Friday 14th October
I write most of today’s entry in my Georgia O’Keeffe exhibition notebook, whilst sat on a bench opposite Keats’ grave. It’s very quiet and mellow. You could even say it was melancholy, if you were in this frame of mind, which I am. The grave of Keats, undoubtedly, is melancholy.
He is buried alongside Joseph Severn, an artist, who lived with him at the villa on the Spanish Steps (now the Keats-Shelley Memorial House) and was with him during his last months. Just behind the two headstones is a smaller tomb, for Severn’s son Arthur, who died as a baby.
After visiting Keats’ house in Hampstead in the spring, and in July the Memorial House where he died, I feel like I have to sit here for a while to take it in. There are two huge pine trees flanking the graves, which seems appropriate, and the whole corner of the cemetery is so, so green. It is really beautiful.
The grave itself –without Keats name, as he planned during his last illness – bears the epitaph:
This Grave
Contains all that was Mortal
Of a
Young English Poet
Who,
On his Death Bed.
In the bitterness of his Heart,
At the malicious power of his Enemies,
Desired
The words to be engraved on his Tombstone
Here lies one
Whose name was writ in water.
February 24th 1821
I sit and consider for quite a long time.
***
Previous to this I had a far less calming experience – my first attempt to navigate the Rome Metro. It really is the same as the Tube (and the Paris and Madrid Metros), apart from being a bit darker, more dirty and generally a bit more crap. It went fine, despite this. There are only two lines, which is why I’ve managed two weeks without having to use it.
I get off a Piramide, and have a long browse of the Italian/English used bookstall that I find outside. I buy a book for one euro from a man who reminds me of Grandad Miller. The book is called Literature and Psychology, and when I open it I find that it still has an old library card stuck in the front. It was last taken out of Milford University Library (where?) in 1985; before this there are three withdrawal dates, all from the summer of 1965. After 1985 there is a stamp saying it was withdrawn from library usage –someone probably noticed the twenty year gap. I have no idea what it has been doing for the past 26 years (longer than my life), but it has somehow ended up finding its way to Rome and into the possession of this Italian grandad, who has relinquished it to his stall, where it has been sifted out from between translations of Jackie Collins and books about the Virgin Mary ...by me. What a history. This unexpected little bit of retro makes my morning.
There is a strange sculpture by the bookstall, seemingly made of bronze – what appears to be men, all with their hands tied in chains, all with human-shaped mirrors behind them. It is interesting, but I have no idea what it means.
Across the road is the Pyramid of Cestius, which dating from 12 BC is the oldest building in Rome. Behind it, I have read, there is a random cat colony, which has existed since the nineteenth century. The pyramid is fairly imposing, and I take a few pictures. Then I make friends with an old man and we go on a mission to find the Protestant Cemetery, which it turns out is directly behind the pyramid.
***
The cemetery is also home to the graves of Shelley, Goethe and the composer Mendelssohn, and I set off in search of Shelley after I’ve done with Keats. His grave is a lot less tranquil than Keats’, at the top of the general cemetery, and is only slightly set apart from the other graves, at the foot of a tower. Shelley’s epitaph reads:
Nothing of him that dark fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Just down the hill, off one of the neat pathways that the cemetery is made up of, is the grave of his son William, whose mother is Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein. She doesn’t appear to be buried here; I make a mental note to find out where her grave is.
One early feminist whose grave I happen upon by accident is Elizabeth B. Phelps, an American suffrage pioneer and lover of literature who died in Rome in 1898. After her biographical information the tomb reads ‘Her daughter, Elizabeth Woodbridge Phelps, knows her mother’s devotion to literature and is glad to carry out her wish to be buried near the poet Shelley.’
After a quick look at the tombs of Mendelssohn and Goethe I head back to the gate, where I find my friend the little old man shamelessly listening in on a group tour that has just started. I tell him that I’m going to the Second World War cemetery across the road, and he says he will join me.
