the eternal chaos

Despite the swarms of motorini and the rapid confusion of small European automobiles, Rome is nothing if not a pedestrian's paradise. You can walk absolutely anywhere and will find yourself tripping left, right and center over fabulous confusion. There is no grid in Rome. There are no straight lines. There are tumbling ruins and a veering populace and food fit for nightlong binges.

Turning a corner in this city turns back time. Monuments, fountains, and "very important places" lurk in plain sight, smack in the middle of our living breathing modern world. There are no introductions and no preludes. You turn the corner and there it is, and the surprise is as strong as if you'd peeked around a tree in mid-August and gotten a snowball in the face.

We walked and we walked and sometimes I knew where we were. It's a wild tumble, Rome. Its chaos spills up and over the curbs and its dust coats you in an invisible powder of the ages. Who can really understand what they're surrounded by in the Colosseum? Who can look at the layers of sun-warmed stone and imagine what it could have been - how it could have smelled - when this place was filled with man, animal, sweat, sand and blood?



And there are the cold Vatican Museums filled with so much cold marble and cold air, with mismatched stone heads paired with stone bodies from every age, halls of impossible tapestries made by a certain "Maria," and miles and miles of plundered loot. To see the Vatican museums is to understand how much you do not understand. About time. About art. And most certainly about power.

And the pizza at the Vatican... its mediocrity leads me to believe that the Pope doesn't dine in his own cafeteria. Maybe, instead, he picnics in St. Peter's, under Michelangelo's Pieta', wondering how he can get people to stop taking photos of the Sistene Chapel ceiling once and for all.

What happens in the Pantheon when it rains? How do they keep the rain out? Ah, but they don't. The rain has fallen through that glorious hole in the ceiling for centuries. And why does Sant Eustachio coffee taste so very good? Another good question but this one has no answer. Their "secret to perfect coffee" is a secret, but their coffee granita - so rich and syrupy, all concentrated coffee in slurpie form - can't be hurt by the thick clouds of whipped cream in which it rests.



The best restaurants in Rome are on the other side of the river, in Trastevere with its cock-eyed cobblestones and grimy alleys. I know of one of them because an Italian colleague with whom I was traveling wandered into a florist's shop and asked the owner where he eats. He said Trattoria da Olindo and so that's where we ate. To find it, I first find Trastevere, then I find the florist, and then I try to find the corner around which the trattoria hides. You wouldn't know it was there if - at just the right moment - you didn't turn yourself around to stare it straight in the face.



My other favorite was a friend's favorite. She's left Rome but it's still there. It's hard to find in the dark because before it opens it's closed up tight and quite invisible. We waited them out because we had a reservation and knew there was a table in there for us. The reservation turned out to be very important - people were turned away as we sat there loving our meals. But before Le Mani in Pasta would feed us our yolk-yellow magnificent carbonara we first had to kill some time.



In our search for something to do we found St. Cecilia's and a quiet chorus of nuns singing an evening's prayers. Some voices were sweeter than others and St. Cecilia, in cold hard marble, lay beneath them. St. Cecilia is known for the three knife strikes that would not sever her head from her body and this marble body, delicately crumpled and damaged by her attackers, lay serenely below the alter, drenched in muted song and prayer.

This, my sixth, was a nearly perfect visit to Rome. It would have been perfect - such wonderful company, such a heady itinerary, and the food, oh the food - except that in the first half hour of the 4.5 hour train ride back to Milan I poured an entire can of Coca-Cola into my lap.



I can point the finger at Rome's beautiful confusion and say I was just trying to maintain the same rhythm of discovery and surprise that had thrust us through three days in Rome. But, as you can probably guess, four hours of soda-soaked pants isn't quite as thrilling as the experience of turning a corner and coming upon the Trevi Fountain at night.

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Trattoria da Olindo, Vicolo della Scala 8, 06/5818835

Le Mani in Pasta, Via dei Genovesi 37, 06/5816017

the best tour of Rome

After wine and truffled cheese in a colleague's apartment overlooking the Tiber, plates of saltimbocca and creamy spaghetti carbonara in Trastevere, and another day and night in this ancient and hectic city that makes us both feel like we're swirling in dust and traffic and a million strangers, we got into the cab.

Just a cab in nighttime Rome. Just a ride back to the hotel. Until I asked the cab driver what was playing on the radio. And the cab driver asked me if I liked it... If I thought it was really music... And if I wanted to hear something better.

