My opera blog has been dormant for a while, mainly because I haven't been seeing enough opera to sustain it. I find myself now in the native land of opera, Italy, taking advantage of a last-minute airfare bargain to bring a small portion of my mother's remains to her native Umbria. Walking around Rome on my first night in the country I had the idea of using the opera blog as a travel journal that family, friends and whomever else can visit as they care to, rather than being held hostage by endless pictures and stories when I'm back. You're welcome.
My Italian family's relationship with Rome is utilitarian. Trains between the capital and the station near their home in Umbria are ever faster and more frequent, down to as little as 45 minutes now centro to centro, 21 times a day each way, from 5:45 in the morning to nearly midnight. Rome is a place to shop and do business and eat out, usually at McDonald's, seeing as the Italian food at home is better than any restaurant. To my relatives, Rome is "downtown."
This trip I decided to spend a couple of days in Rome on my own to get over my jet and language lag before heading to the high country. In the practical spirit I picked a budget hotel a few blocks from the central train station in a modest neighborhood called Monti. By this time hardly an inch of the city has escaped the poetic treatment from American and British tourists, and Monti is no exception, including this 2011 profile in the New York Times.
But no newspaper piece could prepare me for what I found. In short: Screw the Piazza Navona. Who knew Rome was in Italy?
After a recovery nap from a more-brutal-than-usual transatlantic flight I walk out in search of the nearest piazza suitable for espresso-sipping. Before long I'm almost asphyxiated from the quaintness. A woman out taking a cigarette - even Italians don't smoke inside anymore, apparently - sees me doubling back from what appears to be a dead end and knows what I'm looking for. "No, keep going," she says, "there are steps, around the corner."
"Steps"? Holy shit. I pick my way down the slope and at the bottom I find the Piazza della Madonna dei Monti, the central square of the neighborhood.
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I settle in on the bar patio with a doppio, double espresso, which Italians call "coffee" sort of the way Tibetans might call Mt. Everest "the hill." Above is the view from my table. It's 5 p.m. and everyone is there - grandma and grandpa on a bench, kids kicking a soccer ball against a 400-year-old wall, students from a nearby art school slugging bottles of beer. I chuckle thinking about the "open container" laws back home and what little purpose they serve. Give me this simple, dignified fountain over Trevi and its hordes any day. The scene reminds me of Montefranco, my family's Umbrian village, except transplanted to the seat of modern civilization.
Above is the Via Panisperna, essentially Monti's Main Street, leading up to the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, one of Rome's landmark churches at the neighborhood's highest point. Many of Rome's most famous sights, including the Colosseum and the Forum, are only a few blocks outside Monti. Yet I see almost no tourists around here, and the locals seem charmed rather than annoyed by my grammatically rocky Italian.
What do you do when a bike won't run anymore? In Monti you make it into a window box.
At 7:30 I'm hungry and on Via Panisperna I come across a restaurant I've read about, La Carbonara, dating back to 1906 and famous for its pasta alla carbonara in a bacon, egg and parmesan sauce. The dining room at back is rocking. A young hostess informs an American couple and me it will be at least an hour for a table. The couple leaves but I say I'll wait, spying an open seat in the bar. The bartender rustles me a glass of nice Spanish white and a complimentary bowl of olives. Ten minutes later the hostess arrives at my side with a possibly ironic wink: A table has opened for you, signore. I imagine such luck occurs to visitors who speak a little Italian and aren't in a hurry.
In Wisconsin the Fifth Quarter is a marching band celebration after football games. In Italy the fifth quarter - il quinto quarto - is the leftovers from butchering, the organ and variety meats, which I adore. Turns out La Carbonara is famous for quinto quarto. Unfortunately they've run out of the pasta with lamb tripe and heart, but the oxtail in spicy tomato sauce that comes after my carbonara just about spills me off my chair. "Let me confess," the hostess says, seeing my enjoyment as she passes my table. "I eat that in back almost every night."
In the afternoon I'd happened into a grotto-like vintage bookstore that doubles as a wine bar and gallery. I told the art students running the Libreria Caffé Bohemien I'd stop back late at night, and had no issue keeping the promise. Pretending to read a message on my phone I caught two young lovers in the act through a door to the anteroom.
The piazza was still hopping at midnight. Not sure when Italians sleep, but I had to, reluctantly.
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