***
The war cemetery, whilst being moving, is very much like all the others I’ve ever been to. I have a bit of a mind-jolt when I see the epitaph of one A. Miller, and then get confused about the words engraved in the roof of the entrance arch. The arch is a memorial to the allied soldiers who died to give the Italian people freedom. What? I am sure Italy was on the side of the Germans, and I ask my little old man about this. He gives a very, very long explanation, describing in detail what seems to be every movement the Italian army had during the war. From what I gather, Italy changed sides after Mussolini died. Old man then recommends that I look up the work of Primo Levi, an Auschwitz survivor and author who eventually killed himself in the 1960s.
***
Afterwards, I head back to Cavour on the metro and get a very late lunch at a cafe on a side street. An American man (he is from California, he tells me) comes and sits with me, and promptly asks why I am eating a sandwich. This is a very bizarre question. He points out his huge bowl of pasta. I tell him that I’m British and that we aren’t used to heavy lunches, and in return he tells me that he can’t understand a word British people say. Thanks for that.
***
Later, the Bellomos have friends round for dinner. The father, Alberto tells me, is his oldest friend –they have been soldiers together. For some reason, this immediately makes me think that they were mutual wingmen in their long ago bachelor days. And then Alberto starts talking about guarding weapons and National Service, and I realise that no, that actually were soldiers.
Alberto then declares that I can drink, because I am ‘a British’. It is about the twentieth time he has said this.
I point out that he has drunk the same amount (which isn’t very much; a couple of glasses of wine and the weekend-only treat that is the limoncello). ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but I am a man. Not one Italian woman can drink as much as this.’
Whoa. I continue to sip my limoncello, in the name of equality.
Saturday 15th October
Today I am given another day off. Lidia recommends that I visit the Jewish Ghetto and highlights a few likely looking streets on my map that are nearby, and then points me in the direction of the number 3 bus.
I spend a few minutes waiting on the wrong side of the road, and then remember that I’m in Rome and cross over. It’s quite cold this morning, as I sit in the bus stop (I’ve moved to Rome and I’m still waiting in the cold for the 3). A letcherous, balding man says ciao to me three times, and when I eventually get on the bus it is packed. I am stood far too close to a teenage couple who are licking each other’s faces. I don’t mean they are kissing – no. He is licking her face, and she is laughing. Attempt to edge away but can’t get very far, because the balding letch is on my other side.
I get off at Parco del Celio and follow Lidia’s directions, which first take in the Roman Circus, now a long expanse of parched grass set in a valley. An information board tells me that in Roman times the circus collapsing was a regular occurrence, killing thousands every time.
I go on to Piazza Bocca della Verita, scene of Audrey Hepburn believing Gregory Peck had had his arm bitten off by the stone lion in Roman Holiday. The lion is now behind a fence, and appears to have become a sort of shrine –the queue to recreate the Roman Holiday scene is ridiculous. I stick my arm through the fence and manage to get a picture between posing Japanese tourists, and then cross the road to the river.
Not far along is Tiberina, the famous boat-shaped island in the middle of the water. It contains the hospital, Lidia has told me, where B&B were born. I read an information board on Ponte Fabricio, one of the bridges that crosses over to it. Ponte Fabricio, it tells me, was built in 62 BC by Lucio Fabricius. This is slightly awe-inspiring, and I can’t really get my head around how old it is. There is a tower next to it, on the side of the island, that imprisoned Pope Urban II in the late 16th century.
My camera battery is close to death, so I keep pictures to a minimum as I walk along the river. It immediately becomes clear that I’m entering the Jewish area. A large building on my right is decorated with a lot of Hebrew writing, as well as the Star of David. I cross over and find that the synagogue contains a Jewish museum and offers guided tours. It is closed, though, because this weekend is a Jewish holiday.
Instead I have a wander around the Portico D’Ottavia, which was built between 27 and 23 BC by the Emperor Augustus, for his sister Octavia. Being pretty old, it is currently undergoing renovation work. I discover that in the middle ages it was home to Rome’s largest fish market, and that some of the Latin inscriptions still visible are instructions on the size of fish that should be sold. It is bordered by Teatro Marcello, which Lidia has told me is a smaller version of the Colloseum. There is an accordion player outside, which is nice.
Carry on down the Jewish streets, looking for somewhere to get lunch. A lot of the food places seem to be nice restaurants, with groups and couples sat outside. They aren’t the sort of places where I can sit on my own, writing and reading my book (Fitzgerald’s stories are finished now –I enjoyed them even more than his novels; I’m now on A Passage to India. It’s my first Forster and I feel like it’s going to be heavy work). Eventually I find a more appropriate cafe, but pass because I’m morally opposed to spending five Euros on half a panini.
