Nothing Happened

Tags

girl power, italy, Poetry, rome, storytelling, women power, women's rights, women's safety

Late afternoon sun warms the urban ladder.
Mediterranean promise lies behind its rays.
A light, sultry, dust-carrying desert wind lifts the grime of the inebriating city.
Time is running low to this experience of rebirth –
a Renaissance of her own – from midwest to mid-Med.
Learning hides behind every corner, life lessons coming fast and furious.
Lessons of world struggle, history’s shifting poles of power give pause.
Independence comes through the panes of a speeding train, the pains of growth spurts.
Significance creeps through everywhere, through every crack in the asphalt, in every sprayed tag.
Courage, faith, steadfastness arise, filling her core.
Everyday a new discovery, everyday a new blessing.
All this, she thinks, as she scampers down the metal framed staircase.

Observations skills keen, she sees his furtive backward glance.
She advances aware, her newly fortified armor up.
Rounding the bottom rung, he pounces.
Arms flail, breath caught, fragments of rumpled suit and razor stubble betray social ineptitude.
Escaping as quickly as he attacks, she runs back up the rickety metal staircase towards the masses.
Thank goodness, she repeats to herself and later to her caregivers, nothing happened.

Nothing happened.
Except that instead of falling into warm, fitless sleep each night, she replays the sound of those metal stairs in her head, her heart beating fast against the silent walls.
That happened.

Nothing happened.
Except she no longer walks anywhere unaccompanied, her newfound independence taken hostage in a fragment of a second. Her self-assuredness under siege.
That happened.

Nothing happened.
Except that her smile ever-so-slightly lost its brilliance.
Her glance ever-so-slightly suspects.
Her voice holds a veiled apology.
That happened.

Happy exploration of new pathways is now tantamount to a six-year-old walking down a shadowy hallway to a dark bedroom during a thunderstorm.
Venice’s romantic canals reflect threat.
Rome’s gelato has lost its creamy lustre.
Sleep lacks rest.
Study brings unwanted mental meanderings.
That happened.

From girl to woman in an instant
she discovers solidarity among women and women-loving men.
She will overcome and find power within.
Women are not playthings.
Women band together, find strength and come back stronger and more fierce.
This happens.

 

Taxi!

Tags

rome, taxi driver

The question of Roman taxi drivers has been plaguing the city for some time now. Self-owned taxis are driven by drivers who generally belong to one cooperative of the other, all part of a large lobby which plagues and often holds hostage the Mayor’s office. It is a generally well-known fact that many, many licenses are often sourced, purchased and not necessarily “earned” outside of Rome. Legend has it that if you were to search 10 drivers, you’d find as many as 8 of them have licenses from Pescara, Terni, Ancona or some other underwhelmed city not far from Rome. 

Taking a taxi in Rome has become a gamble. Will he be kind and service-oriented? Will he act as though having to give me a ride somewhere is an imposition to his busy schedule? Will I hear endless sugary hits Baglioni and Venditti tunes from the 80s at the highest volume or will it be interminable arguments about La Roma or La Lazio (depending on whether the decals on the dash are Giallorossi or Celesti)? Will there be the sweet aroma of dope mixed into the grungy Marlboro stench or will the Evergreen hanging from the rearview mirror make my stomach turn? And when it does begin to turn because of the smell, the heat or the rapid weaving between lanes of traffic, will he allow me to open my rear window without a lecture about how the wind affects his cervicale? Or will he be a she? Oh, that is a rare and generally appreciated occasion!

Here is one episode of Roman taxi idiocy which makes me crazy with rage: taxi comes to take me to the airport. I tell him it’s a credit card fare to make sure he’s not one of those POSfobes whose portable machines are always mysteriously broken. “Si’, si’, signora. Ce l’ho.” We pull into the terminal and he realizes he’s left his ‘man purse’ (literally ‘borsello‘) at home with all of his documents, including his license and his little portable credit card machine. 

Insert here cultural sidebar: It is late afternoon, just past traditional lunch time. Here’s a guy constantly on his phone Whatsapping even as he drives. He gets a call or two. The mumbling and smirking are so transparent, he’s lucky his wife isn’t in the car with me. He’s clearly been somewhere other than home for lunch and gotten something a little extra on the side. During his little afternoon love distraction, he left his borsello where he stores his credit card machine much like he’d have taken his entire car stereo with him every time he parked his car in the 80s. Something about gadgetry that men have to always take them with them.

So, here we have a two-timing taxi driver speeding to airports with no license on him. And I’ve got no cash and he knows it. This is a business expense I  had hoped to put on a credit card but his gadget is in a boudoir somewhere. I bet he’s regretting his little fuga already! The wife would be rejoicing in Karma coming back to bite him.

Yet, I’m the one to suffer. In a fair, Western, working world, I’d say “well, I’m sorry, I have a plane to catch”. Instead the lavativo suggests I leave my bags with him while I frantically look around for a Bancomat (and everyone knows those abound in Rome’s Fiumicino Airport). Off I go in a rush and overheating. Then I stop: “Hold on. What’s wrong with this picture?”
I go back and suggest he follow me so I can then pay him and be on my way. I take my bags– yes, I take them — ever heard the word cafone? This is its embodiment. I, client, carrying my bags like a mad woman running through Fiumicino looking for a cash point as the slow, unprepared, imbranato taxi driver follows behind, talking on his phone.

When I do finally find the ATM, I turn around and ask him if he has his receipt book with him. “Oh, mamma mia, I’ll run to the car and be right back.” Yes, I actually wait for him. The alternative to all this would have been my responding to his initial claim “‘sti cazzi” and been on my way. But police and carabinieri and public bystanders, all with an opinion would have ensued. I make it to my gate with no time for my airport manicure but in time to find the 60 Sicilian Middle School students lining up for my budget flight to Catania: the kind where you have no assigned seat and the quickest and craftiest gets the good seat. As if with 60 12-year-olds there is such a thing as a good seat.

Insert happy ending sidebar here: Landing to a view of active Etna at sunset, I rejoice in my new assignment which will bring me to Sicily again and again. As for those rambunctious, pushy, little tweenies, here’s the trick to no assigned seat flying: recognise that the first to board the shuttle to the plane will be the last to board the plane. I, therefore, can write to my heart’s content on my little device, sat on my little bum (ok, poetic license), drinking my little espresso and be – what a concept – the last on the bus and the first on the plane! So, first seat, first row, slept the whole way. Now to my room with the waves gently lapping just off my balcony, grilled sword fish and some ridiculously wonderful pasta peppered lightly with toasted local pistachios. And this is why we put up with awful taxi drivers and the like.

