental agency was, and before too long were following the GPS device’s instructions to our country inn just across the valley from Orvieto, called InnCasa. After arrival and some settling in, we met on the cliffside patio of the inn for some wine, as we studied this legendary city across the valley from us. Click on this photo of Orvieto and you will see that it, like many Italian towns, is built on top of a large hill, not because life was particularly easier on top of hills 2,000 years ago, but because hills offered important strategic benefits if the city ever had to fend off invaders. National armies capable of protecting individual towns, so common in today's world, didn’t actually come along until the late Middle Ages in Europe. Do-it-yourself was any town's best survival plan. When the first Roman armies advanced this far north of Rome in the early expansion of their kingdom, the 500-year old Etruscan city of Orvieto was a principal obstacle. Looking down from its high city walls today, into the beautiful valleys below, one can imagine the legions camped along the facing hillsides, pondering how on Earth to take this formidable city.

Why did this city present more of an obstacle than the normal Etruscan hill town? Because Orvieto, from a distance, has the look of a hill town that hit the “UP” button and increased its height several hundred more feet, all thanks to Mother Nature. It is built atop a large volcanic uplift of tufa stone that has the look of having been ejected from the surrounding countryside. It’s a hill, and then some. The sheer cliffs that surround the city offer virtual impregnability, at least in the short term. No attacker could build ladders long enough to scale these city walls, positioned as they were. Or, if they could be built, they could certainly never be lifted into place. Although solid enough, the subsurface tufa stone was not particularly difficult to slowly hack your way through. Even in pre-Roman times, the citizens of Orvieto had been excavating into the mountain below their houses and shops, creating a maze of underground chambers, stairways and passages larger in volume than all of the man-made structures of the present day city combined. This was done principally to find sources of fresh water within the mountain, accessible at the many wellheads in the city up on the surface. More wells meant longer survival during times of an enemy's siege to the town. When well shafts failed to hit water, here and there, the "unsuccessful" excavations would simply become shafts to perfect dry, cool storage areas for salted meats, wine, cheese, and even homes for thousands of the city's pigeons (commonly used as a meat source). If you ever wondered what a "real pigeon hole" looked like, click on this photo. Fascinating tours of the Orvieto underground are available today (tickets are handed out at the tourist information office across from the the main cathedral).

Looking across the valley over our glasses of chilled Orvieto Bianco, we could clearly see the great Cathedral of Orvieto silhouetted against the evening sky, as the tops of ancient buildings held onto the last of this day's sunlight.

We decided to finish our olives, cheese and wine, and then jump in the car and go have dinner in Orvieto rather than stay for dinner at the inn. How blessed it is to have a moment in your life when you can say, "Hey, let's go over to Orvieto and have dinner there tonight." So, off we went. We drove the narrow spiraling road to the top of the mountain in about 15 minutes. Parking was no problem, and from the parking lot, after a brief stroll up the street, we found ourselves in front of the magnificent front façade of the Great Cathedral of Orvieto. It may sound trite, but “this is no ordinary cathedral” - - not by any standard. It took almost 300 years to build, through a succession of popes hiring a succession of architects to complete yet another tower or to embellish yet another system of arches. Even so, there is great unity of concept in the overall effect it has upon first viewing. With the setting sun shining into the vast gold plated ornamentations, your jaw drops, and all you can say is, "Magnificent."

Clearly this is a "papal" church, not a village church. If you happened to see the recent TV series “The Tudors,” you might remember that when England's King Henry VIII sent his ambassador to negotiate with the pope, he didn't go to Rome … instead he travels "to Orvieto." Rome was the home base of the Papal States in the Middle Ages, but the city fell periodically into the hands of invaders, like the Spanish or French. Orvieto was the pope’s traditional safe refuge, where he could hibernate in relative safety until peace could be worked out.