***
After a more reasonably priced lunch, I explore the Ghetto’s side streets. It’s all mildly interesting, but not as much so as I was expecting –I remember finding the Jewish Ghetto in Berlin fascinating, but not having chance to look round. This one seems to be mainly filled with restaurants. I do find a couple of interesting parts, though –a tiny street of art and bookshops, all of which are locked and direct the shopper to ask for entry elsewhere. I get the impression that the people who live here guard their community from outsiders, still. I find a church that, in 1534, was granted as a ‘Company for Homeless Maidens’ by Pope Paul III. In Piazza Mattei, I discover the Fountain of the Tortoises –La Fontana delle Tartarughe. It was built during the 1580s, but the tortoises that give it its name were probably added by Bernini in the 1650s. There are also a couple of vintage shops (not good ones) and an interesting shop selling Mexican art and jewellery.
I’m here, in Casa di Frida, when I notice a tiny, dark staircase leading down from the shop – a relic, obviously, from the building’s original ghetto interior. It’s slightly unnerving – it’s so dark and narrow that I half expect to see a bearded Shylock type character stooping at the bottom. Very ghostly, and the Ghetto is full of things like this – narrows streets between high, high buildings, so tight the vespers can hardly fit down; tiny windows miles above the cobbles. It’s crazy to think that people lived closed in like this –for hundreds of years.
***
I walk down Via Del Giubbonari, which Lidia has said is nice. It is nice, if slightly out of my price range. At Campo di Fiori I sample the local wine at one of the many market stalls, then buy a bottle of bianco to take to Ashley’s tonight. It looks like a good food market, but since I’m arriving late in the day a lot of the stalls have closed, leaving festering piles of fruit, flowers and vegetables all over the floor. As well as my wine, I buy three miniature bottles of liquor from another stall – everywhere is offering free samples, and after much pondering (tasting) I buy cremas di melon, almond and pistachio.
Feeling mildly like an afternoon wino, I head towards Piazza Farnese and its famous Palazzo, now home to the French Embassy. The square has some interesting buildings surrounding it, and this is where my camera finally dies.
***
I have a walk down Via Guilia, which is pretty, then cross the river at Ponte Sisto in the direction of Transtevere. Transtevere is an area that guidebooks recommend, that Lidia has pointed out as worth visiting –and that the reviews I’ve read on Tripadvisor have been less than favourable about. Well, all I can say is that the Tripadvisor reviewers must have been visiting Transtevere in July, when everything was closed. It is b e a u t i f u l. It is, probably, the nicest part of Rome I’ve seen –quaint, colourful, arty, and full of little restaurants and shops. The buildings are all orange and covered with ivy; every street throws a wealth of artistically decorated tiny shop fronts in my face. I wander around in heaven for a while, and then go into what appears to be a jewellery shop –it is in fact much more, full of home furnishings, lamps, clothes, and jewellery boxes. I buy a necklace, a wooden jewellery box with pull out drawers, and a black top with beading on the front.
In the changing room, I stare at the mirror for a very long time, considering. Not considering my own reflection –considering the mirror. It is full length and hand painted in red, orange and gold, and only costs 65 Euros. I want it. I want it a lot. The practicalities get me in the end, and I wonder how much it would cost to have it shipped. Where in the world can you find a full length, hand crafted, one of a kind mirror for only 65 Euros? My guess is only at a flea market, and here.
I pay for my other items and leave, before I do something stupid and end up having to lug a mirror that’s nearly as tall as I am back on the bus.
***
Did you feel like this blog post might have been building up to something? That it was sort of... long? And that it might eventually reach a pivotal point?
Well. While I am waiting at the bus stop, my phone starts to vibrate. It is Lidia. I already have a sense of foreboding; I always seem to when people ring rather than text. I can sense the urgency. They need to speak to me now.
‘Lucy,’ Lidia says,’ where are you?’
I don’t know where I am, I’ve just stopped at the first bus stop I can. And the foreboding makes me nervous. ‘Erm,’ I say, ‘near the scene from Roman Holiday... Bocca della Veritas.’