 

Preface to the exhibition: A Roman Experience, Reflections on Immigration, Isolation, Otherness

Tags

cross-cultural communication, immigration, italy, migration, rome, the other

“When I Left Home -home! what remnant of home there was to be called home- the smell of saffron and freshly ground flour still filled my pores.

With a rucksack of roots, an extra tunic, a pair of sandals and a head scarf, I set out.

Small figurines of animals known to me and carved in ebony line my left pocket. Prayer beads line my right one. I fidget with them as I walk. My shoes prepare to bear the unbearable in the coming days. 

The dust on my skin is familiar, the wind’s song, the noises from a distance all find a home in my brain’s facets of memory.

We walk – I meet others – we all walk in silence. We are the strong, the capable, the eager, the hopeful, the dreamers. We will make a difference and prevail. We will provide for our own.

I have never known what it is to be a minority, to be the one to speak a foreign tongue, the one with the outlandish dress, the one whose skin differs from most.

I have never pondered what air different from that I knew tasted like; what the wind on another continent felt like; never felt pangs of hunger for what’s known, what’s familiar, what’s friendly.”

 

“I have lived here my whole life and before me my parents and before them their parents, and so on and so forth. We have roots here. 

See that shop? That was once my uncle’s fruit and vegetable shop. Look at it now – a bunch of Sri Lankan immigrants there now. Just listen to that racket! They never stop laughing! 

Smell that? That’s my neighbor. I used to have a nice Sicilian family living next door. They weren’t the easiest to understand either but at least they ate at normal hours and cooked with normal ingredients! The grandfather passed away and his son up and took the family north – said it was getting to be unlivable here with all these foreigners moving in! He decided it was time to go somewhere where he could live and work unperturbed! I don’t know what he thinks they’ll find! It’s not like in the North they’re any better to the Sicilians than we are to the Africans. 

I much preferred Sicilians to this man from Pakistan or Kurdistan or Afghanistan one of those places over there! When he’s not praying, he’s cooking, it seems. And smell that! Have you ever?? It’s all those herbs and spices and vegetables they sell now at the market. All their stuff from all their countries. I have to walk twice as far to find a local vendor of local goods! This country is going to Hell in a hand basket, I’m telling you!!

What? Oh, yeah, that old line? Italians emigrated all over the world? We were the ones who they shut out of clubs, apartment buildings and restaurants? The ones the Want Ads excluded? ‘Italians Need Not Apply’. ‘No Italians Allowed’. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it over and over. It’s what those bleeding heart leftists go on and on about. Or the parishioners who come every year at Christmas and Easter to ask if we’d like to volunteer our time to serve hot meals at the train station to the likes of these guys over here. But I didn’t emigrate, did I? No. I’m right here, tried and true Italian. That wasn’t me on those long boats so why should I feel any empathy at all for these others invading my Rome? My people have been here for over five generations! Get them up and out, I say. Rome is for the Romans.”

 

“I’m trying to recite my prayers quietly to myself because I feel as though my neighbor gets angry every time he hears me praying.

Usually prayers calm people – whenever there is the call to prayer in my country people pause, even if only for a second, and acknowledge a higher power to our own. Here, church bells clang incessantly and yet, no one pauses. No one looks up or bows their head. And on and on they clang.

It is right to recognize our humility, our humanity. We must live in respect of others and of God. We must treat our brothers as we ourselves would like to be treated. But the man next door, as much as he has two arms and two legs, as I do, and two eyes and two ears, as I do, he does not appear to me as brother. As hard as I try to communicate with him, he ignores me or throws up his hands at me. Sometimes, when I hear he is coming out of his door, I open mine to smile at him and he turns the key and runs away down the stairs. It is hard to treat others humbly and with humanity when they refuse you. I try, I fail, I feel defeated. 

I miss the big sky and the earth tones from home. The bird’s song is different here – more aggressive and threatening, or am I imagining it? I spend my days from dawn until dusk on busses and metros and in line from one public office to another. They do not ask my name or where I am from as if they want to know me. They don’t. They want to shuffle me. They want to move me along and push me out. I don’t know where is next but I know it won’t be as frightening and solitary as here. My nights are spent in line at the train station. There Italian brothers and sisters with some foreigners who speak in English serve me hot meals. They do not know me and I do not know them. I try to smile, they’re looking down the line to the next to serve. We are shuffled again. The food is so different from what I know. I eat out of hunger, I hunger for what I know. My biggest fear is that that hunger will, eventually, turn my hope and my will to dust.”

 

“My neighbor is learning a little Italian. Seems the parishioners who bang on and on about the hot meal service also started teaching the poor souls Italian. At least now I can ask what it is he’s cooking all the time. He even brought me a taste. Rice with some saucy stuff on it. It wasn’t exactly a Sunday dinner but it didn’t taste half as bad as it smelled! 

Turns out he’s a doctor, too. Studied medicine but never got to practice it. It seems war broke out, he lost some family and the rest, I guess they say, is history. We’re not friends, mind you, but he’s a nice enough guy. Says his name is Sam. That’s easy enough. Says it’s short for something but I didn’t catch what. Seems he speaks English and German and he’s hoping to head north from here but, in the meantime, he’ll learn Italian and wants to know if I want to help him practice. Ah, what the hell? Who else do I have to talk to? If he wants to come over and watch the game every so often, why not?”

 

“Turns out my neighbor is my brother, after all. He speaks loudly and uses his whole body. Sometimes he hits me in the shoulder to get his point across. It’s a very odd thing but I notice other people do it, too. Sometimes I see two men walking and talking and then they stop. They stop in the middle of the sidewalk to finish their conversation or to make a point. If anyone is walking behind them, he simply has to go around them. It is funny to see how other people get on in the world.

I gave my neighbor-brother some rice the other day. I didn’t tell him but I do worry about all the pasta he eats. I don’t understand how an entire country can survive on wheat alone. If it’s not pasta, it’s pizza and if it’s neither, it’s bread. 

I have begun Italian conversation with him. I think tomorrow I will bring him pictures of home so we don’t have to talk about – and over – the TV!”

