Signore Spicy

Sunday, my last day in Rome, started out with a guided tour. Upon waking at the crack of 9:15 AM, I stuck my head out of the window to assess the weather.  Below me on the cobbled street, an absolutely gorgeous Italian man was giving a tour, in English, to a small group of tourists.  I listened, and am happy to report that he got it all right.  Yes, this is the Theater of Pompey.  Yes, Caesar was murdered here on the Ides of March, etc.  As he and his group were leaving, he glanced up at me, grinned, and saluted “Bon Giorno!”  I couldn’t help myself; I called “You are beautiful!”  He laughed, blew me a kiss, walked on.  That is a pretty good start to any day. 

The weather is perfect; slightly cloudy, about 70*, a breeze.  After coffee and a chocolate croissant in the Campo Fiori, I head to Plaza Navona.  Being Sunday, there are church bells pealing throughout the city.  The fountains in the Plaza are also singing, and families with children are chasing around the Plaza.  A few small dogs have been thrown into the fountains for their baths, and I still watch this with horror, hoping that their owners remember to fish them out.

Today I give some time to the Pantheon.  There is a worship service in there until noon, and then I enter.   The architecture of this building is incredible.  Without computers or electric tools, the Romans constructed a geometrically perfect temple.  Originally built in 27 BC, but reconstructed several times due to fire, it has been used for worship of one religion or another for over 1,400 years.  A basketball 142 feet in diameter would fit perfectly within the temple.  The only lighting is from an oculus (hole in the roof) which is 30 feet across.  The temple is designed so that, when it rains, the rain falls through the oculus onto the marble floor below.  The floor is slanted, and also has drain holes cut into the marble, to allow drainage.  What engineering!

The queen after whom the Margarita Pizza is named, is buried here.  Also Raphael.  There are other tombs and statues, but the Pantheon itself is the prize.

By the time I leave, the crowds are lined up to get in.  I head out to visit a few nearby churches, just to say that I did.   At the Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, I see a real oddity.  The marble statue of an elephant, designed by Bernini in 1667, graces the plaza in front of the church.  Out of the top of it rises a 6th-century BC Egyptian obelisk.  Inside this highly-decorated church is a statue by Michelangelo, "Risen Christ with the Cross". 

My favorite church is Sant'Ignazio di Loyola, or "Gesu".  It is a Jesuit church. Inside, the Baroque world has gone wild.  Frescos on the ceiling pretty much scare any sinners to live the good life.  There are frescos of nuns whipping Protestants. A statue of Martin Luther shows him holding a serpent while being stepped upon by a nun  This Jesuit church, established about the time of Martin Luther, obviously has a tale to tell, and it did not put its money on Martin Luther. 

I stay for a service (anyone who knows me has now fainted).  In Italian, the service is beautiful, and the soprano voice of the singer/organist sweeps sweetly through the immense space.  Spotlights flicker on and off during the service, and there is the usual stand up/sit down/put your right hand in, and wave it all about, etc., followed by the ubiquitous offering & communion.  At the end, however,  Apostles’ Creed and the Lord’s Prayer are recited.  Even in Italian, each is unmistakable and lovely, echoing through this space.

Back in Plaza Navona, I have my portrait drawn in charcoal.  I scoped out the artists this week, and one in particular is excellent at suggesting light, shadow, and personality.  While I sat, different groups of people came up to watch his creation.  While I could not see the portrait, the observers would cock their heads, talk among themselves, point at me, point at the paper, and sometimes give me a “thumbs-up” and a smile, as in, “this looks pretty good”. 

When the portrait is finished, I am allowed to look.  The artist, a definitely gifted, brilliant and wonderful man, removed 20 pounds and 30 years from my face.  I asked him, "Who is this?"  and he replied, "You, signore!"  It would have been a bargain at twice the cost, and I choose to believe that it is a remarkable likeness.  I am happy.