Pause. ‘Have you heard the helicopters, and about the bomb?’
Jesus. Christ.
***
Lidia recommended this morning that I go to the Jewish Ghetto because a protest march was taking place, and it was finishing at San Giovanni in Laterano, just around the corner from our hotel. It was going to be a big march, she said –and this is a city that sees protest marches every weekend in the autumn. But this one was going to attract a lot of people, because it was a protest against the banks –and there may be trouble with the buses. I should try not to be in the area.
***
On the phone now, she tells me that Via Cavour, the main street running down from Plaza Vittorio Emanuel II, is closed because cars have been set alight and the front of banks have been smashed. She is with B&B and Alberto in a park out of the way, but the roads are closed and there is no way they can get back into the centre. I get on the bus, which should take me to Circo Massimo, where I caught it this morning. Lidia tells me to at all costs avoid Via Cavour. I tell her I should be back soon; I will tell her when I am.
My bus turns the wrong way; it isn’t going to Circo Massimo. Obviously, because to do that would be to go too close to San Giovanni. Instead it is heading directly to its destination –wherever that is. I have a few moments of blind panic, as we sail away into a part of Rome that I have never seen before. I don’t recognise a single street name, and before long we are on a dual carriageway, flying over a bridge that appears to be leading out of Rome altogether.
I get off, panic, walk up the dual carriageway, and find a street map that tells me I am close to Piramide Metro. Thank the lord! To check the exact location of the metro station, I go into a carpet shop and ask a man for directions.
He tells me that the metro has closed down entirely from 5pm because ‘the teenagers get crazy on Saturdays’.
He directs me down the hill towards a bus stop. I ask every bus driver whether they go near Via Merulana; they all tell me no, I should get on the 175. But the 175 could take an hour to come; I know what Rome’s buses are like by now. Also, a helicopter is circling behind me and I CAN HEAR THINGS EXPOLDING.
The next bus driver closes his doors and drives off whilst I am in the process of asking where he is going. This hardly lessens my sense of panic, because where the bloody hell am I going now? No, he eventually deigns to inform me, he is not going near Via Merulana. Via Merulana is closed.
Via Merulana runs parallel to Principe Eugenio, one street down.
He directs to me a bus that will take me to Termini Station; I get on it gratefully and am on it for a further HOUR AND A HALF before I eventually get off. The very, very slow progress takes us back through Bocco della Veritas, past the peacefully protest that is going on at the Colloseum, and up through Plazza Della Republica towards the station.
***
I don’t get back to the apartment until half past seven. I text Ashley to tell her that I won’t be coming round tonight after all, and then Lidia phones and tells me to absolutely not go out, because the protestors are now in Plaza Vittorio Emanuel II.
I ask Anna, out of politeness really, whether I can turn off the crap gameshow that is monopolising the television so I can put the news on. No, she says, no news. No no.
My laptop’s internet isn’t working, and I can’t watch the news. I can’t find out what is going because Anna is too engrossed in what appears to be an Italian version of Deal or no Deal.
This situation makes me more stressed out than when I was stood on the edge of the dual carriageway listening to explosions. Eventually I find one of the Bellomos’ IPads, log onto the BBC and see that the protests are international and that London is suffering, too –although not as badly as here.
Then the news comes on the television. Seeing burnt out cars and armoured police shielding off rioters right in front of the majestic San Giovanni in Laterano is a surreal site, and I can’t describe it. Via Cavour is hardly recognisable, through the amount of smoke.
Anna has made carrot and potato soup; we eat it in silence whilst watching. When she opens the window afterwards for air, the sounds of helicopters and general discounted rumbling is deafening.
Just before 10pm there is a key in the apartment door, and Benedetta launches herself through in a ball of energy. Bea is right behind her. They seem to be high on adventure. Bea is covered in biscuit crumbs, and they have new stuffed Dalmatians, which they show off proudly (‘Look, Looosy!’)
I leave Lidia and Alberto to it (good luck getting the twins to sleep anytime soon) and head back to Alphabet House. All seems quiet when I pass through the courtyard; when I open my window later I can hear a loud voice talking but nothing else. Uneasy sleep.
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