The detail of ornamentation on the church’s front façade was breathtaking. The gold leaf seemed to be polished for a special occasion. Every inch of the surface seemed to provide a detail of design that was overwhelming, with works of art displaying the lives of Jesus, the Apostles, and, above all, Mary. That is one of the interesting distinctions of European churches and our churches in the United States. These are not so much Christian as Marian. Mary is elevated and centralized, outside and inside, as the principal focal point of religious adoration. Jesus is present, but often depicted as no more than an infant in the arms of Mary. Click on the photo of the church (above) and look carefully at the main arched pediment over the central door to this renowned cathedral -- and at the principal mosaic above that arch. That says it all, and contravenes the premise of Dan Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code” which tried to convince the reader that the Catholic Church has for centuries attempted to suppress the “mother god” or the “feminine sacred.” Hardly!

We found a wonderful little sidewalk café and ordered ample treats and wine – again, the establishment was nothing famous, but if it existed in my home city, it would be the talk of the town. How do they do it? We enjoyed our dinner as we watched the townspeople come and go. Nuns, kids, and my favorite, small clusters of old ladies who have obviously known each other their entire lives.

Our agenda for discussion was how we would spend the next day. We would only have two “touring days” in this part of Italy and wanted to make the most of it. Of the many possibilities, I recommended we take advantage of the fact that Orvieto lies fairly close to one of the most striking little hilltop villages in the world – Civita di Bagnoregio. Walt and Brenda said it sounded perfect for our excursion, so we finished up our meal and made our way back to the country inn to get a good night’s rest.

Rome [9-20-10]

I awoke without opening my eyes -- conscious but confused. The pillows did not feel like mine, because they were larger and the crisp pillowcases had probably been ironed. It had to be a hotel. Oh yeah, “I am waking up in Rome.” It was still early, and this day would be mine.

The three of us had arrived at Leonardo da Vinci Airport later than expected last night, I along with my old college friends Walt and Brenda. We were collected at the terminal exit gate by the hotel’s dashing driver, Massimo, who had immediately started chatting up Brenda as Walt and I trundled our luggage to his waiting limo. We zipped down the freeway to Rome and then slowly wound our way through the darkening city to its “historic center” (the “Centro Storico”), tired from the long flight from Dallas via London. Soon Massimo delivered us to the front steps of the Grand Hotel della Minerve – one of my favorite headquarters when staying in this, my favorite city in the world.

I remembered stepping out of the limo, glancing through the glass and polished brass rotating door of the hotel, and then, like a reflex, turning to look up at the great dome of Hadrian’s Pantheon to the left and then over to the front doors of the Santa Maria Sopra Minerva to the right … where Bernini's patient elephant still stood carrying his Egyptian obelisk inexplicably upright on his back. Minerva – Pantheon – Bernini's Elephant … all within a few feet of where I stood. I was in the center of the center of the Centro Storico, and once the center of the world. Home again.

I gathered myself and realized Walt was paying Massimo. I caught his eye: “Trip list?”

“Trip list,” he confirmed with a smile.

Anyone who has traveled with me knows that I always utilize a running total of who paid how much, for what, and who enjoyed the benefit, so we fellow travelers can settle up at the end of the trip with a simple application of math. It is called (by me) the Turbivillian Trip List, named for a great old friend who introduced me to the concept years ago on our fishing trips to Port Aransas. It basically means that, throughout the trip, it never really matters who pays for what, or who didn’t pay. It eliminates the traditional travelers' dialogue of “But you paid last time; I should get this one,” a roughly hewn process guaranteed to be unfair to one or more randomly selected participants in the conversation. Nonsense. Just keep simple records and settle up after you’re back home in the States. The “trip list” makes “who paid” irrelevant, so everyone can get on with the vacationing part of vacations.

We checked in, got our room assignments at the desk, and agreed to meet back in the lobby in 30 minutes sharp … enough time for a quick shower and change of clothes. The pretty receptionist asked if we would like restaurant recommendations. I thanked her and said we were going to the restaurant of an old friend nearby, “… ma tante grazie, nonostante!” Her eyes widened with a smile, and she replied, “Molto bene, signore.”