 

Separation Anxiety

Tags

italy, loss, love, rome, short fiction

Nora had not taken the call herself; surely there was some inane law against contacting an almost wife as opposed to an actual wife. Had she had the head to sit down and think about it, she’d go on and on about how the policy-driven institutions of this country were squelching its very vitality; ignoring the human side of any issue, erring on the side of caution, taking very important decisions based solely on the institution’s own risk as opposed to determining the best decision for the finest, most humane outcome. Nora and Peter could discuss things like this with the same wild animation one associates with mad Italians in a crowded neighborhood cafe’ the day after yet another government scandal or leading up to a big soccer match. Sometimes friends of friends would think they were arguing but they’d quickly be reassured that despite their very Nordic features, they were happily hot-blooded. Getting worked up was something they both relished, whether it was about getting more people to recycle in town or the importance of eating well, they discussed everything with passion.

Their passion in conversation was matched in the bedroom, beginning quietly and delicately, as one would envision the handling of raw silk upon its arrival to Venice, following months of heavy and dangerous travel on horseback. They would skillfully unwrap it, slowly, taking care not damage the precious contents inside. Then, ever-so-cautiously, they’d hold one fold and then another, examine it as if they’d never seen anything so exquisite, hold it up to the light, brush it against their skin and finally, when their eyes and touch had adjusted, unfurl it in all of its plush and luxurious glory. Always a different hue, each time a slightly different hand, each time the same slow and meticulous process of discovery. Just thinking of it turned her knees to water and she sank to the bottom of her cluttered closet, gripping the quilted bag they’d purchased just behind San Lorenzo on their last foray to Florence. She sat upon the mound of clothes he’d always insisted she sift through, giving away what was of no use to her and hanging the rest but she had never dreamed of giving away anything. There would always be another, exciting use for her clothes, each stitch of them. They would speak of her like photographs in a family album.

She struggled to regain control of her thoughts but instead just kept seeing his face propped up on one elbow above her, after having unfurled yet another bolt of raw silk. It must have been the third or fourth time that day (Why couldn’t she remember? She chastised herself, “third or fourth, which was it? How could you forget?”). He looked at her, eyes dancing from her mouth to her hair, to her bare skin and back to her glance, “they’re sending me to Syria. I leave tomorrow for New York and next week for Beirut. We’ll go in by ground.”

By his tone he might as well have said, “I’m going to get a glass of water. Can I get you anything?”. It took her a second to register the weight of his words. “They” was the UN agency for which he worked as a consultant; there’d been talk that they’d have to go in and file an assessment of the casualties for the new year statistics. She never would have thought it’d take place so soon. “they’re still fighting over there! What’s to assess? As soon as you turn in your report, it’ll be obsolete and there will be new numbers to tally. That’s if you get to file your report and don’t actually become part of it!”

With that, Nora got up, the feel and color of the silk they’d just ruffled already a distant memory. There was no use in pursuing this, she’d been there before and knew that all of the Peace and Conflict Resolution studies they’d both undertaken would lead to some missions she’d prefer not to think about. If she thought too hard about the UN, she’d soon be overwhelmed with that same negativity she had spent years shedding. All of her dreams about actually making a difference put together with all those who shared them, still could not stand up to the bureaucracy and cynicism of reality within those non-territorial walls.

No. Nora happily kept her expertise to her Mac in the comfort of their own home, with a cup of hot tea and one of her carefully selected playlists in the background. She’d write and lecture on Conflict Resolution but had no desire to go back to any seriously conflicted area of the world; frankly, she saw ample ground for her peaceful intervention in the gun-riddled, vitriolic landscape of their own country. And, besides, they were beginning a family; all of this sex used to be just for sheer gluttony but it now served a higher purpose which was affecting her in unexpected ways. It was still too early to tell if any of their attempts had been successful and yet she felt something in her had shifted: when had she ever cared if the placemats and napkins matched at the dinner table? When had she ever been afraid of anything or anyone? Now she did and she was.

She was afraid of car accidents and slipping on the ice and cried during holiday commercials. Once, not too long ago, they’d gone down to the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday. Weaving in and out of the stalls, going on and on with that characteristic verve about the season’s vegetables and what could be done with them, she’d temporarily lost sight of her Peter. Gone was her excitement over mixing that butternut squash with grated pecorino cheese, fresh pepper and nutmeg to stuff ravioli and serve with melted butter and sage. Panic set in; real panic, the kind that came complete with silent, streaming tears, feet stuck in concrete and low, short breaths. Rationally, Nora knew this was a most unhealthy and possibly pathological display of some sort of fear of abandonment or another such textbook condition but she could not think rationally and she could not find her Peter. In fewer than five minutes, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her so that his fists full of sage brushed her tear-streaked cheeks. She yelped a most unbecoming, needy and irrational yelp and hated herself for it Nora did not recognize this whiner, knew not where she’d come from nor who had let her take up residence in her otherwise sturdy self but yelp, nonetheless, she did. Eventually, her public yelping turned to a tiny whimper and, finally, she was capable of carting parcels to the wine and cheese stand, clumsily clinging to her Peter along the way. A couple of sniffles gave way to loud laughter, as he did his best to defuse the dramatic episode with some of his signature dry, comic relief.

She jolted atop her mound of clothes and looked up past the hangers and the long chain hanging from the power-saving lightbulb. Her thoughts ran wild: “that had been a premonition. Someone knew this was going to happen and had sent her a warning. Why hadn’t she realized it then? Why hadn’t she protested more before they sent him? Why the fuck did they call his parents, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly 18 months instead of her, his partner of 5 years, his friend and colleague for 10 years before that and the probable mother of his child? Oh, God. His child.” This pushed her forward in her resolve; she lifted herself up and began stuffing her quilted bag with favorite sweaters, socks, underwear, a few pairs of jeans and, before turning away from the closet, Peter’s wood-chopping sweater. The quilted bag puffed out unevenly and looked a bit like a poorly overstuffed sleeping bag. It would not suffice, sadly, and she went to look for another one.

She found a second bag purchased at that same stall, not the cylindrical, drawstring design of the first but rather an Italian knock-off of those flowered quilted bags she’d seen so much in Boston’s Logan airport and beyond, a favorite among the once preppy set of New England. Like most things Italian, however, this knock-off was better and more beautiful than the original it imitated. Peter had been afraid they might be stopped upon entering the US for carrying counterfeited merchandise. “But it’s not a counterfeit”, Nora held the bag up in front of him and reassured him, “look, this one is by “Vera Brotley”. They laughed heartily as they breezed through the customs area, deftly avoiding the cheese-sniffing beagle, and proceeded to the bus stop from which they headed north, towards darkness and home.

