Londinium Diaspora

 

Inbound — Destination Londinium

Londinium Diaspora

Judging from the map display on the back of the passenger seat before me, we had just crossed the Mid-Atlantic Ridge cruising at 40,000 feet at an imperceptible speed of 600 knots.  Although our pilot announced we were aboard a brand-new Airbus 330 (sorry, Boeing), both the WIFI and our closest toilet are inoperative.  Nevertheless, the technology, unimaginable to the likes of the Wright Brothers, is simply amazing.  It is early January ‘23 as I open my laptop to chronicle our trip to what the ancient Romans knew as Londinium,^[2] not some new element on the Periodic Table, but rather today’s London.  Cosmopolitan to the hilt, like a magnet, London draws a diverse, multi-national throng of visitors no matter the time of year.  We were proof of that.

London, especially this time of year, was a trade-off on weather, cost of course, and the absence of hordes of people.  We had promised our granddaughter a celebratory trip when she graduated from high school.  COVID put an end to that plan.  We hoped visiting London would make up for that disappointment.  As for the weather, the three of us would take our chances, although, like Lloyd’s of London, we were well indemnified with umbrellas.  Besides, I had just finished reading Sarum, an epic historical novel about early England on the order of Michener’s The Source (both highly

Roman Londinium

recommended).  Like the Crown Jewels in London Tower, London beckoned with the sweep of rich history.  Besides, I was searching for evidence of Italian heritage in my surroundings, beginning with Rome’s influence on the British capital.  London, I expected, would be full of it, especially since this city was begun by those pseudo-Italians, those pesky Romans.

Julius Caesar first invaded Britain in 55 BC, which in later years led to the founding of Londinium around 47–50 AD ^[1] at a key crossing point over the Thames River (called Tamesis or Dark Water by the Romans ^[3]) Its location was chosen out of necessity, for it was there that the river was narrow enough to bridge.  Its Roman roads and water access turned the city, then the size of present-day Hyde Park, into the commercial hub of Roman Britain.^[4]  Today, London is more than two times the size of New York City, but with less than half the population.

When Romans traveled or, I should say, conquered, they always brought Rome along with them. 

Tower of London Original Roman Wall 

Londinium, eventually becoming a ‘Little Rome’ to them, was no exception.  In today’s Billingsgate (north of the Thames between the Crown and Tower Bridges), for instance, Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (ruled 161-180 AD) built a bathhouse complex on the riverfront.  It was rediscovered in 1848 when excavation unearthed the signature remains of a classic Roman bath: the frigidarium cold room, though why they’d want one in London baffles me; the warm tepidaria; and the hot caldaria room.  Again in 1988, another characteristic piece of Roman culture was revealed during the construction of an art gallery.  This time, evidence of a massive amphitheater dated to the 1st Century AD was uncovered.  The Romans either thought big or money was no object, for it was sized to accommodate 6,000 entertainment-hungry viewers in a city estimated at 40,000.  Evidently, the Romans intended to stay and brought along their methods of cleanliness and entertainment. 

Roman Goddess Britannia

While they were being entertained, they at least had the opportunity to be hygienic about it.  The Romans stayed in Britain for approximately 400 years.  They finally withdrew in 410 AD, but not before the Roman goddess Britannia, armed with a spear and shield and wearing a Corinthian helmet, became the female personification of Roman Britannia.^[5]  It was the likes of Caesar, later emperors, and countless others who left their marks and influenced an entire island’s population.

The 'Shard' Rises Over London

London’s ancient amphitheater and its public bath have since been replaced.  Modern-day influences include a sky-scraping hotel/business complex called ‘The Shard,’ designed by the Italian architect Renzo Piano.  Today it remains the tallest building in the United Kingdom.  The ‘London Eye’ observation wheel dominates the south shore of the Thames, while the interestingly shaped ‘Walkie-Talkie’ building, featuring an enclosed garden, offers even more spectacular views across the city.  Amazingly, this urban metropolis was easily accessible and navigable aboard a high-speed subway network

Ascending from the Tube.
So Glad They Worked.

