Metro Drones

Look at this sorry lot.

Really look at them.

Look at them standing there
enduring each other, trying
to maintain some semblance
of life space.

This is progress? This is the
best we can do?


Let me introduce you to the brave workers of the planet. This is what they have to do
every day as part of the terms of their survival. Some people dig through garbage mounds,
these people ride the Metro.

They're gripping the rails and hanging on to their sanity with the help of ipods. How sad.

And, they pay for this convenience! They pay, while their elected officials speed around in
chauffeur driven cars with blue flashing lights on top! When's the last time any senator of
Rome rode the metro or a bus?

These people avoid looking in each others eyes in order to suspend their disbelief that they
are indeed packed in a sardine can speeding down the track to nowhere. However, if you
happen to catch someone's glance for a fleeting moment, all you'll get in return is an expression
of despair to match your own.

You know one thing you WON'T see in this crowd? Madonna, that's what! Or, Angelina Jolie!
Or George Clooney! Or Bono...especially Bono! Or any of those other celebrities who moan
and cry about the sad, poor, rejected people of the world. And, you know why you won't see
them in this crowded metro, or any other similar place? Because they travel by private jet
and limo and blackened-windowed SUV with body guards completely isolated from the
people they claim to care so much about. Do you think Madonna has to listen to noisy
neighbors in the upstairs apartment at 2:00 a.m.?! Do you think Angelina stands in line
with a hundred other pushy people to buy her daily bread? No way! These delicate flowers
wouldn't stand a chance in the real world! Without a red carpet on which to tread, they'd get
trampled to dust.

I was thinking about these outrageous hypocrisies while we made our way to outer Rome
the other day. The trip involved bus and metro rides - all crowded. The infrastructure
can't support the growing population anymore.

Whenever I'm in situations involving a crowd of humans unknown to me - humans that
could potentially be carrying the latest nanovirus or some resistant strain of T.B.; humans
that might not have bathed in recent memory, who scratch invisible itch-causing stimuli;
humans that should be under constant observation and prohibited from handling kitchen
appliances unattended - these people en masse cause me stress. I clench up. I shrink away
from them. Heaven forbid any one of them should touch me...How disgusting that would
be...I shouldn't have to put up with this!...I'm too good for this!!... a patrician in a world of
hideous plebs!!!...Get Me Out Of Here!!!!...Mamaaaaaa!

I was thinking along those lines while seated next to eighteen year old scruffy boy on
the Metro, a boy who sat there continuously gnawing on his fingers. I mean he was just
chewing and biting his nails! Was he hungry or what?! I don't know, but it was so gross
and I just sat there thinking, "oh my God, he's going to spit finger nail on my jacket any
minute!" but I still just sat there because I had a seat on this Godforsaken trolley car
and if you've got a seat and have lived in this town long enough you learn that you NEVER,
EVER give up your seat no matter how many pregnant women, old crippled people, the
blind or crying lost kids come by looking pleadingly at you...YOU NEVER GIVE UP A
SEAT!, so that's the only reason I kept sitting there while this kid ate himself up.

What have all the wise sages said throughout time? Love Your Fellow Man. Have
endless compassion. All You Need Is Love. Jesus, Buddha, The Dalai Lama, John Lennon...

But I doubt any of them ever rode the Metro!

'Course, knowing them, they would probably have a great time and get a big kick out of it.

Okay, so next time I'm going to pretend like all the smelly, crazy, nail-biting people are
really the above named prophets. They're all horsing around trying to see how far they
have to go to really freak 'ol Meri out!

Auguri!

Merry Christmas!

We're leaving in a few minutes to
attend a Christmas Eve Vigil at
our friends Paula and Sandro's
house. It'll be an all Italian night,
meaning I'm going to have to walk
the walk and (most incredibly) TALK
the talk.

(The Man is giving me a month's
worth of intensive Italian language
classes for Christmas. He's getting
a new digital keyboard with
computer interface. While I struggle
over my daily homework, he'll play
Jingle Bells.)


Anyway, this evening is an all-fish night. We'll be eating the traditional Christmas Eve dinner consisting
of really good, but mostly unidentifiable sea creatures. Then, we have to stay there until midnight when
they'll break out the Prosecco and toast the birth of Christ. It always feels a bit like New Year's to me,
but I go with the flow.

At the same moment, over at the Vatican, the Pope and all the midnight mass people
will walk outside to the bigger than life-sized creche scene out front in St. Peter's Square
and place the baby Jesus in his manger crib. Here you don't see baby Jesus' in the
mangers until after midnight on Christmas Eve. Makes sense when you think about it.