She began filling the second bag with her toiletries, her few medications and vitamins, her round brush, a blow dryer, some books. She fit her computer in its scuba diver’s case and slipped it in on top of her favorite boots and a pair of sneakers. She then grabbed all the chargers she might need: phone, i-pad, computer and looked around. That would suffice. For now.

On the phone, Peter’s father had suggested they meet at Dulles Airport as soon as she could get a flight. She had checked flights and found nothing until too late the following day. She decided she’d drive: what else could she do, sleep? Not likely. Not tonight. She’d called her friend and neighbor so that the house would be looked after. She simply said, “I have to go to D.C., it seems something has happened to Peter.” She had not yet told a soul that he was actually coming back in a body bag. Just the thought of uttering it aloud was enough to break her – for good, this time, not like the interminable five minutes at the Farmer’s Market.

Still, she smouldered that the powers that be had called Peter’s parents and not her. She dreaded the thought of celebrating his life with a bunch of people with whom he no longer associated, in a place foreign to her and forgotten by him. She was his life. This was their house. She was – she felt sure now – having their child.

She started the car, purse on the front seat, i-pad playing their “puttering-around-the-house-on-Saturdays” playlist. Her phone was set to silent, plugged into what once would have been a cigarette lighter and resting in what once would have been an ashtray. She drove-thru a Dunkin’ Donuts for a black coffee which she had the guy pour into her own mug. Peter and she, having both lived in Italy separately and then together for a long while, laughed at how American establishments had so successfully misconstrued the coffee culture of the Mediterranean and made it so inappropriately theirs. Whoever coined the terms “single” and “double” for espresso? Why does a latte have coffee in it? And don’t even get them started on mochaccinos, frappuccinos and the like. Of course, they told each other, they had to be careful around their friends, as their snickering could be taken for snobbery when it was anything but. They both firmly believed in the “when in Rome” concept when it came to coffee. When in Rome, or at home, they’d have Italian coffee. Anywhere else, they’d order it as the local Gods intended it to be. Reaching out to reclaim her mug, she impulsively ordered a dozen Munchkins: maple glazed, glazed chocolate and cinnamon. It had been more than 20 years since she’d had a Munchkin but just then she could think of nothing she wanted more.

Cup in its cup-holder, purse now on the floor- having been displaced by the Munchkins- Nora set out for Dulles Airport. 91 S. to 95 S. followed by a little variation of the 295-495-95 dance, easy enough. Coming up to Springfield, Vermont, Nora saw signs for 11 W. Her car exited. She drove-thru another Dunkin Donuts. This time she handed over her cup for a dark, hot chocolate and asked for 12 more Munchkins. Instead of climbing the on-ramp to 91S, Nora’s car –well, Peter and Nora’s, really– headed west. On her last, cold drop of dark, hot chocolate and licking her fingertip before pressing it to the Munchkin crumbs at the bottom of the box, Nora noticed signs for Buffalo and stayed the course on Interstate 90.

It was about then she realized she was headed to Alaska. They’d talked about it forever, watching Northern Exposure re-runs and marveling at the oxymoronic profound simplicity. In her google-mapping mania, she’d mapped it a thousand times. By her calculations, Peter’s plane would be getting into Dulles the following afternoon, EST. If she continued at this rate, she’d stay ahead of him at least until tomorrow night, PDT. If she never turned back, it would be as if he was still on mission and she’d hold the illusion of looking forward to their reunion. Only this would keep her blood pulsing through her veins, granting her warmth.  Only this – and, oddly, a regular supply of Munchkins – would keep her sane.

She would call her neighbor in the morning and tell her she’d be away longer than expected and ask her to have the village real estate agent come down and look at the place. If they could find someone to pack her private things up and store them, she’d rent it out to one of the professors over at the college. Nora would stay on long enough to thank her neighbor for understanding but hang up before she asked too many questions. Her phone continued to flash on and off silently as she drove steadily from dark towards dusk, listening to “puttering around the house on Saturdays”.

In My Square

Tags

Aperitivi, Men, Poetry, rome, Summer, Women

There is a man
in my square.
He saunters, he struts,
he stares.

Dressed in white with gold Ray Bans –
the 70s kind that make you cringe –
his steps are fueled by his attention binge.

I can see him sprawled out on his wedding bed
his mind and his body filled with heated dread
following his afternoon sleep brought on by pasta and wine
as he begins to rise, rubbing his creased, sweat-filled brow with scratchy white linen.

He smokes, a cigarette dangles from his loose lips.
His head darts, skimming the Foschi crowd at aperitivi time.
He salutes with a hand held close to his hip
Or waves slightly more animatedly with a wink of an eye.
But then, just then, he catches her eye
And off with a cinematic swoop come the gilded Ray-Bans,
His cigarette drops and is squished by his outdated, pointy-toed, summer lace-ups.

Buona sera, bella,
His eyes dancing up and down and up with a pinpointed scan,
How gorgeous we are tonight, he hums
And they scan once again.

And along comes his wife with the gorgeous green hair.
How stark the distinction between brainless and smart,
How completely ridiculous he seems playing his part.
And with grace and confidence she takes her leave
While he trails after, a tiny boy in an ill-fitting linen suit.

Italian Gender Relations in the Cramped Space of an Airplane Cabin

Tags

Facebook, gender relations, italy, London, Nuances, rome

On a plane to London, an extended Roman family travels for the long weekend. I happen to be seated next to the younger members of the group; at first glance, they seem like young high school sweethearts but soon it is evident they are a married couple. It seems they are traveling with his parents and other family members. As we prepare for the take off, the voice over the loudspeaker (in Italian) repeats over and over the necessity to turn off all electronic devices before take-off. They are specific, knowing how attached to their modern devices Italian people are and how stubborn, too, when it comes to following direction, and they list all imaginable devices by name. At that point, a tiny voice near the window suggests her bolder partner heed the advice and turn off his i-phone. Every time the loudspeaker repeats the order, she timidly reminds her husband. At one very uncomfortable point (for me and for her, that is), he turns sharply towards her, “insisti?”, he grits. He says it over and over again, a typical Roman goading mechanism, drawing his face closer and closer to hers each time. She’s near the window, there’s no further back she can go. Each time she tries to reply with her feeble tones, “they say it interferes…” or “but they said…”, he won’t let her finish and, in his extreme braggadocio just raises his hand and sticks his face in hers, repeating, “o! allora? insisti!?”I wanted to turn to him and say, “look, you little bully, she’s right. Turn your fucking phone off and get out of her face.” But I know as well as any woman who has ever been in that belittled and intimidating position that it would be of no use. And so the little schmuck’s phone stayed on. (As an aside, we took off and landed without incident which proves to me that this turning off of phones on planes really is a debatable topic, but that’s another story.)

