Strolling the Other Rome

Strolling the Other Rome       

It was as if we were being bombarded.  The shock of it was palpable.  You couldn’t help but flinch with each explosive discharge.  There was tangible fear of being hit, that something might collapse or a window shatter.  I didn’t dare go to the balcony to look, but the recurring sharp detonations seemed to trigger right above our heads.  Their initial snaps, mindful of a sort of ignition, followed immediately by mighty booms, occurred one after another.  There was seemingly just enough time to reload as the dying reverberations of one concussive jolt heralded the beginning of the next.  Each initial snap was startling, causing us to instinctively duck in protective reaction.  We knew we were at the epicenter when the raw beauty of the blinding light and booming claps occurred simultaneously.  The air was electric, the wind whirled with pulses of extreme shear sending rattling quivers through our windows.  There was little comfort counting "one-one thousand, two-one thousand" flash to clap.  Everything converged for a multisensory experience.  It was the worst thunderstorm either of us had ever experienced.  During my flying years, we were cautioned not to get within 20 miles of a thunderstorm and here they were just overhead.  While I couldn’t recall, I could only pray that I’d parked our little Fiat, Bianca, near a tree or wall in the piazza for some protection from the icy popcorn size hail that began to fall.  I did my best to protect what was at hand by unplugging the radio, refrigerator, TV, and DVD player.  I’d been trained the hard way, having lost two DVD machines in the past to electrical pulses.  Without exaggeration, our raw experience with nature had been hell unleashed.  Unlike Martin Luther, who while out walking when a thunderstorm struck, promised God that if saved, he’d become a monk, I resolved to wipe up the water that had gotten through the window and determine why.

The battle concluded, Zeus now finished hurling lightning bolts, his anger hopefully appeased, we toweled-up the water.  I needed to understand how the water was getting in, for a gas heater was mounted to the wall right below our leaking windowsill.  We’d be leaving, and it being thunderstorm season, the leaking had to stop, for replacing a motherboard was expensive.  The sill was a stone slab.  Its outer surface was separated from its inner surface by a groove, much like a rounded trench cut into its top, that ran its length, left to right.  We’d always kept it clean, free of debris, but we hadn’t the slightest idea what it was for.  I suspected it was meant to stop water from getting through, though as had been confirmed, its shallow depth couldn’t hold much.  We could also see that the window-lock mechanism fit into a finger sized hole straight down into this groove.

I began by poking around in the vertical hole thinking that by clearing out any debris down deep in the bottom, it would hold more water.  My probing and vacuuming eventually got me deeper into this hole.  I began to wonder why it had been cut so deep and then that lightbulb above my head, like an angel’s halo, turned on.  Could it be a drain?  Leaning out the window, looking down toward the street, Eureka, there was an outlet that emerged from the wall!  It was some distance here to there and I had nothing, not even a wire coat hanger, to clean out the dense cement-like material that, no doubt, had to have been years in the making.  Our neighbor, Vincenzo, however, had just what I

needed in his grotto, a stiff wire.  I used it to clear the drain and permit Zeus’ wrath to once again flow freely.  Problem solved.  The home front, now hopefully waterproof, it was time to take to the road.  It may have begun by auto, but in Naples, it transitioned to a train ride.  Whoosh, and in just over an hour an Italo high-speed train had whisked us to Termini Train Station, Rome.  A taxi ride later and we’d arrived at our destination in the heart of Trastevere, a very different part of Rome.

It is an interesting place.  It is more like a city then the tourist attraction of Rome proper.  More people live there then go there to visit.  We had sensed this on our previous evening visit years earlier for it had more of a neighborhood, working-class family feel to it.  The evidence is there.  In this regard, it mimics the old Spanish section of Naples though nowhere near as densely packed.  Even in the central section, children play in the streets while above their heads, laundry stretches across its narrow lanes. 