Looks Like A Walkie-
Talkie, Doesn't It

that crisscrossed the city — thank God for the

Piccadilly Line.  Reminiscent of Caesar’s famous battle-tempered “I came, I saw, I conquered,” the Tube’s safety-conscious motto heard throughout the system, “See it, Say it, Sorted,” in stiff upper lip British resolute style, describes a situation where everything is properly handled.  I just love their lingo, serious or not.

Tracing Italian heritage has always interested me.  I learned that during the early 1800s, an influx of Italians settled in the Farrington district of Central London.  On a city map, I saw how this area took the form of a triangle bound by Clerkenwell Road, Farringdon Road, and Rosebery Avenue.^[6]  It was here, based on nationality and religion, that arriving Italian immigrants grouped together.  While affordable, this run-down area, which some would characterize as a slum, may account for Italian households experiencing the worst living conditions compared to other immigrant groups.  Despite terrible living conditions, language differences, and bigotry, it was here that an ethnically Italian presence emerged.  The opening of St Peter's Italian Church in 1863 provided further unity and afforded the community a place to worship in their Italian language.^[6]  By 1885, the Italian population had eclipsed 12,000.  Southern Italians traditionally made their homes in this ‘Little Italy’ triangle while those from northern Italy established themselves in newer Soho.  After WWI, a well-established ‘Little Italy’ had its own pubs, cafes, grocers, schools, clubs, a hospital, churches, even a driving school.  Unfortunately, the area was unpoliced.  This allowed Charles 'Darby' Sabini, a real-life British-Italian mob boss, to assume the role.  He enforced his own laws with his ethnically Italian gang and became known as the ‘Protector of Little Italy.’^[7]

Sadly, this once thriving zone of Italian identity is no more.  Everything abruptly changed on 10 June 1940, for this was the day Mussolini declared war on Great Britain.  That night, in a collective anti-Italian hysteria, angry riots broke out in many British cities.  Anything Italian was ransacked.  Property and businesses were looted and burned.  Italians were subjected to physical violence. 

The Ill-Fated SS Arandolla Star

Overnight, Italians had become enemy aliens.  It did not matter that many had British citizenship, had resided in Britain for decades, or had sons serving in the British armed forces.

While there is no verifiable evidence, Prime Minister Churchill was alleged to have uttered the infamous phrase "collar the lot" the day following Italy’s declaration of war and the riots.^[8]  In the aftermath, Italian businesses were nationalized by the state.  Religious processions were outlawed.  A German invasion appeared imminent.  Unwilling to risk an invasion from within, all enemy aliens in Britain were arrested.  The press’ refrain, “No half measures will do,” in fear of a fifth column uprising (traitors poised to support an enemy invasion from within), was a familiar drumbeat.  Suspicious of their loyalties, Italian males, ages seventeen to sixty, who had not been resident in Britain for greater than twenty years, were arrested and interned in camps.  During this dark period, Italians were deported to Australia, Canada, or the Isle of Man.  Whether

Memorial to those Lost Aboard SS Arandolla at
St Peter's Church in London's Former 'Little Italy'

overreaching panic or a proactive policy, once in motion, there were further horrific incidents.  One, in particular, occurred on 2 July following the departure of the SS Arandolla Star from Liverpool.  Among those aboard were 712 Italians destined for internment camps in Canada.  Unfortunately, the ship never arrived.  It was torpedoed by a German U-Boat, killing 805 aboard, including many of the British Italian internees.^[9]

By this point, even though I hadn’t gotten far along in satisfying my curiosity, I began to despair.  I began to feel I had arrived too late, that there had been an Italian diaspora.  It was as though London’s ‘Little Italy’ had been scattered throughout London.  Many of those I met professed an Italian pedigree, but something like a thriving ‘Little Italy’ as in Boston’s North End and New York City in Lower Manhattan proved extinct.  Italians, with a story of their lineage and time to share it, were in short supply.  A present-day Italian center of activity remained out of reach no matter the metro line.  About all that remained were sprinklings of restaurants here and there.  Shakespeare’s company of actors at the nearby Globe Theater had claimed a “wish is father to the thought,” and as the Bard had further scrawled, I “made a virtue of necessity” and decided to dig deeper.^[10]  I went underground, and I’m not referring to the Tube.  I’d frequent British pubs, one pint at a time, to broaden my search.  Fortunately, I was up to the task and hoped to meet many Brits of Italian heritage.