As I listened to them during the flight between my intermittent, deep sleeps, my heart-strings pulled. This beautiful, young woman continually put herself in positions of powerlessness. She’d feign fear at every bump along the way. She’d look at her husband as if to say, “what was that?” She knew what she was doing, she was giving him opportunities to show her up, to feel strong and all-knowing, to protect her. It’s not uncommon, it’s not new, it is a tradition handed down through the generations. Mothers to daughters to granddaughters: make them feel important, never show your ability, your intelligence, your independence. In fact, never reveal any of that even to yourself. Bury it, hide it, let it fester or wilt away. What do they want to eat? How would they like that cooked? Sunday plans must include the game (whatever the game may be), and so on and so forth. It’s a web of deceit and design; difficult, demeaning and disheartening. And, contrary to a conversation I recently had with colleagues of mine, this is not a step backwards for young women for whom we (and those who came just before me) paved the way; for many of the women I see subscribing to the long tradition of standing in the wings, are direct descendants of the same patterns. There may be a certain tendency to revert to the old objectification of women in the media and in our Anglo-American cultures but the women who fought for a fairer Italy in the 60s and 70s raised women who still fight. They are not reverting. It is those who were oblivious to the change due to their working class and often starving status, who continue to take a back seat. They hold down the hearth and manipulate the husbands, fathers and sons in their life in a co-dependent frenzy which will assure them a constant flow of neediness to feed their own until the day they die.

There exists, as a result of this commonplace game, among a certain social set of the masses particularly in Central and Southern Italy, a suspicion of strong-willed and independent women. The opposite of needy becomes humiliating to men who are used to supplying the answers and quelling all angst: A woman who rises above them humiliates them. I listen to women like this one next to me or mothers who complain their sons “just don’t want to sit in their car seats” when they’re babies and “just didn’t like to study” when they drop out of school and sleep until lunchtime, their every need catered to, as long as they continue to need their mother, and I cannot help but think they are actively assisting in the repression of fellow women; that the insults and liberties suffered by women, as men lash out against them, are, in large part aided by the mothers and wives who allow and, indeed, abed the repression. There are girls who grow up coached and encouraged by their fathers and mothers to stand alone, excel, speed and speak up. I cringe at the thought of the fears we witnessed and felt as children in honor of the frail, male ego.

Before landing, the young woman’s feigned fear reaches a point where she actually asks how a plane lands. How is it that it doesn’t just crash face first? She gives him the perfect opportunity to chuckle at her lack of knowledge. Perfectly crafted, almost scripted, they imitate the scenes of inequality between husband and wife to which they’ve always been exposed. Patronizingly, he responds, “No, amore (as if to say, you silly nitwit), it doesn’t go straight down like this” (he used one of the airline magazines rolled up to simulate an airplane in landing phase and her tray table which was down, despite the order to put it back in place, to simulate the runway). His own lack of knowledge and vocabulary was so painfully evident as he purported aeronautical prowess, it was almost comical if not for the power dynamic which had long been established between the two. He held her hand as we landed, her eyes and expressions continuing to convey little, lost girl syndrome; she gave a yelp and a smile at touch-down and immediately reached into her purse where the i-phone lay. The plane still braking, she dialed her in-laws, back in Rome.
“Si’, si’, we just landed. We’re still on the runway. It was so funny….how’s the baby? it’s cold and cloudy here, what’s it like there?” and, then to her husband, “your father says it’s 30 degrees and sunny there but it’s so cold here, how can that be?”

And she was not being facetious. I was quietly thankful that I didn’t have to witness yet another lesson, this time in meteorology. All of this was taking place as the other members of their family and a handful of other Italians applauded the landing, a tradition which is becoming a rarity. Occasionally, especially on the Italian national carrier, one can still bear witness to the raucous applause upon landing which baffles and amuses the other, non-Italian passengers. Others were standing, many others still, mostly businessmen en route to important meetings, on their phones: “mamma” rang out through the cabin, “si‘, sono arrivato“. All of this as the purser was telling everyone to remain seated and keep all electronic devices off until the “fasten seat belts” sign was switched off. Repeated attempts were necessary to gain control again of the unruly passengers at which time the “fasten seat belt” sign was switched off and all those called to order, in unison, raised their hands in a gesture loosely translated as, “so, what was the big deal anyway?”

The young woman next to me calls back a few rows to a family member, “ma ti funziona Facebook?” “is your Facebook working?”. Her husband shoots her a glare “sei in roaming, non e’ attivato”. He’s pleased as punch not only that he knows what roaming is but that he can use it correctly in a sentence and tell her that hers is not activated. The excitement, however, has gotten the upper hand and egged on by her cousin/sister/sister-in-law in the back, they fool with their phones until, Eureka!, it works! “You’ll end up paying un leasing”, he states, using yet another English term to indicate the massive amounts of money international roaming will cost her in order to use her Facebook. This time, I have to agree with him but I secretly rejoice in the idea of his having to pay onerous amounts of Euro upon his return to Italy just for the sheer pleasure of his wife.

Rome is Burning

Tags

italy, Nuances, rome, Summer

In Rome, one doesn’t just “take the heat”, she absorbs it, assimilates it, becomes it. I describe Rome as a sexy, gritty city all year round but in summer, like much of the Mediterranean, it becomes even more so. Skin glistens dark bronze to deep ebonies; the showing of skin allows a glimpse of soul.

Summer in Rome reveals the soul.

Yesses flow more freely than during the less-scantily-clad year. We find ourselves in one hot and steamy locker room after a really good, endorphin-building workout. Stares linger. The very fact that this decidedly non-athlete can conjure such an image is testimony to the fact that our very atoms are shaken-up and turned around in summer heat.

In my primer years, before becoming fully Italian, I would roll around naked on the ceramic tile floors of my newlywed apartment in a small bowl of a city in Tuscany, framed so closely by the Apennines so as to prohibit the passage of air. My soft, white, New England flesh would absorb the cool from the ceramic tiles. I’d weep for the heat, rolling from one row of tiles to the next. I’d pine for a New England chill.