After a little rest, and figuring out my bus stops, I head out to the Appian Way.  I’d originally planned to bike on the Appian Way today, but once there, decide that it is too dangerous, and not worth the bang for its buck.  However, the bus ride itself, on this ancient road, is a journey back in time.  This main thoroughfare, built in 312 BC, eventually stretched from Rome to the seaport, Brindisi.  After Spartacus’ slave revolt in 71 BC, which was soundly crushed, the Roman powers-that-were crucified 6000 slaves along this road, one about every 30 yards for 100 miles.  Their bodies were allowed to dangle for months.  This was meant to discourage future rebellions, and from what Rick Steves tells me, was effective.

I tour the Catacombs of San Callisto, with its maze of underground tombs.  Between approximately 1000 AD and 4000 AD, a half-million persons, mostly Christians, along with a few stray popes, were buried here.  The catacombs themselves are high-walled caves in a maze with about 12 km of linear running room.   Get separated from your tour group, and someday someone may find your bones in a cold, dark room, and make you part of a tour.  It was creepy, interesting, sobering.

The bus from the Appian Way dumps out its passengers at the Circus Maximus.  I spend an hour or so walking around the area, taking photos.  What was once a gigantic stadium that held 250,000 people who were watching chariot races, today is a park with an elevated running track.  Families picnic here, people walk their dogs, joggers do what joggers do, and tourists like me wander, take pictures, and study the bus map.

Once back in my neighborhood, I am famished.  I stopp by “da Ottavia”, on the Corso del Rinascimento, because it 1) was by my bus stop, and 2) was where I’d eaten last night.  If you read last night’s post, you will know that it was here that I ate a green bean that turned out to be the hottest pepper ever grown in the universe.

When I appear in the door of the restaurant, a waiter spots me, and his face lights up.  “Signore Spicy!!!” he calls.  Ah, I am unforgettable!  “Buona sera” I greet him.  “Per Favore, vino and a small dinner.”  He seats me, brings wine, then says, “Let’s go”  (where?  Where are we going?).  He takes my arm, and we go into the kitchen.  Still holding my arm, he calls all of the kitchen staff to attention, and I hear Italian about the signore (me), the dinner last night, the pepper.  All are impressed.  Apparently, last night was a slow news night, so the idiocy of the American eating the Universe’s Hottest Pepper has been big news in da Ottavia.

The chef, from India, comes and shakes my hand.  He speaks in Italian, and my waiter translates. “He is happy that you lived”.  We all laugh.  I am also happy that I lived, and a little surprised.  Apparently, they are suprised as well.

My little dinner is steamed, oiled, delicious artichokes, fresh pizza dough served as bread, and a plate of thinly-sliced ham with the most delicious cantaloupe melon ever grown on earth.  My wine and lemoncello are “on the house”.    When I leave, the waiters are standing outside, trying to lure in diners.  They spot me, and call “Arrivederci,  Signore Spicy!”

I wander around some more, and locate the Abbey Theater.  This is a nearby Irish Pub that has about 20 satellite TV’s.  As it is 7 PM, and noon Central Standard Time US, it is almost time for Sunday NFL football.  I find a stool, and watch a quarter of the Saints/Carolina game, the Ravens/Eagles game, and Tampa Bay/Giants.  I’m not interested enough in any of these games to spend more time here, so I head back to Plaza Navona. 

There are some fine musicians playing on the Square, but tonight one is playing “Volare”, one is playing an ancient song by “Sting”, and I hear Pachelbel’s Canon for about the 1000’th time on the accordion.  At least there are no bag pipes, and no Mack the Knife.

I return to my apartment, pack, and am typing this.  In a few minutes, I head out for a later dinner.  This is my last post from Rome.  I leave at 7 AM Monday.  Good-bye, gentle readers.  If this has been too much information, I apologize.  I have written this for my mother.  She will never get to Rome.  And so, I have written this blog so that she might appreciate the city, and perhaps feel that she is walking these streets, seeing these sites, hearing and smelling this city.  I hope that she even gets a little taste of that hot pepper! Arrivederci.