At the “Lamb & Flag” pub on Rose Street (interesting how

The Lamb & Flag at the End of a Narrow Alley

British eateries typically include two nouns in their titles), a stomping ground of Charles Dickens, we happened upon two couples.  The English speaker of the group was a Canadian from Niagara Falls.  He and his Italian wife had moved to Italy while the other couple lived in Vincenza, a lovely city we’ve enjoyed visiting.  Tourists like us, these self-proclaimed experts seemingly on all matters Italian, advised that we not eat the purported Italian food in London.  “Semplicemente terribile” (simply terrible), they warned.  Although we are millennia past that once Roman delicacy of dormice, it is generally recognized that England is not known for its cuisine.  Not to disparage the cuisine of other nationalities in this diverse city, but from their counsel, Italian fare appeared to be off the mark.  We decided to wait and see.

A stop at the British Museum to see the Rosetta Stone led us to Il Italiano Castelletto.  We

The British Museum

hesitated at the sandwich board menu by the door and were pleased to find very reasonably priced Spritzes.  That was enough to get us inside, especially after a long dry stint in the museum.  It wasn’t long before the bucatini pasta and pizzas passing by us had worked their magic to the point that we soon were enjoying a spicy pizza diavola.  It materialized from a dumbwaiter and a source located somewhere below us to land on our table.  Judging from its flavor, it may have come from hell itself.  It was perfect, with a thin crust, just the way we like our Italian pizzas.  Those who’d made our pie may have been Italian; we’d never know.  Our wait staff definitely wasn’t.  But from a perusal of the menu and the samples we’d enjoyed, all appeared authentic.  Had the group from 

London Pizza Anyone?

Vincenza been present, they may have gone so far as to retract their condemnation.

One evening following dinner in the Covent Garden area of London, we came upon “The Savoy Tap” on Savoy Street.  It was once the location of a nobleman’s grand townhouse in medieval London, a stone’s throw away from the Waterloo Bridge that crosses the Thames near the famous Savoy Palace Hotel.  The sign outside declared it a London ale house that espoused traditional hospitality.  We decided to sample this hospitality and stopped for a nightcap.  The Savoy comprised one large, rather plain gathering room with only a few tables for such a large space.  Tall, mullioned windows faced the street, and toward a corner, a rather empty bookcase

Tap into Hospitality, Beer, and Lively
at the Savoy

Here, we met Guiseppe Calabrese from Vauxhall, located on the south side of the Thames.  Though we’d been surprised by the Italian novelty of his name, we hadn’t questioned its validity.  I knew that with a name like his, he was definitely Italian.  Nevertheless, as though he was accustomed to people expressing “you’re kidding me” in disbelief, he quickly produced a photo ID to verify his claim.  Like me, his tall frame hosted a stocky build.  I’d estimate that Guiseppe was in his early 40s.  His amiable face had a full black beard with a mustache that widened with his broad smiles beneath the bridge of his Mediterranean nose.  His dark hair was pulled tightly into a bun.  He was clearly at home in the Savoy, relaxed in the company of friends.  We soon learned the barkeep’s name was Sam when I ordered a pint of Moretti and, for Maria Elena, Sambuca on ice.  Guiseppe and some pals were engrossed in a Football Association Cup soccer tournament playoff game on TV between Manchester United and ‘EVE,’ which I soon learned was Everton.