We’d visited Trastevere before and coursed through its streets on an evening Foodie Tour (see Blog Archive, “Twilight in Trastevere”, Apr & May 2013).  In ancient Rome, it had once been home to the Syrian community, later to become a Jewish neighborhood.  Trastevere, what many consider an unknown part of Rome, is removed from the historic sites in the center of the city.  It is insulated from the hurry and intensity of Rome for it sits across the Tiber River that courses through metropolitan Rome.  When I look at a map, I find the Tiber labeled “Tevere”.  As for the prefix, the Latin word “tiberim” means trans.  Joined together, “trans-tevere” means "Beyond the Tiber" and thus it is, west of the river and south of the Vatican.  When you tire of the crowds of downtown Rome’s hotspots, have had a selfie taken with a Centurion at the Coliseum, and while shoulder to shoulder with everyone else thrown three coins into the Trevi Fountain, it’s time to retreat to Trastevere, just a short walk across one of the Tiber’s bridges. 

Our host, as chance would have it, was another Paolo.  He was also a pilot for Ryan Air and had inherited the apartment.  We had arranged to meet him at the door.  His apartment was on the third floor and his presence proved to be a godsend for he insisted on helping with our luggage.  No resistance on our part.  Though there wasn’t much, it was still appreciated because in those old buildings there were none of those new-fangled things Mr. Otis called an elevator.  Besides, Maria Elena had seen her foot cast removed only days earlier.  It was swollen and yet tender which made for a slow climb up the stairs.  We were not overly impressed as the door on the street opened to a hallway that had seen, let’s say, better days.  It appeared to also serve as access to a restaurant’s storage space and had a few bikes as well.  The walls were badly marked, the paint ancient with some surfaces pocked with holes crying for repair.  Tennant mailboxes took up part of a wall.  Scattered about were flyers and the discarded debris of unwanted mail.  It all seemed typical of the Italian penchant for non-regard for common or communal spaces we’d often observed.  Personal property, on the other hand, is treated differently and with deference.  True to form, this all changed when Paolo swung open the door and we entered his apartment. 

We were greeted by a tastefully decorated living room beneath the cross beams of a checkered

ceiling.  In addition to a TV there was a leather sectional couch, a glass-topped coffee table, and a burlwood secretary.  Additional rooms included a bathroom along with two bedrooms, one to the front, the other to the rear of the apartment, separated from each other by the living room and kitchen.  Abutting the living room, the kitchen had everything you might need if you wanted to stay in and cook.  It was a surprise to find an American sized refrigerator, rare in any Italian rental.  A farmer’s sink with a skirt to hide the plumbing hung at one end of a counter.  The center of the room was taken up by an inviting

kitchen table with enough chairs for a small crowd, while just beyond it a large free-standing dish cabinet occupied most of the wall.  By far the wonder of the kitchen was a magnificent Italian made Majestic gas range, on par with a Wolf range, in a shiny shade of green.  Somehow, a click at a time, we’d managed to Google our way into a wonderful apartment in the heart of Trastevere.

We would be staying two nights and almost three days and although attractive and functional, if we wanted to experience the culture and meet the people who lived and worked there, we needed to be on its streets.  Our affordable AirB&B was situated on Via di San Francesco a Ripa.  San Francesco was hemmed in at one end by the area’s main boulevard, Viale Trastevere, and on its opposite end by the ever-popular Piazza di Santa Maria.  Along its considerable length lay just about everything you might need, an assortment of pubs, trattorias, all kinds of shops, cafes, boutique hotels, and laid-back piazzas.  In the cool of the night, the area comes alive.  Busy Viale Trastevere sees tables full of diners extend out to the street’s edge under tall pine trees, while Piazza Santa Maria, dating from the 3^rd century AD with its central fountain and the gold mosaic laden Basilica di Santa Maria, remains the focal point of the neighborhood.  At sunset, the Piazza begins to fill as it transitions to a miniature of Venice's Saint Mark's Square.  It may lack the touristy ambiance of the dueling bands of Venice's Caffe Florian and Gran Caffe Quadri in Saint Mark's, but it upholds its distinction as the center of Trastevere’s nightlife. 