When the time came to meet back in the lobby, I arrived first. A group of very “highly dressed,” upper tier men and women, obviously together, had preceded me into the collection of plush sofas, so I found a chair on the far side of the grand room and became an observer. They apparently knew each other. The women touched each other’s hands as they made some particularly humorous point in a story. The men, distinguished and refined, gently patted each other on the shoulders as they talked. If someone had told me they were the senior members of the Italian Parliament, it would have immediately made sense. They did not, however, seem to be guests at the hotel, since new members continued to enter the hotel to join the group with warm greetings all around. Perhaps they were gathering in the lobby in anticipation of a large group reservation at the hotel’s grand dining room up on “the roof.”

Walt and Brenda then arrived and we strolled off to our more modest plan for a quick meal … and then bed!

The walk was short … just straight forward from the hotel door along the east side of the Pantheon, and crossing the piazza (square) at a northwestern angle. There was the little sidewalk café of Di Rienzo. I had eaten here a good number of times, but even Walt and Brenda had been here with me in six years ago in 2004. We stopped a short distance away from the tables and scanned the waiters to see if Salvatore happened to be on duty. In a few seconds, prancing out the main door balancing a tray full of flatbreads, there he was in all his cheerful, proprietorial glory.

After placing the dishes, he spotted us looking at him with big grins on our faces and came up to us with arms flailing. “Signonri, signori … buona sera!!”

“Signor Salvatore, sono io, Michele da Dallas!” [Note: My name in Italy is Michele, pronounced "mee-KEL-eh" not, for heaven's sake, "mee-SHELL"]

“Michele! Oh yes, I remember you so well. You send many people to me, and I take care of them per-fect-lee.”

He seated us at one of his tables, showing us the extensive menu, but promising to “take care of us” (as he had always done). He was distraught that the owner of the restaurant Michele Rienzo, was not there yet, but he popped inside and return quickly with Rienzo’s daughter, anxious to introduce her to his “old friend” Michele from Dallas, Texas. She was equally charming and spoke English with ease, wanting to know when we arrived (“Just an hour ago!”) and how long we would be in town (“Unfortunately, only two days.”). We ordered delightful pastas and salads along with the house pinot griggio (“vino di casa”) for Brenda and me. Walt ordered beer … "just a glass, not a pitcher." Salvatore returned with two large wine glasses with the good stuff swinging around inside … and then handed Walt a tiny glass of beer. Walt’s jaw dropped, and then he realized Salvatore was just having a bit of fun. Grinning widely, he offered: “You wanna a bigguh glass, signore? I’ll bring-uh you uh bigger glass of beer … subito!”

We settled in and agreed we could just sit there all night, at our little table on the Piazza della Rotonda, watching the world go by.

When we were finishing up, Salvatore noticed how we couldn’t take our eyes off the front colonnade of the Pantheon (this temple being the only fully preserved treasure from the Roman imperial era). “Michele, do you remember what means the words?”

I was so hoping he would ask. “Oh, yes, Salvatore. You taught me many years ago. "Marcus Agrippa, son of Luccio, consul three times, built this.” The inscription above the columns on the front of the temple is written in “abbreviated” Latin, and its declaration is not really even true. Marcus Agrippa was a close friend of Emperor Augustus, and he was given permission to build a temple on this spot honoring the “all-gods-in-one.” It was an immediate favorite of the Romans of the First Century. But a century later, Emperor Hadrian replaced it with a larger, grander edifice and central dome, so everything you see today as the Pantheon is the work of Hadrian and his architects, not Marcus Agrippa. In deference to its origins, however, Emperor Hadrian (my personal favorite Roman emperor) generously decided to repeat the words inscribed above the original temple, and thus the well-intended historical “inaccuracy.”

We said good night and promised to return before departing Rome. He said he would be waiting for us. Salvatore is living proof that when judging a restaurant experience, the quality of the food is only one of factors to consider. A beautiful meal can be ruined by a sullen, mumbling waiter with a scratch pad … or a waitress whose only mental theme is the cruel fate which forces her to work tables instead of enjoying “the good life” with those gathering in the lobby of the Minerve. Attitude rules everything else in life, and Salvatore is obviously thrilled to be playing the lead role as protagonist in his own story.