He turned instead to opera and the taxi was engulfed in waves of deep tenor. The driver turned up the volume on cresting passion and melodic despair. The windows were down and Rome was blurring past. The night air was still warm from an unseasonable October day and the music filled our breezy space.

We passed bridges and monuments edged with golden light. And the Museo dell'Ara Pacis with its lines of postured ladies in red dresses standing tall in the dark. So dramatic these ladies. So perfect as our opera roared past.

I had to go back to them the next night. To see them in their glory. And it was certainly glorious: the Valentino exhibit and the dresses lined up like an army of good taste marching into the distance.

But it was far better the night before. When we saw it from the outside with the opera soaring and the cab driver yelling, insisting, with his thick Roman accent that this was music. That this was real music and didn't we agree?

Si, si, certo. Now can we stay in your cab forever?

all weekends lead to rome

I have a hunch that you could live in Rome for years and years and never quite see everything. I also bet that Rome never really feels wander-able; that it's a difficult place for whims and flights of fancy. That when a city is consistently packed with tourists, as Rome is, it demands a certain amount of focus and planning. Otherwise you'll simply be swept away... by the crowds, by the sights, by the unrelenting sun and equally unrelenting stampede of history.

Rome is a crazed Disney Land of sights to which a million little umbrella sticks topped with scarves march daily. These umbrella sticks (minus the umbrella) are the batons of the tour guides, leading legions of tourists in every direction, filling every crack and every corner. You rarely hear Italian spoken, you're more likely to hear English; and Spanish (with a heavy Catalan accent) was the second most popular language on our weekend. We're used to Milan where if you hear English on the street, your head spins to find the source. In Rome, it's the Italian that's fleeting.



But the sights... how to describe their ubiquitous presence? The well-worn phrase, "an embarrassment of riches" doesn't do this city justice. Everywhere is SOMEwhere. Everything is SOMEthing. And it's all so much older than anything we as Americans have regular contact with. It's hard to put it in perspective. It's hard to picture the Romans filling the Colloseum all the way to the rafters and screaming at the bloodied gladiators on the floor below. But they did. It's hard to imagine the Pantheon - standing in the exact same place, with the same forceful lift to its structure - in its heyday, in oh...well... 125 AD! How do you begin to wrap your mind around that?

The only comment card suggestion we could make to Rome would be the addition of a touch more shade. A few more shadows in which to cower when the afternoon sun is beating down. But other than that small favor - which is just a petty thing really, more of a luxury than a necessity - what can you add to a city that has been added to for centuries?



We ate exceptionally well at our favorite Roman restaurant and whenever we did a "buddy check" (a little something we picked up from the tour guides and their herds of followers) we came up even. Our hotel was in the process of renovating (yes, literally in the process - it was a construction site where the cleaning ladies were caught in a Sisyphusian battle to take away the accumulating dust and debris) and so had gloriously high-powered air conditioning and new furniture. Stefano secured us tickets to the Vatican Museum and swept us into the Colosseum with barely a line to be had. We explored basilicas and ruins, found fountains and friends, and kept on the trail of Pope Pius IX. It was a glorious weekend made even more so by our traveling companions.

There's nothing like a weekend in Rome to reset your understanding of the world's timeline... and remind you to make the most of your own.

and Rome makes nine

After four and a half+ long hours, and a can of Pringles, we arrived in Rome's Termini train station on Friday night for our turbo marathon weekend. It was nearly midnight and after wading through crowds of intoxicated and indecipherable Irishmen we got to our hotel, which also featured a large population of intoxicated Irish. (Saturday was the miraculous confluence of St. Patrick's Day and an Ireland-Italy rugby match; folks started celebrating in earnest on Friday, if not Thursday.)

Saturday morning we arrived at the marathon expo with my doctor's note in hand. And yes, I did say doctor's note. An adult is not allowed to run the Rome marathon without a permission slip signed by a doctor. This slip vouches for the runner's fitness and in no uncertain terms places full responsibility on the doctor should said adult become a casualty of this mighty race. And let me tell you, that helps to scare off the doctors.

In fact there's an obscene racket in Italy wherein special "sports medicine" centers charge 75 euro to take your EKG and then sign your form. Please note that a permission slip signed by a health club "doctor" after the mandatory 50 euro physical exam one endures to join an Italian health club is not acceptable. That's somehow a different exam and usually ends with the doctor discussing how best to address Italy's #1 health problem: cellulite. I speak from experience.

