Saturday 26 April: Street fight and pedal cars

Today was Beth’s last full day in Rome, and there were many more things she wanted to see. We started in Trastevere with the church right down the street from me, the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere. Re-used ancient Roman columns, early Christian icons, incredible medieval mosaics, a renaissance ceiling, and baroque and side chapels make this church an interesting and beautiful stop. Besides, it’s right in the middle of the party district of Trastevere, and the piazza with its central fountain is a 24/7 hangout for locals.

Strolling down to Viale de Trastevere, the main street through the region, we came to the stop where we could catch the #8, one of the few trolley/cable cars still operating in Rome (the local name for them is “trams”). While waiting at the stop, which is in the middle of the road with traffic whizzing by on each side, EA and I had the opportunity to watch a developing street fight between a man on a bicycle and the proprietor of a flower stand. Each man had a few buddies who alternating between breaking them up and egging them on. The two combatants would get in the other’s face, literally nose to nose, screaming Italian obscenities (I have a book of these, so I was delighted to hear several in use). They would then temporarily reconcile, falling into the other’s arms and kissing both cheeks. Then one would make a comment that would send the other into another rage. These two guys were both purple-faced, with veins popping out on their foreheads. If we didn’t see a full-blown brawl, Beth and I were certain we would at least witness a coronary. However, the men’s friends finally separated them before actual fisticuffs began, bicycle man rode off sobbing, and the other guy returned to his flower stall. We were fortunate that the #8 was slow that day, or we would have missed how it ended.

The tram came and EA and I rode to Largo Argentina, land of Republican temples and cats, which I have described before (historical note: When I say “Republican” in this blog, I am not referring to the GOP, but to the Roman Republic. This began on 1 January 509 BC with the expulsion of the last king and the election of Marcus Junius Brutus and Lucius Tarquinius Collatinus as first consuls, or chief magistrates, of the new Republic; and which ended on 16 January 27 BC, when the Senate proclaimed Octavian, great nephew and adopted son of Julius Caesar, as the first Roman Emperor with the title of Augustus (which means “consecrated,” “venerable,” “majestic,” “worthy of worship”).

Elizabeth and I headed north for a long (very long) walk through the Centro Storico. We passed the Pantheon and wound our way through the streets and alleys, stopping at a few of the thousands of specialty shops that fill this area: boutiques for clothes and jewelry; stores with handcrafted ceramic and metalwork; wonderful stationary stores with handmade papers, pens, and wax seals; and above all, the alimentari, little specialty groceries with handmade pastas, dried porcini mushrooms, 40-year-old balsamic vinegars, wines, cheeses, and other goodies from all over Italy, but focusing on Lazio, the area around Rome between Tuscany to the north and Campania to the south. This is where I bought my fateful box of Pocket Coffee, which I will discuss later.

Traveling ever north, more or less, Beth and I passed the Ara Pacis and the poor, neglected Mausoleum of Augustus. Since I had last been there a week earlier, the tomb had been surrounded by a fence, and work appears to be underway. I hope that they are finally going to spiff up the last resting place of the man who was not only Rome’s greatest and most influential ruler, but probably the single greatest statesman of all time. To the north we could finally see the obelisk that marks the center of Piazza del Popolo, our short-term goal. We finally made it to the piazza, and stopped for a rest in the shadow of one of the two churches at the near end. While we were resting, a man speaking Caribbean-accented English and a woman who sounded like she was Dutch or German approached us, and then asked if the man could pose with us for a picture. EA’s theory was that he wanted a pic with the most disheveled and foreign-looking people there.

Above Piazza del Popolo we could see our destination: Villa Borghese, a beautiful park, Rome’s version of Central Park. It was created by a cardinal of the Borghese family, a house of princes from which several popes came. The cardinal created a vast park with gardens and lakes and pleasure palaces in the north of the city. It is now a public park, and to get there, we had to walk up flight after flight of seemingly endless marble steps. Since Beth and I were already tired from our long walk, we took a break near the top and sat in the shade of a palazzo. Suddenly, flying down the steep and winding street leading from the park at the top of the hill to the piazza far below, came flying two pedal cars. You can rent these in the Villa Borghese (where they are supposed to stay), just as you can at many boardwalks at American beaches. You might have seen them: they seat four people, two in front and two in back, and have a little canopy for a cover. They’re really just glorified bicycles. Anyway, as we sat there and rested and ate Pocket Coffee, a pedal car with five young Roman men of about college age came careening around the hairpin bend at breakneck speed. They took the sharp turn on two wheels, and we were certain that they’d go over, but they didn’t. In hot pursuit was another pedal car driven by two more ragazzi romani. The guys in both cars were laughing like maniacs and clearly having the time of their lives. Mind you, all of this was on a busy street with cars, mopeds, and pedestrians in both directions. EA and I were in immediate agreement that if we were 25 years younger we would be doing the same thing.

Finally reaching the Villa Borghese, Beth and I wandered through the beautiful park, stopping at an overlook for great vistas of Rome (pics in Flickr). We stopped several times just to sit and people watch, constantly amazed at the Italian sense of style. Even out for a stroll and an ice cream cone, most Romans are well-dressed and look sharp. This is in direct contrast to how I dress; if you guessed that I was in shorts and an old polo, you’re right. Anyway, we made our way to the small ornamental lake with a Greek temple on a little island. The lake had about a half dozen rowboats on it, far too many for its size. The entire park was filled with families and groups of friends picnicking, strolling, or just hanging out, and everyone appeared to be happy and relaxed. It was a great afternoon.

Exhausted from walking all over Rome, climbing the hill, and wandering the Villa Borghese, we caught a cab back to Trastevere. A cab ride through downtown Rome during rush hour, even on a Saturday, is an exciting affair, and this one did not disappoint. In the US, I would be terrified, but I am used to Roman traffic, so driving four blocks down the trolley track didn’t bother me, even when I realized that an upcoming tram was headed towards us. The driver just darted aside, narrowly missing several scooters. Beth swore that he buzzed a pedestrian’s butt. Nearly perpendicular lane changes across four lanes, jaunts over pedestrian areas, and a frenzied flight slaloming between traffic in both directions finally let us off near home. For Beth’s last dinner in Rome, we went back to my favorite steak joint around the corner, home of the 1-kilo t-bone (that’s 2.2 pounds, if you don’t do metric). We had magnificent appetizers of the marinated seafood salad I have pictured before (extra tentacles!) as well as a traditional Italian antipasto misto, with grilled peppers, eggplant, mushrooms, and zucchini; warm buffalo mozzarella; salami and prosciutto; beans; and a small but delicious cake sort of like an egg quiche with green onions and corn. Then came the steaks. I had ordered, and EA knew she was getting steak, but not how much. The look on her face when the over-two-pound chunk of bloody-rare cow was set in front of her was priceless! Beth eats very little meat, and I’m sure this was more beef than she had eaten in the past decade. She took some home; of course, I devoured mine on the spot. Frascati and dessert of panna cotta completed the meal. We organized some pictures and then got what little sleep we could on a Saturday night in Trastevere.