It has not gotten any less hot in Italy, in fact, conventional wisdom tells us it is getting hotter. And yet, like most Romans I know, I come to life in summer. The stream of warm air flowing through the city of Rome, not dissimilar to an eager lover’s warm breath on your neck, is a welcome change to the lack of air in the bowled Tuscan cities of the Apennines.
It is so hot as to defy the ordinary; high heels of slim sandals sink into the sidewalk; technology flits and wanes, the electrical system in my car only works at night. My eyelids weigh, my breathing slows, I become a slightly southern drawl-version of my former self.

The post-sunset life of summer in Rome brings promise and promiscuity. Promise of promiscuity. As my fiery Sicilian friend says, it is a time to throw out the seed without giving it too much thought and then, come fall, harvest whatever grows! And it takes no prisoners. We all, for a time, become as sultry as the air that invades our very being and every corner of every room. There is something to be said for the adjustment to climate and seasons on the part of the human race. Adapting to nature, in and of itself, affects our inner being in a humbling way, adding an element of perspective, deeper meaning and, well, proportion to our livelihoods and daily routine. How important can that deadline be in the face of 105 degrees in the shade?

The earth tells us to slow down and rearrange and when legislation, private and public enterprise follow the earth’s suggestions, even those of us with an innate puritan work ethic feel validated. We adapt without guilt. We are molasses by day and crisp, white wine by night. We revel in the evening breeze until the wee hours.

We wake early, too, with few hours’ sleep but with that vigour from the night similar to that which a new flirt provides. Our endorphins rise to the occasion and we adjust. It’s mating season.

With bedroom windows open and heavy, dark, louvered shutters ajar, the city’s couples turn to each other in the deep of the night. One becomes accustomed to the love-making schedule and rhythms of one’s neighbours. At first I pummelled the mattress and held the pillow tightly on my head. Now I simply let the sounds lull me back to sleep with a tiny smile on my lips. Slightly embarrassed for them and with a blush, I allow myself to hear their peaks and valleys which seem, from a comfortable distance, to utterly satisfy. I imagine they fall into a deep sleep, the cooling night air streaming in through their shutters and over their spent bodies.

As I fall back asleep, I think of the thousands of juxtapositions facing me daily in this, the sexy, gritty, holy city; the city of the sacro e profano. Just as the Pope will address thousands of worshipers this morning, the day of Rome’s Patron Saints Peter and Paul, at the Basilica of Saint Paul Outside the Walls, those same pilgrims will be back at the Feast of Saint Paul’s tonight drinking, eating, dancing and making merry until the wee hours of the morning when the festivities culminate in fireworks for all to see and feel and emulate. Every night this summer there will be a saint’s feast somewhere in the city of Rome and at every feast the explosion of color and spark and sound. And in every corner of every room an explosion of color and spark and sound.

Strikingly Nonplussed

Tags

ex-pat, rome, strikes, Toiling in Rome, traffic

There is most definitely an order to things in the apparent chaos of Rome and, indeed, Italy. It takes a trained eye and patient soul to recognize and acknowledge that order – particularly when in the midst of the chaos. Such training, in my current field, is pretentiously and- some may argue – incorrectly referred to as “cultural competency”. So, to gain insights into a context not your own, to learn to read cues from use of language, timbre and cadence or from body language, trends and counter-trends and to deal with those new insights in such a way as to refrain from judgement but, rather, deepen one’s knowledge of one’s self, one’s own background and position in relation to this new and foreign context all add up to “cultural competency” (sic). Personally, I liked it better when from closed- or narrow-minded one became open-minded; from provincial, one became worldly; from anxious around the new and different, one became confident, comfortable and empowered.

Now that I am nearly30yearsitalian, I can safely say I’ve got insights. I’ve got those kinds of insights that come to those of us who straddle two continents, absorbing and adapting that with which we choose to identify from each to our everyday existence.

Quick examples: when my daughter was little, I refused to allow her to stay up until all hours and, instead, fed her her dinner at what would be considered afternoon in Italy. She was in bed by the Italian equivalent to dinnertime. Clearly, she was happier, more clear-minded and rested compared to her sometimes sluggish peers in school but her naps were much shorter than theirs!

I also insisted my daughter drink milk at the table when growing up, convinced that Americans knew better and that milk with the meal was a wholesome, integral, healthy part of child rearing. Why I neglected to acknowledge the difference between the female girth between women raised on US wholesome and those on the Mediterranean diet, I don’t know. While I have no tangible proof that ties dairy to the midsection of most American women, it seems to me that it’s certainly a likely culprit. I am not so ‘culturally competent’ as not to admit that in the case of milk-with-meals I may have done without that one aspect of my home “rearing”.

On the other hand (or side of the pond), I’ve never embraced the concept of “politically correct” from my old world (commonly known as the New World) and rather stick with the truth the way I see it in respectful (even if respectfully raised) tones. My passion flows with the Med and I am often trapped in a linguistic battle where I inevitably stack among those who interrupt incessantly, have to have the last word and cannot refrain from expressing their own opinion, whether warranted, savvy or not.

So, like an anthropologist without the pedigree, I float through painful episodes of regular citydom and observe. My greatest joy comes from staying one step ahead of an unpleasant situation, gauging and planning my moves as dictated by the index cards of data and observation stored in the overflowing, imaginary Rolodex in my mind. (My mind is in constant disarray but, like Rome and my daughter’s bedroom, it’s an ordered kind of chaos.)

Today was one of those times. A Mass Transportation strike had been announced on Friday slated for Monday, today. The strike was to hit (pun intended) at 8:30 am and run through 5:30 pm. Sometimes clemency is allowed for school children and workers to get home for lunch. Sometimes not. Sometimes strikes are planned and then cancelled. Sometimes they are not planned and strike unexpectedly. I am often heard saying to those whose ‘cultural competency’ is yet-to-be-developed and who, therefore, hyperventilate at the mere sound of the word “strike”: “no self-respecting strike doesn’t raise havoc”. I say it almost in reverence to the strike and the striking(I prefer to call them ‘striking’ rather than ‘strikers’). I say it purposefully off-the-cuff so that my comfort with the unexpected and unplanned might roll of my tongue and into their panicked, little hearts.