Luckily, I found a doctor who upon declaring the permission slip "fascist" was happy to sign it. I won't even go into how difficult it is to actually register for the race but it basically boils down to standing in line at the post office. Don't let the marathon website fool you.

The marathon expo was fairly large and offered samples, with the best being handed out by McDonalds - certainly the first company that comes to mind when contemplating marathon running and healthy living! I suppose their fruit and yogurt samples were healthier than the milk cartons being handed out by the cheerful staff at the dairy booth. One guess as to what kind of milk was in there. Oh, yes... full fat. Those cartons were filled with cream, baby. And they came with a straw.

Another quaint shocker was the separation of the sexes. I'm used to male and female runners being organized in one big glop, names intermingling on registration lists and bib numbers indecently sharing the same space. As you enter the Rome marathon expo, however, the women's names are displayed separately from the men's and while there are 34 sheets of women's names there are over 173 sheets of men. Small difference there, huh? And when I went to pick up my bib number I naturally went to the pick-up area corresponding to the number on my bib. Oh no no signorina! I was quickly waved off in another direction - to the smaller area reserved for the female runners. Are you kidding me? If there's some tangible benefit to this system please let me know.



The other oddity of the expo was the smokers lighting up outside. Usually, it's random family members and friends who find themselves falling prey to their cigarettes despite being at an athletic expo filled with items touting good health and exercise. But in Italy, it's the runners! With their bib numbers and goody bags in hand these individuals are obviously running the race - they're even wearing track suits. Smoking! Sometimes one cigarette after another. There's nothing left to do but take a picture.

We spent the rest of Saturday eating amazing food and sitting in piazzas with a friend who lives in Rome. Our meal was down a small side street and most excellent. Warm grilled vegetables with balls of buffalo mozzarella and sliced meats. Spaghetti carbonara that was creamy and crispy and out of control. Chocolate cake with real cream.



I was off my feet by 6pm and watching satellite tv in the hotel room. Soul Plane was playing in english and while it might not be on my must-watch list normally, you can never underestimate the value of a movie in your own language while in a foreign country. Stefano left on a dinner mission and brought back a great Napolitano style pizza for my pre-marathon dinner. Then it was time for more English TV and a spot of rugby in Italian. (The Irish won.)

One of the great things about the Italian marathon is its late start. It begins at the leisurely hour of 9:00 am. And because of its relatively small size (15,000 runners), the bathroom lines are much shorter than the other races I've run. Although that doesn't stop people -- wholly men -- from relieving themselves on the ancient monuments surrounding the start. I can happily report that none of the female runners - who at this point were allowed to commingle freely with the males - were relieving themselves anywhere but in the bathrooms. Go ladies! Maybe that's why we get special numbers.

The race starts and ends at the Coliseum, that famous face of postcards and guidebooks. We queued around its base to start and circled around it again to finish. In the midst of all the excitement and spectacle, all the worries that precede a marathon and the fatigue that ends it, the Coliseum was awe-inspiring and inspirational. And what a luxury - who gets to run around the Coliseum? I guess I do.



The race itself was an interesting sociological study and was nothing like the races in Chicago, New York or London. There were fewer runners, fewer fans and far more body odor.

The Italian audience seemed to have two general responses to the race: confusion/indifference and aggravation/agitation. The confused/indifferent group would stand at the side of the road, bemused but not really saying anything. These were the same people who would wander onto the course, thinking that crossing the path of 15,000 people could be accomplished with simple hope and a certain nonchalance. The even more indifferent among them were the folks lounging at café tables along the route; these true cheerleaders would just sort of glance in the direction of the race, take a drag from their cigarette, and mutter "bravo." Only in Italy.

The aggravated and agitated instead would stand at the side of the road cursing at the policemen and demanding that they be allowed to drive their cars through the race. While I saw no cars actually on the route there were plenty at intersections with their complaining drivers making their case to the attending official. I heard several people on cell phones along the side of the road explaining to their friends that they were caught in some sort of race and couldn't reach their destination on time. Believe me, they weren't saying how happy they were to have found this great sporting event. I especially liked when a woman who seemed to be leading a school group trapped behind the race route said to the kids that the runners were "gia destrutti" -- already destroyed. I especially liked that she said this as I ran past.

As for active spectators, there were far more Norwegians at the side of the road than Italians. There were more Finns for that matter. The Italians who were at the side of the road for cheering purposes, and maybe there were 30 along the way, seemed to be dressed in the same outfits as their compatriots -- as if bright red sweatsuits with green stripes somehow attracted other bright red sweatsuits with green stripes. And that this combination produced a modicum of cheering and encouragement. But never too much.