Any visit to Trastevere deserves a walk along its narrow picturesque streets hemmed by ochre and faded matte red colored walls of makeover Renaissance dwellings and an eclectic range of shops.  Many support climbing vines alive with flowers that cling to the walls, adding to the mood of a community entwined with its local businesses versus the sterile sameness of government, bank, and Fascist style buildings found in downtown Rome.  The sense of age was everywhere.  Here and there it would take on a physical form by the presence of a discarded Roman column lying on its side in the overgrown grass of some lot or in the crumbling remains of Roman bricks that once built an empire.  We were soon on the move with no particular destination in mind.  We’d wander for the sake of it, for the sake of discovery and what may come of it is a destination unto itself.

Moving slowly down the three flights to street level, we took a right out our door and walked toward the boulevard.  We’d leave turning left for later.  All of a block but not much more away, we turned left toward the Tiber.  Viale Trastevere, which leads to the river, was bustling with four lanes of traffic.  This may account for it being one of the main shopping streets of Trastevere.  On the sidewalk, in the filtered sunshine under the shading canopy of huge trees, we kept to the slow pace an injured foot would allow.  Our slow progress made it convenient to take in its appeal while window shopping and people watching.  The street was alive with merchants, some extending their businesses outside their shops, others set up in kiosks and nests of tables hawking everything imaginable.  Gradually we wove our way down the boulevard to eventually turned right just shy of the river onto Via della Lungaretta, today’s embodiment of an ancient 2nd century BC street called "via Aurelia Nova".  

Ahead, in small triangular Piazza in Piscinula, we came upon Chiesa di San Benedetto.  We stepped into the church’s cool interior to take a look and allow Maria Elena’s foot to relax. Initial construction seemed to have taken the form of a chapel built in the eighth century, while the bell tower, the smallest in Rome, dates from the eleventh century.  Its tiled floor undulated like those in Venice’s Saint Mark’s Basilica.  It too was impressively old, stained with time.  You could feel its age sitting there. The pillars on either side of the nave were made of marble, not “false columns” made of bricks coated with a fluted surface of cement that is far more common in the make-up of many of the columns we see.  These were the real thing.  The fact that they were topped by various style capitals and were of multiple colors led me to believe that they’d been cannibalized for reuse from earlier Roman buildings.  Another striking feature lay in the church’s floor.  It wasn’t simply tiled or bricked.  Before the altar, it featured a design approach known as Cosmatesque.  Cosmatesque flooring is a style of geometric stonework combining glass and mosaic pieces typical of the architecture of the Medieval period and especially of Rome.  Many of the designs featured large roundels which are carefully cut cross sections of Roman columns surrounded with ribbons of colorful mosaic.  In typical Italian fashion, nothing goes to waste. 

Continuing our wanderings, we came upon the 19th century Ponte Palatino Bridge and decided to head across.  In mid-river, on the upstream side of the bridge, we came upon the only remaining arched section of a broken bridge laying close beside Ponte Palatino. It was the much older Pons Aemilius and it lay close to the southern edge of the river’s only city island, Isola Tiberina.  For obvious reason the Pons Aemilius today is simply called the Ponte Rotto or Broken Bridge.  At its beginning in 179 BC, it was the first stone bridge across the Tiber.  Today, old enough to have gone through ten different name changes, its distinction lies in the fact that it is the oldest surviving stone bridge in all of Roman history.  It originally provided access across the Tiber, connecting Trastevere to the suburb of Forum Boarium, a cattle market in its day.  It lay there crowded with overgrowth, the last cart or pedestrian to cross its narrow