We returned to the hotel, and my companions suggested that tomorrow be a “late morning sleep in” so we could regain our own pep and vigor. Our tour guide was not scheduled to arrive in the hotel lobby until 10:30 A.M. We went to our rooms and literally passed out from almost 48 hours without sleep.


- - - - - - -

“Okay. This is Tuesday morning. We got in last night. We had dinner with Salvatore. And our guide won’t show up this morning until 10:30. What time is it now?”

I opened my eyes in the still dark bedroom. No clock. I felt for my iPhone on the bedside table, pressed the familiar start button, and a bright screed illuminated my face, declaring the time to be 6:05 AM. Perfect! I got up and showered, did some minimal organizing of my room, and by 6:45 AM I was walking out the front door of the hotel. It was time for one of my favorite pleasures: watching a great city wake up in the morning. I have done this in many cities I've visited over the years, London, San Francisco, Hong Kong, Singapore, New York City, Madrid ... but nothing surpasses Rome in the early morning. The angled light against the sides of ancient buildings, the baritone Italian "opera" of the early shop keepers opening their doors mixed with chirping kids collecting in front of schools, the incense of thousands of pastries coming out of their ovens, seemingly somewhere right around the corner.

I decided to walk again to the Piazza della Rotonda. Most of the shops and restaurants were still closed, but the morning deliveries were already well underway before morning rush hour would make the task all but impossible. I wandered down a side street, new to me, in the direction of the Piazza Navona, passing little alleys with cafés where people were already stopping in for their morning cappuccino and brioche. Nothing is better than this simple early morning fare in the middle of the Eternal City. This part of Rome restricts automobile traffic to a good extent, so cafés can simply put a couple of chairs in the street outside there doors, and there's always someone who will sit down for some form of caffeine and something sweet.

In a quiet inset, just off the street, I saw an elderly couple scooting their chairs back and getting up from their coffee, so I slowly moved in that direction to nab their table when they began walking away.

“Buon giorno, Signore,” said a waiter from inside the café … an Italian dead ringer for singer Tony Bennett, wearing a white shirt and narrow black tie, with a big white chef’s apron tied around him. Right out of “central casting.” I greeted him and asked him how his morning was going, then ordered my usual, a cappuccino and a cream-filled croissant I saw through the window. In a few minutes presentation was made. Before delving into the pastry, I lifted the large white cup to my mouth. The sweet foam touches the lips, the warm coffee underneath reveals itself, and the fix is complete. Only when I was about halfway through the cappuccino did I start breaking off parts of the croissant and enjoying both “insieme.”

One digression. Everyone knows that a “cappuccino” is a kind of espresso and hot frothy milk combined – only for breakfasts in Italy … for any meal in the States. What I think is interesting is where the name came from. The Cappuccini (the plural of Cappuccino) are an ancient order of Catholic monks. When the morning drink became popular, some clever person noticed that the mixture of espresso and milk resulted in a light brown color that resembled the classic robes of the Cappuccin monks - - so the drink became a “cappuccino.” This sign pointed the way to a nearby Cappuccin monastery. I wonder if anyone has ever thought it was pointing the way to a hot spot for morning coffee!

As the next hour passed by, I downed another hot cappuccino and saw an ever-increasing number of people passing by, collecting at street corners waiting for their busses to work, stopping and talking to old friends in the street. This “street culture” is something we have long since left behind in my hometown of Dallas. Our cars insulate us from even our closest neighbors. Romans seems to want constant interaction. There is something else, too. You might think that Romans today would be considered snooty by other Italians, since Rome is the capital city and the city with the most noble of all histories. But that's not the case. There is an expression common in Italy stating that "Romans carry their hearts in their hands." By that fellow Italians are acknowledging that Romans, as a whole, are open and welcoming of strangers to their city. They offer them their hearts freely. I like that.