Now I have to go put my Christmas makeup on my face so that I look all sparkly
for the people!

Merry, Merry Christmas to you all!
Tante Auguri!!

Nero and Me

Yeah, yeah, it's raining here,
the Tevere is flooding and
here in the Center the bridges
are at flood stages.

But, look, LOOK at my hat!
Isn't it cute!

I feel a bit like Nero. Whilst Rome burns - or in this case drowns - I'm fiddling...
with my hat. I'm sure also that when Vesuvius erupted there was at least one
Pompeian running around moaning, "I'll never get the ash out of this toga!"
Speaking of which, I was at Pompeii once and it was very depressing.

But, getting back to my cute hat, I bought it in the Land of O and brought it here
or, rather, returned it here to Italy where it was made, coincidentally! It's so perfect
for the winter and all the walking around outside that I have to do. You can tell
that The Man really likes it, too. You can see the envy on his face. I think that's envy.
I always get envy and irritation mixed up.

Now to the rain...the rain. The Tevere is a swollen torrent, the likes of which no one
has seen in a hundred years or something like that. Rome is once again under siege!
We've been to the riverside several times and watched as a houseboat, broken loose
from its moorings, rammed into the pillars of the Ponte Sisto. And, there are several
boats piled up and jammed against the arches of the Ponte Sant'Angelo, seen in this
link in better days.

Small islands of detritus floated by, containing trees, refrigerators, wooden pallets,
tires, children's balls and even a naked baby doll which gave me a start when I first
saw it, and an upholstered, upright recliner that needed a passenger, I thought.

Yesterday morning it was sunny and bright and the waters had receded a bit, but
last night it started misting again and today it's very dark and stormy. The rain is
expected to continue for several more days. We'll see what happens.

For me, the worst part of all this is I refuse to go outside when it rains anymore.
The Man says I have a weird fear of umbrellas and I guess it's true because I've
said it before and I'll say it again: The Romans are DEADLY when armed with
an umbrella. I don't know how many times I've nearly had an eye skewered or
a shoulder pierced by the exposed tip of some nimrod's broken umbrella. I've seen
entire lines of people at a tram stop bopped in the head one after the other by an single,
passing, inconsiderate, oblivious numskull. I am absolutely convinced that one brigade
of umbrella-wielding Roman nitwits could end the war on terror. Send them all to
Afghanistan or Pakistan or wherever trouble brews, let them work their magic on
some other enemy, real or imagined, just get them out of here so I can carry on with
my life on rainy days.

I'm not allowed to use the word "hate." Therefore, I hayt dealing with this and I just
wish the rain would stop so I could go to the store and get things done outside all the
while wearing, what many believe to be, the cutest hat in Italy!

Ponte Sisto

Bridge: crosses the Tevere (Tiber) River.

Old: dates from 4th or 5th century, but was partially destroyed in 770.
You remember 770 don't you? Anyway, Pope Sixtus IV had it re-built in 1473
and everyone was so happy they named it after him, Sisto, which is the
Italian equivalent of the latin Sixtus, both meaning Sixth! Which means
that Pope Sixtus IV, technically, was Pope 6th the 4th. Which makes me think
of that bank in Ohio called First Third Bank, the name of which always gives
me a splitting headache.

Significance: takes us to visit Giacomo in Trastevere and to Isa's bar for
coffee. Maria also lives over there, as well as James and Alex and, well, we
use this bridge a lot and can never cross it without stopping midway to
admire the view.

Status: It's a footbridge, no cars or motorinos allowed anymore.
Heroin addicts and their wild dogs, street musicians and their instruments,
Africans selling black market designer handbags, okay.

Warning: You don't want to fall off this bridge. The waters are pushed along
on their way to the Mediterranean Sea by a heavy current. Also, the Tevere is
polluted. However, if you choose to fall in and are an eternal optimist, remember
that the river is full of eels, a delicacy enjoyed in ancient Roman times as well as
today. In fact, eel is a traditional item on the menu for Christmas Eve dinner.
So, pick up a few on your way out. You'll be the envy of all your friends this holiday!

Magical Places in Roma Score: 9.5

Private Dancer

This is what grasshoppers
do in the face of disaster.
They dance.

We ants watch and worry.
No disaster required.