span, long, long forgotten.  Bushes and grasses grew from its long-abandoned causeway like the bushy hairs that sprout from an old man’s ears.  Up and down its sides, plants drooped toward the water like natural sconces.  Down below at the water’s edge, its stone block base, like the knife edge of a sword, still cut the current of the Tiber, allowing it to pass to either side of its remaining stanchions.  On closer inspection, I could make out iron pins driven into the base of the structure, topped with metal hoops.  It was easy to imagine some craft once moored there in the current of this once navigable river leading to the sea.  Just above, at the apex of an arch, a decorative relief, much like a heraldic crest, served as a restful roost for pigeons.  Staring across, one bridge to the another, the birds cooed and bobbed their heads, while we reciprocated as best we could with camera clicks and pointing gestures.

Reaching the opposite side of the Tiber, we took our chances like “Frogger” arcade game characters and finally made it across busy Lungotevere Aventino where we immediately came upon a circular building.  We learned that this stunning, round structure was the Temple of Hercules Victor,

built in the 2nd century BC.  A fence encircled the marble structure keeping it at a distance and somewhat mysterious, much like its exact origin.  Though the history of the temple remains uncertain, it is thought to have been commissioned by Consul Lucius Achaicus.  He was an accomplished Roman politician and commander in the Achaean War that precipitated the destruction of Corinth, Greece.  In 146 BC, on order of the Senate to destroy its commercial rival, Lucius plundered the city, burned it to the ground, and slaughtered the remaining inhabitants not sold into slavery.  I guess there was nothing on the order of a Marshall Plan to aid in rebuilding after the war.  Truth be told, rival merchant interests (ancient lobbyists?) in faraway Rome had prevailed.  Like the Pantheon, the temple survives to this day only because of its conversion to a Christian church, making it today the oldest standing marble building in Rome.  It was following its de-consecration in the 19th Century that its circular colonnade of 20 Corinthian columns, supplemented these days with metal support rings, were once again opened to the air with the temple’s almost complete restoration.  The oldest bridge followed by the oldest marble building, just where were we headed? 

We lingered to observe the temple from a ramp that descended from the river to the level of the monument.  A retaining wall, made of brick, served as an overlook between us and the temple. With time, its top course had been exposed.  I could tell that they were ancient Roman style bricks, for thousands of years ago, when some forgotten soul (had he crossed the Pons Aemilius on his way to work?) laid them in place, he had positioned them on edge.  Exposure to the elements had also eroded much of the mortar between the bricks.  Their distinctive shape, longer and thinner than modern bricks, was the giveaway that had made it easy for the sleuth in me to ID them, although being in Rome should have made it a no-brainer.  Not only was the temple amazing but so were these seemingly trivial bricks.  It had nothing to do with their layout or positioning but all to do with their history.  This type of brickmaking, not perfected until the first century BC, had been a breakthrough technology for the Romans.  Gone were the sun-dried mud bricks of old to be replaced by fire-dried clay bricks, a technique originally developed by the Greeks, the same Greeks they had so efficiently eliminated in Corinth.  Mastery of the methodology was a giant step in construction technique and led to the mass production of bricks which in turn resulted in a spurt in building projects throughout Rome.  Meanwhile, Roman legions spread the technology wherever they went.  The "Doozers of Fraggle Rock" were never as prolific.  Later, the introduction of identifying stamps on the bricks stating where they were made and eventually even the name of the Consuls in the year of their production, today helps to pinpoint the date of a structure’s construction.

    Moving farther away from the river, down the ramp into what was once the largest meat market in ancient Rome (Forum Boarium), we arrived at the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin.  It appeared strange that the spaces between the arches of the church’s portico, running along the entire front of the church, were completely fenced.  I also doubted that the long line of people extending from its entrance down the street had anything to do with an urgent need on their part to confess their sins.  It all became clear as we got closer and realized that this was the home of the mysterious Bocca della Verità.