Guiseppe worked as a civil engineer and as a licensed,

Guiseppe — A True Italian

hard-helmeted commercial diver who repaired ship hulls.  His British accent had hints of other dialects, which was explained when he mentioned that in addition to English, he spoke Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian.  Other than snippets about his family, he knew little about his heritage.  Using a form of social media of their time, his parents had met at a wine bar in London.  His mother was Spanish from Pamplona “Running of the Bulls” fame, while his father, now deceased, was Italian from Calabria.  His mom had worked in the Spanish Embassy, while his father had been an engineer for a cruise line.  He emphasized that communication between his parents had been difficult and, as a result, was insistent about one thing — contrary to common belief, the Spanish and Italian languages are in no way similar.

It was a chilly morning with a light drizzle that greeted us the morning we crossed the Thames to the extraordinary, open-air Borough Market.  After purchasing a bag full of spices, there followed an interlude with artist Diamond Belva (Belva means ‘Beast’ in Italian).  We met him on the way to the nearby Globe Theater.  It was while conversing with him that we purchased a small painting.  When asked why he’d left Milan for London, he answered that while the English and Italians love art equally, in London, there were

Streetside Artist Diamond Belva
Bargains with Maria Elena

fewer artists like himself selling their wares.  From a supply and demand point of view, it couldn’t have been truer.  With a bridge above him providing protection from the elements and a heavily trafficked thoroughfare of potential patrons like us, he appeared to have cornered the market.  Apparently a local now, this young, rather handsome Italian ‘beast’ had no idea of the existence of a center of Italian activity in London.  My Don Quixote-like search for a ‘Little Italy’ in London had grown hopelessly bleak.

I’d talked to enough people by this point, including a young Italian salesgirl from Puglia, nine years in London, who again confirmed the absence of an ethnic Italian district.  Soho did have a smattering of antiseptic-sounding Italian restaurants.  We’d already experienced the Soho Londonized Italian phenomenon, especially while exiting Leicester Square along Panton Street.  We found this wide avenue clad on either side with ristauranti.  After discovering pasta dishes as costly as £22, we decided to take a pass, including one eatery where Al Pacino purportedly could taste Sicily while enjoying penne with meatballs.  This reminds me … we discovered that London has evolved far beyond Roman silver denarius coins.  It is effectively a cashless city.  You are expected to use a ‘tap-style’ credit card just about everywhere, including a taxi.  Once made of paper, their bills are made of thin plastic that we were told could

A Londonized Italian Restaurant

be washed.  I immediately thought of money laundering!  Although we avoided the overpriced pasta, I was definitely ‘tapped out’ by the time we departed.  I wondered if our Vincenza acquaintance’s advice still held sway.  Without question, prices were undoubtedly stratospheric when compared to those of our favorite Calitri haunt, Tre Rose.

Finally, there was a proper-looking London chap, umbrella and all, who appeared as we surfaced from the Knightsbridge underground, conveniently located by the entrance to the world-famous Harrods Department Store.  I surmised he was Italian when I overheard him use a few “a destra” (on the right) and “gira a sinistra” (turn left) as his hand waved gestures of direction to some tourists.  As he moved closer, I said hello in Italian.  He stopped, and we talked.  He worked at Harrods and was on his way there.  He confirmed what all the evidence had pointed to, that 

Harrods Dept Store — an Entire City Block

there was no real center of Italian culture in London.  Apparently, Italians had successfully integrated and, like the sprawl of the city, were everywhere.

By this point, readers may wonder, why go to London looking for Italians when there are plenty in Italy?  It’s not that I want to be charged with ‘cultural appropriation’ whenever I enjoy a plate of pasta.  According to the numbers, I am about 20% Italian, enough to enjoy an Italian passport.  Even so, wherever I am, I appreciate being in the company of Italians, hearing their stories, sharing their sincere enjoyment of life, and Italian largess in general.  Maybe I’m into some Italian version of Zen, seeking the ultimate reality found in the joy of being Italian.  But was I looking in the wrong place when the charm of small-town Italy appears absent in large cities, especially foreign ones?  In the meantime, with 80% more Italian osmosis to go, I’ll keep looking, for my fascination with all things Italian remains.

From that Rogue Tourist
Paolo