My biggest problem of all was the concept of kilometers. Just how many kilometers are there in a marathon? I didn't know Sunday but I know today. That's because I had to run past 42 signs - each indicating the passing of a single kilometer - before I finished. 42 signs is a lot of signs. Especially when you're used to 26; one for each mile.

Had I known there were 42 kilometers in a marathon, instead of running blindly, my results might have been different. But because I didn't know, and couldn't follow a strict mental plan of how far to get and in how much time, I just ran.

It was liberating. And in the end, exhilarating. Because I got a time that surprised me. 4:24. A great time for me. A time I got just by running. Not by planning. Not by staring at my watch every time I saw a mile marker. Just by running. Amazing.

There were incredible views along the way. We ran straight at St Peter's Basilica for a long stretch. It was gorgeous and there was a uniformed band playing in front - enough to bring tears to your eyes. We ran past the Trevi Fountain and through Piazza Navona and over enough cobblestones to last a lifetime.

The drama and history are almost enough to make you forget about the drab miles run along the grey highway; and the on-ramp we had to crest to get up there. And ending at the Coliseum - at the one and only Coliseum - is enough to make you forget the last half-kilometer of uphill brutality you're forced to run to get there.



A new thing for me: sponges. I have never seen so many sponges and so many people so excited to get sponges. At a certain point we were getting more sponges than Gatorade. These square foam chunks were lighter than air and soaked in cold water. Perfect for rubbing across your face to wipe off the salt crystals. Perfect for keeping a bella figura even while running a marathon. And everyone knows the bella figura is most important in Italy.

The race also sported a feature we'd never even heard of before: bicycle psychologists. In the guide that came with the marathon t-shirt there was an announcement that these people would be present on the racecourse to assist and encourage athletes to finish the race. Psychologists. On bikes! Telling you why you should finish the race that you signed up for. Again, only in Italy.

Other important information gleamed Sunday: Giuseppe was the most popular name among race participants, the song "Final Countdown" is only inspirational until the lyrics actually start and Nike running shoes are rarely worn by anyone other than Americans.

Stefano was able to find me at three points in the race. Our first meeting point changed along the way as the map that we'd used to plot our meeting points was incorrect. This map was posted on the marathon website and listed as the course map. I'd like to say that this mistake was a real shocker and that we couldn't believe the Rome Marathon would have the wrong course map posted on their own website, but we've lived here for too long. I just called Stefano from the 5k mark (where we thought he would be) and rescheduled for where he was actually standing (somewhere around mile 8). That's why running with a cell phone is clever.



After the race I hobbled with Stefano and our friend to the metro and after one stop we took a cab to her apartment. When I stumbled out of the cab our friend explained to the driver that I'd just run the marathon and pointed out my medal. Being the 13th running of the Rome Marathon, the medal has "13" written on one side. The taxi driver was excited and congratulated me on placing 13th in the race. That shows you how much the average Italian knows about Marathons. Anyone who thinks I'm the 13th fastest person running any race is maybe a tad new to the sport.

So, in honor of my 13th place finish we ate heaping piles of homemade pancakes with butter and syrup and old-fashioned bacon. We watched silly satellite TV shows like Everyone Loves Raymond and played with a giant golden Labrador retriever.

And talked about how cool it is to run a marathon in Rome. Even if it is 42 kilometers instead of the usual 26 miles.

what a little milk can do

I'm a macchiato kind of gal. Most mornings, I like my small shot of coffee to have a puffy top-coat of foam. It's a nice contrast to the caramel nature of the espresso below, and also the perfect place to deposit a fine stream of sugar that sinks slowly through the foam and into the liquid below. A macchiato, I assert, is where it's at.

However, should you be in Rome and have a moment to indulge in a brief respite, I would head to this cafe. I would then order a cappucino. I most certainly would drink it while doing my best to hold in the ooh's and aah's.



The cappucino here is a sweet and perky coffee with much more spirit than any cappucino I'd had previously. It was not lazy with milk the way others have been, dragged down into blandness by the sheer abundance of it. This cappucino was alive and vibrant and exactly the kind of drink one imagines would exist in Rome.