Today, the Monday of the strike, I had to: get my daughter to school by 8:30, get two visitors to Termini train station by 8:40, get back to work by 10:00 am. The number of kilometres to all of this was minimal. The number of metro stops, 5. The number of ordinarily-left-at-home cars on the road, tripled. So, we, too, took the car and dropped the first passenger off at school after about 6 minutes, a bit of weaving in and out of traffic and having left two of the five metro stops behind. We were early enough to find a parking space immediately in front of the UN’s FAO building and just above the entrance to the metro. Intuitively, I chose not to pay for said space, another quick check of the cultural cue Rolodex: strike day, massive traffic and crowds to control, timed conveniently between the cappuccino and brioche and the second coffee (espresso) with meandering colleagues, the parking police would not hit the pavement much before 11, long after I’d be back. So, by rapid deductive reasoning, this space was free (see more on “creative, free parking in Rome” on this blog soon)! Slipping down the stairs of the metro, just 10 minutes before the supposed strike was to hit, we bought our tickets and boarded the subway. Not surprisingly, given the announced strike, it was pleasantly empty for that time of the morning. No need to push, prod or hold your breath. At Termini, we alighted and headed towards the train tracks, arriving a full fifteen minutes before the train was meant to leave. From where I stand, that means with time for coffee; in the US visitor’s book, not so much. Task number two: check.

Believing that the strike had begun, I, like many others, waited in line outside for a taxi. I never even thought to slip downstairs to see if  it’d been revoked; my bad. But I was way ahead of schedule and it was a glorious day. People behind me, next to me, in front of me grumbled as they waited. They complained aloud and looked to each other (and me) for support. If no one joined into their collective whining, they called boyfriends and mothers at home or on their own way to work, to describe the casino indescrivibile outside of Termini (if the mess is ‘indescribable’, how do they describe it so well?). The fila interminabile (the never-ending line), in actual fact, flowed quite nicely for a morning of chaos. I’ve stood in that halting line on non-strike days for much longer. I, too, made my requisite call from line to a friend in Naples. While we chatted about mayoral candidates and the day’s elections, I effortlessly reached the head of the line, stepped off the sidewalk towards the next available taxi, gave the man the address and glanced behind me at the one or two (or three or more) people I’d slipped past entirely unawares as they exchanged knowing glances and hand gestures in my direction. It was clear to me what they were saying. Whoops, I’d slipped right by them, in my comfortable oblivion. I confessed my sins to my Neapolitan friend who accused me of being worst than the Romans themselves. Actually, no, I was simply oblivious; the Romans cut with cattiveria. Always an answer, always the last word.

The taxi driver was chatty and made the usual comments about the strikers (he doesn’t find them striking). “They always want something – too much work, no work, too little work” He suggested they just get on with it and go to work. I thought it best not to mention the several times the taxi drivers of Rome have united to virtually paralyze the city’s traffic and leave residents and visitors without service for large blocks of hours at a time. We took a few detours, darted through traffic and made it back to my car by passing through via di San Teodoro, one of my favourites, cobbling behind the Palatine.

I then hopped into my ticketless car, headed towards work only to find that the strike, in fact, had been revoked. So, there we were in majestic Viale di Piramide Cestia with three times the ordinary number of cars plus all the ordinary busses (empty or nearly) and the result was a cacophony of insults with accompanying gestures and the time to take amateur videos with my Blackberry out the window.  I knew it was just a question of getting around the Piramide itself, a convergence of roads which call to mind amusement park rides on a good day. Once that was done, I’d be home free. In fact, by just 10:00 am, I was back where I’d begun two hours prior. Hardly a victory in some books; a triumph in mine!

Stellina

Tags

Living abroad, Nuances, rome, the way things were

The other day I went to my doctor. When I moved to our new neighbourhood, I changed doctors for my daughter and me. It’s not mandatory to do so but my daughter had outgrown her paediatrician and I was not particularly attached to my last neighbourhood doctor. A dear friend of mine (also a doctor) referred to him as my “Al Qaeda” doctor. I know that wouldn’t be considered necessarily appropriate at home in the US. Political correctness to the extreme would probably find something wrong with that. But here we can (and do) say anything we want.

So, I changed doctors. Now, all I have to do is go down the three stories to street level from my apartment and turn left onto the sidewalk. Between the door to my apartment building and my doctor is but one storefront: there sits a woman behind a shatter-proof glass partition offering to buy gold from those in my neighbourhood jonesing for new hair extensions or the latest 10″ heels, those who need to pay for their cable sports subscriptions and tanning salon appointments.

My doctor sees her patients on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings and on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. She prefers them to call first and make an appointment but this, more than any other, is a place where old habits die hard and doctor’s appointments are a foreign concept. Going to the doctor’s office is a right and a rite. It is neither where I grew up.

Every day the elderly gather in my doctor’s waiting area (tiny, not geared for comfort and, with its eight rudimentary chairs, five along one wall and three facing them, does not even try to be). One of my first visits was on a cool, sunny morning in February. In the sun it was probably 65 degrees; in the shade still in the 50s. In came Stellina, accompanied by her husband. All 38 kilos of her was wrapped in a heavy wool coat whose buttons had been moved to the point where they buttoned nearly along her side. She wore a kerchief on her head and tied under her chin. She looked to be about 130 years-old as much as she looked ageless. She was elegant and frail, spry and slow.

“Stelli'”, the lady behind the desk cried out. “Buon giorno, Stelli’! What brings you out so early?That husband of yours should know better than to make you go out in this cold!” It was not cold out, like I said. Maybe chilly. Not cold. Then she turned to the husband “what on earth were you thinking? Or were you?” There’s a hierarchy at the doctor’s office in Italy: if you are working-class, elderly, young (as in someone’s child), uneducated or otherwise lacking in the pecking order, the person manning the phones at your doctor’s office will talk down to you. The doctor will talk down to her and to you.

If you’ve studied or travelled or can otherwise hold your own in a conversation using the proper verb conjugations and more or less complex sentences while being succinct and to the point, the doctor will tolerate you and even, over time, coddle you. Seeing as illiteracy still laces those aged 60 and above and low-level schooling laces the younger generations, the cycle will not likely break anytime soon.