The Better Bacon

Guanciale (gwon-cha-leh), the cheek of a pig, the pig's jowl - is not to be confused with pancetta or speck or any other bacon-like meat in Italy. This is distinctly Roman, a regional delicacy normally only available in Lazio (aka Latium) and boy am I lucky to be here because these people really know something about the nuturing and harvesting of bacon trees, let me tell you! (I hold fast to the belief that bacon is a fruit, not a meat, thereby eliminating any conflict with my vegetarian ideals.)

Last Sunday The Man and I went to get a coffee at our friend Isa's bar over in Trastevere. Then, our dearest friend Giacomo came in. The next thing I know, we were over at Giacomo's house having lunch with he and his wife, Virginia.

Giacomo had made the MOST INCREDIBLE pasta all'amatriciana that I'd ever tasted - and I've been to Amatrice twice and eaten that town's signature dish. But, this was better! I asked what gave the dish such distinctive flavor. Both Giacomo and Virginia answered in unison: "Guanciale." I've seen the name in butcher shops, but I never knew what it was used for. It's one of those defining foods that culturally identifies one Italian from another. These people are very serious and proud of their regional foods.

And, if that wasn't exciting enough, toward the end of the meal Virginia turned on the television to watch, I assumed, the 2:00 news report. But, then, there was her brother, Marco, right there on tv. He was at some big gala dinner wearing a tuxedo, standing up smiling. Then I saw Donatella, his wife, sitting beside him. And, there in the audience I recognized the actress Judy Dench. Virginia explained that it was footage from the European Film Awards, the equivalent of the Academy Awards held the night before in Copenhagen, and that Marco had won the Best Cinematographer Award. Not only that, but his son, Matteo Garrone, won Best Director for his film "Gomorrah." In all, the film swept the awards winning Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Actor and Best Cinematography.

It was a big night for Italian cinema and Virginia's film-making family. Virginia herself is a director of documentaries for RAI, the state-owned television company. The Man knows the family well and I've met Marco several times at his wife's restaurant. Donatella has run the restaurant for many years and serves some of the best food in Rome. It's a private dining club, you pay a yearly membership and then can eat there, lunch or dinner, whenever you like. I don't think we've ever paid the membership, but we've eaten there a lot. Donatella's place is often full of film people and film wanna-be people. She also runs a casting agency from this location. It's a place that attracts a mix of talent, casual but chic in its exclusivity. I don't care about any of that, though. All I know is when we go there I'm going to stuff MY guanciale!

Anyway, I was so excited to see Donatella and Marco on television. I've never known anyone who had received such a prestigious award. "Gomorrah" is a potential nominee for Best Foreign Film at next year's Academy Awards and I sure hope they get the nomination.

Sizing Things Up

Our apartment appears to have shrunk. I can't believe it was always this small.
This morning in the bathroom, while drying off after a shower, I made the mistake
of bending over and got wedged between the sink and two walls.

While there, I started thinking about that LeBron James guy who's so famous.
Well, he might be something but if they had a shower-taking contest in our bathroom,
I'd whup him so bad!

So our apartment is small. Stefano the builder showed up today and he's going to
build us some shelves. Then we'll have more room to store our stuff. The shelves
will enable us to eliminate a cabinet and a small bookcase; hence, more floor space.

Our apartment was built in the 1500's for little Italian people. Nobody figured that
someday big giant white people from the extremely-new world were going to invade
the joint. This should be a lesson to us all. When you build, always figure guys bigger
than you are eventually going to show up!

This sheds a whole new light on the philosophy of "waiting for the big giant," I think.

Other than that, Rome still stands. Everything appears to be moving along in its
normal chaotic way. I am readjusting to the hazardous lifestyle of the big city
pedestrian, striving to avoid altercations with motorinos, cars, buses, trams, potholes,
other pedestrians - particularly those with open umbrellas.

My survival instincts are clicking back into gear...making that popping sound your knees
make when you stand up sometimes. I figure that by tomorrow morning I should be
back in the game. I'll put on my shoulder pads and snap on my helmet and trot out onto
the "field of flowers" (Campo Dei Fiori) to start play in this year's Rome Bowl.

Unless, of course, it's raining...in which case I may wait another day. I'm not kidding about
those umbrella-wielding Romans.

Time Travel

This was there, now it's here
and where I sat was here
but now it's there
all rolled together in a red balloon
of dispassionate duality

As for me, or me for as
I'm neither here nor there
but somewhere in between
waking in a warm tub of altered state
challenging reality

This in-between place
is fuzzy at best
taxing my mind's sensitivity
running time off it's back
with duck-like propensity

The Man is my guide
his hand keeps me steady
his eyes watch for cracks
with keenness, ability and
The Cat In The Hat's agility