When I returned to the hotel, Walt and Brenda were up and ready for our day of touring. We had retained a tour guide whom I had met briefly in 2007, named Tim Roberts. Tim has dual citizenship, was raised in the United States, and is married to an Italian woman. As much as I love Italians, I have to admit that there is an advantage in hiring a "native English speaker" for tours if you can find a really good one - - someone who truly knows and loves the city. I have had wonderful Italians leading tours in the past who were somewhat hard to understand. Tim arrived in the hotel lobby right on schedule and the four of us set off for the Jewish Quarter as our first destination, just a short walk from the hotel. Tim liked the history of the Jewish Quarter and gave us its chronology from early pagan times during the imperial period, on through the later Christian era.

This photo is of the Porta Giulia (“Julia”), one of the main gates through which the Jews of Rome exited in the morning when it was unlocked (so they could go about their business in the main part of the city), and through which they all returned in the evenings, when it was relocked. Through the opening of the arched gate (please excuse the construction scaffolding to the left) you can see the great columns of the Teatro Marcello (the Theatre of Marcellus). What makes both features of the photo interesting to me – well, one of the things – is that “Julia” and “Marcellus” were two individuals who were important to Augustus Caesar. Julia was his only natural born child (named for Augustus’s great uncle, Julius Caesar), and was a great disappointment to Augustus. Her lusty lifestyle so enraged him that he finally ordered her into banishment, exiled to the island of Pandateria in the Mediterranean Sea. He was serious. She was allowed no wine, and only women companions and guards – no men. She died in 14 A.D., but this one gate does still carry her name and memory.

Marcellus was Augustus’s nephew. Accordingly, he always had the favor of the emperor after he ascended to power following his defeat of Mark Anthony and Cleopatra. It was in this location that Augustus permitted Marcellus to design and construct (at state expense) his great theatre, which, as you can see in the distance, still stands today. Because he was the only son of Augustus’s only sister (and because Augustus had “only a daughter”), all Romans assumed Marcellus would be the natural heir to the supreme position of Augustus as “First Among Equals.” But Augustus’s new wife, Livia, had ambitions for her own son by another marriage (Tiberius). It is widely believed that Livia secretly poisoned Marcellus to remove him as a contender - - and that she later poisoned Augustus to seal the deal. Hence: Tiberius Caesar, the second emperor of Rome ... a competent administrator of a rapidly expanding realm, but (like several who would follow him) not exactly a nice person.

I wanted Walt and Brenda to see the little nook my family and I stayed in when we were all here together in 2007, so from the Jewish Quarter we walked back through the Campo dei Fiori (the “field of flowers”) and then on to the little Piazza Mattei and the Fontana delle Tartarughe (Fountain of the Turtles). It was first completed in 1588, but without turtles! Seventy years later, in 1658, the great Bernini added the four turtles during a restoration of the fountain. This is a favorite fountain for many Romans. Also for film makers. I don’t know how many movies I’ve seen set in Rome where the characters, at some point, stroll by the pretty little fountain. Matt Damon and Gwyneth Paltrow walked by it in “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” for example. It’s tucked away in this little piazza, not really on the way TO anywhere else, and so there would never be a reason to “stroll by it” in the real world, but it’s a great Roman focal point for the cameras anyway.

The “Forum” of Rome is a fascinating concentration of ruins still standing from the Roman imperial era. Tim took us through it, and I was happy to see that, no matter how many tours of the area one might have taken in the past, there is always something new to see and learn. Here is a carving on a pavement stone I never noticed before. As you can see, it’s a circle with the Latin word ORACULUS engraved within its circumference. An oracle (oraculus) is a kind of “soothsayer” or fortune-teller rather respected at this time, but for the sake of decorum, which was also highly valued, oracles of that time could only stand in specific places in the central plaza of temples. So, within this very circle stood a long procession of Roman fortune-tellers, warning of terrible events to come. I wonder if the guy who told Julius Caesar to “beware the ides of March” stood right here?

Here is another statement etched in the pavement stone, but this one must be visualized to be understood. They are engraved cart tracks, pressed into the stone as if it were soft clay. These streets became narrower over time as new temples were built and old ones expanded. The resulting constriction on traffic flow caused the iron-clad wheels of constant carts and chariots to traverse the same, limited traffic pattern, slowly carving out the hard pavement stone. Tim pointed out several of these time-worn tracks along the Via Sacra (the route into the Forum traveled by returning conquerors in celebration of their triumphs). If you go, be sure to put your hand into these tracks and feel the flow of a million wagons when Rome was taking over the known world.