    The Bocca della Verità or Mouth of Truth, is an ancient marble carving of a bearded old man’s face thought to be the face of the mythical sea god Oceanus.  Ancient as it may be, it was immortalized with its appearance in the 1953 film Roman Holiday staring golden age of Hollywood icons, Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck.  This large circular disk lies against a wall inside the portico of the church.  Here too, mystery surrounds it, beginning with its purpose and not in the least, how it got there.  There remains uncertainty about the original purpose of the disk.  Due to its shape and the sizable opening of the mouth, this ancient sculpture is thought to have been a drain cover.  You will not find another like it on the streets of Rome, however.  Look as you might, today's versions are embossed with the letters "SPQR" for Senatus Populusque Romanus (Senate and the People of Rome) that once adorned the shields of those Roman legionnaires making bricks wherever they went.  In addition to this one of a kind distinctiveness, it is unique for a particular reason and application, for it is thought to have been used as a drain cover in the floor of the Temple of Hercules, the temple we’d just observed across the street.  Like the Pantheon, the temple had an oculus in its original roof that allowed rainwater inside.  Likewise, the opening in the disk’s mouth permitted the water to drain.  Additionally, it is believed that cattle merchants may have used it to drain the blood of cattle sacrificed to the god Hercules inside the temple.  At some point the disk may have been

removed from the temple and placed against the wall of Basilica Santa Maria only later to be moved to its current location, still outside, but inside the portico of the church.  Could it have been forgotten after some renovation?  Whatever the purpose the disk may have served, in modern times it functions as a lie detector.  A legend surrounds the disk.  It asserts that if a person places their hand inside the mouth and were to swear falsely, the mouth will close and sever the hand.  As of yet, there has never been a reported instance that such an event has ever taken place.  The legend is an attractant, thus the waiting line of intrepid visitors waiting to stick their hands into the mouth.  In the movie when Gregory Peck removed his hand, faking that it had been severed, Hepburn's reaction to the missing hand was unscripted.  It was an ad-lib on Peck's part and it startled the daylights out of Hepburn.

    I'm not sure if it was the length of the line or Maria Elena's injured foot that at this stage abhorred waiting in lines and wasn't too keen about walking either, but we passed on the opportunity of taking the Bocca della Verità challenge.  Yes, one reason, the other, or both had to explain why.  Didn’t they?  But take a moment to think about it.  It was all about truth, a hand the price of a falsehood.  Weighing the odds, seeing that a severed hand had never occurred, the odds it would happen sometime soon had to be astronomical!  With legends, you can never really be sure or risk messing with them.  You might mess with the small stuff like breaking a mirror, walking under a ladder, or having a black cat cross your path but try not to mess with gods.  Sticking to the adage of not betting on a horse unless it told you personally it was going to win, and since Mare was already suffering from a bum foot, we hesitated to chance fate with perfectly good hands and instead walked on by.  We’d seen the wrath of Zeus up close so there was no need to mess with Hercules.  You be the judge, tongue in cheek sarcasm or cautious (maybe overly cautious) reasoning?

A day and a wakeup later, after cappuccinos and cornetti at, by then, “our” corner café, we took an Uber to the train station. Yes, there are Ubers in Rome.  As we sped back to Naples aboard another bullet train, our thoughts lingered on Trastevere where a series of arbitrary turns had brought us to a reincarnated 2^nd century street that led the way to Rome’s oldest bridge, then on to Rome’s oldest standing marble building, followed by an encounter with one of its oldest mythical traditions.  What other discoveries might another stroll have revealed?  There was so much yet to explore that a short visit could never accommodate - more streets to wander, so many piazzas to explore like laid-back Piazza di San Calistro, the spacious market space of Piazza di San Cosimato, and lively Piazza Trilussa.  Then the pubs, so many pubs, to linger in over an Ichnusa beer, Negroni, or Aperol Spritz.  Right then, right there, we vowed to growling gods and penitent saints alike, to return.

From that Rogue Tourist

Paolo