And yet the receptionist was lashing out in a most affectionate way. Stellina walked over and stroked her cheek before patting it before, finally, gently pinching it as she would have her own great-grandchild’s. The husband threw his hands up and started to justify himself to all of us: “We have to come here, go to the pharmacy, collect our pension, pay the bills, all before 1:00, how could I come out any later?” Yes, in my neighbourhood, as in all of Italy not sold out to tourists, siesta still begins at 1:00pm, so, one must get one’s errands in before lunch and rest time. We all looked at him forgivingly, he sat down again and opened the paper, Metro, handed out for free in coffee bars and metro stations every morning. Stellina pressed her hands along her tiny hips, smoothing her skirt down where the elastic waistband (a necessary afterthought) caused it to bulge slightly. Her husband folded the paper and stood to help her out of her heavy coat and loosened her kerchief for her. “Vieni, siediti, Stelli’. ” She turned right in front of me and made to take the three steps between her and the chair. Then she turned back. Gave the receptionist another smile, patted her cheek again, turned away and went to sit down with her husband. The receptionist, beaming and calling her “amore ” , encouraged her along to her chair.
Stellina and her husband sat hand in hand as he read the paper and held her coat on his lap. He told her the news in a voice loud enough – no, actually intended – for us all to hear.
When it was my turn, I told the doctor how happy I was to be in this new neighbourhood and how pleased I was to meet her. She confirmed it was a pleasure but had less favourable things to say about the neighbourhood. She began to complain about her patients, the rudeness, the crassness of them. I said, “but Stellina and her husband out there ” … “They, my dear Signora, are one of the few exceptions. ” My romantic heart was temporarily crushed. My neighbourhood, famous in all of Italy for its 1920 architecture, built for the families evicted from the Roman Forum by Mussolini who wanted it all for himself, unlike any other, full of artists and old Roman families, a cacophony of sound and colour, was snootily under attack.
In contrast to the other case popolari in Rome, Garbatella preserves a fighting spirit of the evicted, the displaced. While other spots of Rome were granted Council Housing in the great master plan of the urban redistribution under Mussolini, here gratitude for Il Dux has always been lacking. The homes are quaint and artfully crafted by three architects from just as many different parts of Italy and the neighbourhood winds and climbs like a maze over hills with pedestrian paths from one project to the next, overflowing with flowers, trees and shrubs, interspersed with parks and cobblestone. Ok, and laden with graffiti, social activists’ clubs and hanging laundry. Yet, as quaint and desirable as a 21st century ex-pat finds it, just as detestable the original families settled here by force once found it. For them, it was repatriation. The 5 kilometres from their original dwellings to this would have been like 15 kilometres today. While we are now considered central, they would have been relegated to the countryside back then, a fate of untold hardship. While other council settlements of the times let their gratitude then form their political views today, this and a couple of nearby settlements let their anger at being displaced form their very fighting spirit today. One breathes the air of strength in masses and feels the camaraderie in every street, piazza and coffee bar. Never in gratitude to Il Dux, Garbatella remains a place of open minds, hearts and, well, every so often, purses and desk drawers.
The other day I went back to the doctor to pick up a couple of prescriptions. The receptionist was being brutally scolded in very formal Italian. She couldn’t find the doctor’s “stamp” with which she validates all of her prescriptions. I thought it odd that in such a bare, tiny office they could lose something with such ease. “I tell you always to lock it in the drawer when you have to turn your back! Now look, it’s gone again! And I’m full of appointments, how will I get to the Carabinieri before 1:00?” (Actually, while the 1:00 lunch and rest holds true for most, one can still go to the police at any time, really, but one wouldn’t unless it was a dire emergency.)
When she called me into her room, I said hello and, in my naiveté commented on the event which was clearly impossible for anyone not to overhear. “Incredibile”, I said. “what an odd thing to go missing”. The thought of someone forging prescriptions for drug addiction was still furthest from my mind. “Odd? You know how many times it disappears from here, Signora mia?” She gave me a knowing smile. “What did I tell you? It may be a fashionable neighbourhood but don’t believe it quaint for one minute! I can’t wait to retire from here!”

——————————————————————————–

I ran into Stellina at the seamstress’ shop the other day where my daughter was having the dress we’d bought for her cousin’s wedding remade to fit her torso and imagination. The dress had cost us thirty euro; to have it custom fit would cost us fifteen. The shop, with no room for two slender people to stand next to each other, forms a line from the street to the counter. It is flanked with embroidery kits, yarn, pins, needles, bras and underwear all displayed vertically, making the best use of tiny space and high ceilings. Stellina came in and was standing behind another couple of ladies who deftly made room for her to move to the front. There is a stool in the corner, wedged between the measuring counter and the curtain leading to the tiny storeroom where my daughter was slipping into her strapless bra. Stellina was lowered onto it and presided over the viewing.
As the seamstress pinned her dress, others voiced their opinions and one, apparently once famous costume seamstress in the Dolce Vita era of Italian cinema, came up with an idea and tried to convince my strong-minded, teenage daughter to go with it. She did not and our young seamstress-shop owner stood up for her. The veteran dressmaker eventually huffed and made her scorn obvious as she slinked her way past others all the way to the door. I felt awful. Had we offended her? The young seamstress said it was she who had overstepped her bounds; this was not her model and she should not have interfered. The spectators agreed. She went on to compliment my daughter on her firm resolve; I realized again how much I’ve been a pushover to please others and how proud I am of my daughter for sticking up for her own will. Once she was all pinned, Giulia beamed. She loved how this was going to come out and felt perfectly at home with her close circle of nonne voicing their opinions, giving her advice and talking about the event. Stellina stretched her arm out and smoothed Giulia’s dress from the waistline over her hip and ended with a kind little pat on her bottom. With that, my daughter was excused; she could step out of her dress and back into her clothes. The neighbourhood nonne who by morning meet at the doctor’s and by dusk at the seamstress’ merceria, approved and accepted her. She’d brought light to their evening and they’d brought nurturing to hers.

Aventine Like in Rome

Tags

aventine, ex-pats, italy, palatine, rome, Toiling in Rome

I cannot count the number of times I have taken visitors to Rome, including my students, to the top of the Aventine Hill to look out over the city from the Orange Tree Park (not the view photographed here but not too far from it, either).

It is always a successful visit; the visitor is left awed by the view, stunned by the millennia of history this very spot has seen.

At one such visit, a student looked ponderous. He raised  his hand. “Is this the Aventine like in Rome?”

I paused before answering.
Was it a trick question?
Am I missing something?
I have been out of the country for nearly 30 years, after all.
Then it dawned on me.
“Yes. One and the same”, I said. I then added, “actually, it’s the other way around. This one came first, then came the HBO version”.