After touring the Forum and the Palatine Hill, we were beginning to get hungry and in need of a good place to sit down. Tim suggested we duck in to a little restaurant he liked. I just wanted something simple (which most truly Roman food is), so I ordered the shrimp and tomato linguini. It was spectacular; I could have eaten five plates of it (but didn’t!). Look at this photo. I rest my case. It reminded me of some of the pasta dishes my cooking class studied at the Casa Innocenti in Tuscany in 2009. What made it so great? Two major things. First the tomatoes were Italian, which means they had about three times the flavor of what we've become tolerant of in the United States. Second, they know how to cook shrimp. Too many U.S. restaurants serve white, watery, virtually tasteless shrimp simply because the cooks either don't know what makes their flavors come alive, or they simply don't have the time to "do it right."

In the afternoon we spent some time in and around the great monument to the first king of “United Italy,” Vittorio Emanuele II (a/k/a “Victor Emanuel” in English). This gigantic monument (much larger than our Lincoln Memorial in Washington) has many nicknames, like “the Wedding Cake” or “the Typewriter.” It is loved and criticized by modern Romans. It was launched in 1911 (so, by no means an “ancient” structure) and completed by Mussolini in 1935. I actually like it a lot. I think it is “overly grand,” sure, but who cares. The Forum’s ruins are historic, but always fail to give a powerful impression of what it must have felt like to a first time visitor to ancient Rome, to gaze upon these overwhelming structures. Look up at the Wedding Cake, and you can get some of what that feeling of awe was like 2,000 years ago, in this very spot.

The Wedding Cake looks out onto a large plaza with plenty of traffic and broad boulevards intersecting into its great circle. This is the Piazza Venezia, named for its other prominent building, the Palazzo Venezia (the Venetian Palace). In 1564 the ruling pope gave this palace to the Republic of Venice (Venezia), and for many years it was used as a noble residence for the Venetian ambassador to the papal court. During this era, popes made no pretense of being only the clerical leaders of the Catholic Church. They were "earthly" rulers, too, commanding armies, waging war, collecting taxes, living in luxury, and lovingly burning people alive who disagreed with them on issues they found, for whatever reason, important. Quite a heritage. Today we can still see the mark of Venice on this building. Look up and you will see the stone emblem of a lion, with wings, and one paw touching an open book -- even today, the singular symbol of Venice, and, to the Catholic world, the symbol of Saint Mark, the patron saint of Venice for many centuries.

* * * * * * * * * *
Wednesday morning I woke up early again and started the day sipping cappuccino on the piazza in front of the Pantheon, and trying to read that morning’s Rome newspaper. Across the way I saw this man sitting on a stool, “minding his own business,” as they say, when a lady walked in front of him, asked him a question in Italian (so I changed my mind and assumed they probably were not tourists). He answered. She asked another. He smiled and answered again, and she apparently had a point of view to share on that point, because she sat down on a planter and went into what seemed to be prepared remarks, while her one-man audience listened politely. My eavesdropping skills aren’t what they should be, or I would have listened to every word!

When Walt and Brenda met up with me, we set off for a day of just random wandering through the city. I suggested we start by taking a quick tour of the “Museum of Rome,” just south of the famous Piazza Navona (arguably Europe’s most wonderful public plaza). The museum was not as ancient in focus as I had been hoping (I had never been there before). It has some beautiful classical sculpture, but seemed to be principally devoted to the era of the Italian Civil War in the middle 1800’s (the same time our Union and Confederacy were slugging it out here in the United States). This bust and painting, quite beautiful, in a narrative sort of way, was typical of the holdings of this museum. It shows Garibaldi (the Abraham Lincoln of Italy, more or less) addressing the throngs in the Piazza del Popolo. He was the chief inspiration (instigator) of this war, which was really more a war of unification of multiple dukedoms and principalities than a traditional “civil war.” I have found monuments to Garibaldi in even the smallest towns of Italy. He’s everywhere. I wonder what he’d say about Berlusconi today, or even the Mafia for that matter.

