A Roman Afternoon

I found this in my journal, dated Rome, 10/26/08:

After seeing a Picasso show at the Vittoriana, also known as The Typewriter, we are sitting in a bar in a narrow street in the Jewish Ghetto. A massive swarm of birds is in a frantic state in the trees above us, calling and lifting and landing and lifting and spinning. We keep hearing thunder, harbinger of a rain that never comes. The sky gathers dark. The Hare Krishnas in their temple take up the chant. Bins of chocolate in the shop across the way twinkle with their beckoning shiny wrappers.

Demonstrators from the anti-Berlusconi march begin trailing past, heading home. They push strollers, they are young and old. Their banners read Un Altra Italia E Possibile. Another Italy is Possible. I grin at them as they pass. The famous Jewish fried food place is all booked for the evening. As I wait to ask, I hear the manager on the phone: 2 million people in Rome, what do you want me to do? Not possible, not for this evening, he replies when I ask and I am disappointed but more pleased that I've managed it in Italian and he didn't switch instantly to English and it was an Italian conversation.

We wander slowly, thinking we'll head to the home neighborhood for pizza, when we come out into Piazza Matthei, its sweet little fountain of four ragazzi riding dolphins and reaching over their heads for four turtles that crawl into the fountain's upper basin. An enoteca that opens to the piazza has tables free and salads and other light fare. We make up our minds to sit and eat. Our placemats tell us it's a chain. I struggle to overcome my foodie disappointment when I see that one of their outlets, in the town of Asolo, is located on via Browning.

So I laugh at myself, relax, order a glass of Prosseco, and -- of all things -- a casserole of potato and wild board ragout, topped with cheese. The guys, having had panini at the bar, order salads. And we're all happy, head home to watch Superman (the first Christopher Reeve one), on the laptop, eat Torinese chocolate we'd bought at the shop across from the bar. I fall asleep over the movie (who remembered that it was so slow??), bail out, go to bed early.

The morning dawns clear and bright. I write on the terrace as the garbage truck grinds its way through the neighborhood, the fountain in the carabinieri station across the way tinkles endlessly, neighbors put away clean dishes from last night's dinner... the neighborhood is blessedly quiet. Sunday morning at last.