It's a drink for watching people. And practicing your Italian. And pondering how it is that a place like Rome can exist; with it's history and mystery and perfectly-sweetened caffe.

but don't forget the sides

We were in Rome for work on Friday and stayed to poke around the city on Saturday morning before our train. What a fabulous place, and so very different from Milan. Whereas in Milan you notice the tourists, in Rome it is the locals who are the strangers and thus stand out.

The city itself is a chaotic mix of ancient and alive, things that are so old you cannot move them and things moving in every direction at once. There are scooters in every conceivable space and people pointing cameras in every direction.



Except in the Pantheon. In the Pantheon you point the cameras up. You look up. In fact, everyone looks up and every camera is pointed in that direction. Because it is the perfect hole in the top of the dome, with it's ray of perfect light shining through, that is both amazing and unbelievable. And the reason we all walked through the grandiose entrance and the columns around it.



The Pantheon is quite old. It was entirely rebuilt in 125AD by Emperor Hadrian. RE-built. It originally was constructed between 27 - 25BC as a temple. That's BC as in Before Christ.

In 609 AD it was consecrated as a Christian site because apparently the Christians had a hard time passing the structure without a trail of demons tormenting them along the way.

Flash forward a thousand years+ and the building is one of the finest and most complete examples of Roman architecture in the city. The diameter is exactly equal to the height and the hole in the center of the dome is a full 9 meters across. There are no supports to be seen, all hidden within the walls themselves.



It is marvelous. The ray of light breaching the hole in the center of the dome, and striking the interior wall, is one of the most dignified and majestic combinations of nature and structure that I can imagine. And I, for one, couldn't help pointing my camera in that direction as well.

the raspberry blessing

St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican is stunningly large and imposing. It could fit a hundred small chapels inside yet has enough nooks and coves to make a person feel comfortable in its vastness. Through the columns, with the moon above, it looks delicate and gentle. But is it not and at any other angle it seems as if it would swallow the moon whole.



I must highlight a disturbing trend in tourist reportage. The cell phone has quickly become the number one device for preserving vacation memories. The use of a real camera ranks a disturbing second. For example, the man below is viewing Michelangelo's Pieta. By his balding head and grey hair we can discern that he is of a generation that should be more than passingly familiar with the film camera. But... But... he has decided it is a far better plan to use his cellphone in a church to photograph a masterpiece. This does not bode well for the future.



Below are the disturbing and distorted feet of St. Peter. Over the years visitors to the Basilica have rubbed the toes into surreal lumps. For luck? For blessings? Maybe just to see what metal rubbed by millions of grubby hands feels like.



Stefano received his own very special blessing in the piazza. We had walked past an old man who was blowing raspberries randomly as people passed. He was quite skilled, making the sound without using his hands and maintaining a completely serious and non-commital face. As we headed out of the piazza this man chose to stealthily approach Stefano from behind and give him a sharp clap on the shoulder. At the same perfect moment he blew one of his signature raspberries and was on his way.



Tonight we dined with friends and this is my ravioli. Ricotta and spinach with sage and butter. It was absolutely amazing and if all of our meals taste this good there are going to be some serious waistline problems in the future. Although you will note that the portion is a delicate one, and with food this savory it's quite enough. (But I wouldn't have refused a few more should they have found their way onto my plate.)

andiamo a roma

After a flight filled with people speaking a language that is no longer foreign to us we've arrived in our new country of residence. Upon checking in at our beautiful hotel there was a prompt nap during which we received no fewer than two phone calls (hi mom!) and an "oops" bellman entry. After the nap we both felt -and still feel- a combination of enebriated and uncoordinated and so took a walk to the Spanish steps for air and exercise.



The streets were crowded with shoppers, tourists, smokers, fashionistas and more smokers. We enjoyed the people watching and managed to find our way back to the hotel. But not before running into a renegade group of Italians in safari wear who were shooting a short digital film on the sidewalk. And there were other groups wearing the same ensemble and seemingly participating in a similar project. I am convinced that only the Italians can walk the cosmopolitan streets of Rome wearing khaki safari gear and rocking the look. We had gym shoes on and felt not half as cool as them. Nice.



Our hotel is gorgeous by the way. It's across the street from the embassy and features gorgeous furniture, a roaring fireplace, and staff who indulge our desires to speak Italian. Perfect! The stairway is featured above - spiraling upwards - and is the central feature of the building.



There are also some very small cars here. The tiny smidge of a vehicle pictured barely reaches Steve's chest -- tiny, tiny, tiny. And somewhat space age as well.

Tonight we've been promised an introduction to nutella pizza... who are we to say no to that? Ciao!