The prevailing symbols of Rome are the most ancient ones. I can think of two that stand out. The letters SPQR (a Latin acronym for “Senate and People of Rome”) was once carried atop a tall pole at the head of all Roman legions as they went into battle. Today you can find these four letters embossed on just about every “manhole cover” in the city, and on the sides of government buildings, and ancient arches. [Interestingly, in modern Italian, a language barely 200 years old, the acronym would be something like "CGDR" - - but they will never take the place of the four original letters so beloved by the likes of Augustus Caesar.]

The rival symbol of the city is the “she wolf nursing the infant twins, Romulus and Remus.” This symbol has robust visibility as you walk the streets of Rome. In fact, you can even see the two twins and the wolf in the circular emblem above the SPQR (above). This is the legendary origin of the city. The twins were placed in a basket and sent down the Tiber River, only to be rescued and nursed back to health by a “she wolf.” When they grew up, Romulus killed Remus and became the first “king” of the very small city of Rome. He built his home, and the first hilltop village atop the Palatine Hill, and visitors today can visit that very location today. Modern historians always hasten to point out that in old Latin, prostitutes were called “she wolves,” so it may be that the twins were rescued by a human, not a canine. The legend goes on to say that the murdered Remus had a son named Senaeus, whom Romulus banished but did not kill. Senaeus traveled north with his family into the land of the Etruscans, and (so the story goes) founded the beautiful Tuscan hill town of Siena. More on Siena later in this blog (when we get there in a few days).

After the museum, we spent a good while in the Piazza Navona, indulging in a chocolate tartufo at the Tre Scalini restaurant, a gelato encased in a chocolate shell (something every traveler to Rome must have at some point). Once, in 1982, I found refuge here at the Tre Scalini, along with my travel companion, just a few minutes after it was announced that Italy had won the World Cup in soccer. The city went wild, and we had the best seat in the “house” to watch the insane celebrating pass by illuminated by a full moon rising over the piazza.

Three large fountains in the central area, all designed and executed by the great Bernini, grace this oblong “racetrack” plaza (built on the footprint of a great public stadium built by Emperor Domitian in the First Century). If you have read “Angels and Demons” (the sequel to Dan Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code”) you might recall that one of the cardinals is drowned in the largest of the three fountains. I love them because of the constant energy they exude from the large volume of water that constantly passes through them. The large central fountain, completed in 1651, is called the Fountain of the Four Rivers of the World, each one represented by a unique, colossal human figure. The central pedestal of the fountain supports one of Rome’s most beautiful obelisks, pilfered from Egypt by Emperor Caracalla in the First Century.

From the Piazza Navona, we took a short walk along the river and over one of the beautiful bridges to the west bank. This whole area is called Trastevere, meaning “across the Tevere” (the river we call “Tiber” is actually “Tevere” in Italian, and it’s their river, so you’d have to say theirs is the “real” name). We then walked several blocks to the entry into Saint Peter’s Square, one of the great spectacles of Rome. The line waiting to be admitted into the basilica was too long for us travelers for whom this would be the final full day in Rome, so we contented ourselves with the exterior glories. Each of us had been well introduced to the interior of this great church on prior trips to Rome.

Everyone knows that Rome is a city of cathedrals, monuments, fallen ruins, stunning plazas and uncountable sidewalk cafés. It is vast in scale, but also a very intimate city, at the same time devout and raucous, proud and indifferent. But the thing that captivates many Rome-lovers is its deep historical layering. What period of the march of Western Civilization has this city on the Tiber not been there to play a major part? I can’t think of any. Turn in one direction and soon you will be confronted by an ancient statue which, if your home town had such a thing, it would be a tourist attraction all its own; here they are so plentiful they are hardly noticed. Turn in another direction and soon you may be wandering aimlessly down some charming street of dining spots lining the black stone pavement on either side where you can pause and take pleasure in a proper Roman lunch from an unknown chef who, if he or she blessed a restaurant in your town, people would flock in from seven counties to get a taste. Perhaps Rome is the perfect city for those with "attention deficit," because in each direction lies a new seduction of the senses ... full of contrasts and even humorous juxtapositions - - like this graceful archangel, providing a resting place for a lucky gull who has come in from the coast to see Rome on his day off.

This “layering” of time, ancient supporting medieval supporting Renaissance supporting "today," can even been seen physically. When you walk the circumference of the Pantheon, it appears to have been built up from inside a 20-foot deep pit … but it wasn’t. It was built at the street level of its day; it’s just that the streets of Rome were substantially lower 2,000 years ago than they are now. Why? Well it probably wasn’t (as I was told once) the collection of 2,000 years of dust, one granule atop another until the whole ground area had risen 20 feet here, 50 feet there. The commonly accepted explanation is net effect of the flooding of the Tiber over those centuries. The river has a nasty habit of occasionally departing its own banks and filling the city with water and silt from upriver. When it has receded, it has sometimes been easier just to build new structures and streets over those that have been deeply buried. When archeologists later excavate to get back down to “the imperial level,” they sometimes make later structures look funny, with the front door to a church seem (post-excavation) as if it had been built to open into thin air – suspended high above the newly establishes “street level.” A great example is clearly visible in the central part of the old Forum.

There’s even one church that one can tour that has three layers. Today’s church is, naturally, on top. But you can take a tour down below and visit another now-abandoned pre-medieval church below it (and supporting it), and then continue your tour further down and visit the ancient pagan temple at the bottom, whose great columns support everything above.

The church just outside our hotel doors (the “Santa Maria Sopra Minerva” … or, in English, “Saint Mary’s, on top of Minerva”) takes its name from that layering of time. I remember once, many years ago, I was in Rome and had just read “Galileo’s Daughter” (a popular book club book that year), and I sought out the “Santa Maria Sopra Minerva” on account of its bit part in the persecution of Galileo. I found a priest inside sitting next to a display table and asked him if he happened to speak English. He said he did, with a big smile. I asked, “I have read that this is the church where Galileo was brought by the Holy Inquisition in order to show him how the church would torture him if he did not recant his belief that the sun was the center of our solar system. Is that true, and, if so, does the torture area underneath the church still exist for tours today?” By the time I had asked my perhaps profane question, his big smile had departed. “Signore, that area is not open to the public. That was long ago.” I thanked him, but thought “When did ‘long ago’ ever stand in they way of tourism in Rome? They could reopen that area and charge admission.”

Another visible testament to the great passage of time is the way various clepto-cardinals and popes of the past stripped away many of the fine materials used by the emperors and used them to build their own palaces and self-congratulatory monuments and tombs. Look up at the Coliseum and what you see today is an exterior wall of stone (mixed with brick repairs and restorations), not the brilliant white, polished marble of 2,000 years ago. What it must have looked like then! You will also note numerous divots or pockmarks in the stone all the way around the outer wall, which once held the metal brackets that were used to secure the giant marble tiles to the side. Various palaces inside Rome and in the outskirts proudly announce that their marble floors and walls were “mined from the ruins of the Coliseum.”


The Coliseum has an interesting story beyond all the gladiators and staged battles conducted in its arena. In the era of Emperor Nero this area was a man-made lake designed for his immense palace garden (called the House of Gold). A great, oversized statue of the sun god Apollo stood on its grounds and the lake was built beside that “colossus.” When Nero came to power after the assassination of Claudius, he had Apollo’s head altered in shape, morphing it into the likeness of himself. A “colossus” is a giant human statue (as in “The Colossus of Rhodes”). After the Romans killed Nero, ending the dynasty of Julius Caesar’s descendants, a new, fairly sane family came to power in Rome … the “Flavians” (the series of emperors: Vespasian, Titus and Domitian). During their imperial reign over Rome, Nero's garden lake was filled in and, in its place, the amphitheater we now call the "Coliseum" or "Colosseum" (after the colossus of Nero) was built. The Romans called it the Great Flavian Amphitheater, and it has stood as the arch symbol of Rome for almost two thousand years.