May Day in Rome, or Calendimaggio

Happy May Day, bloglings!

For those of you from the other side of the pond, the first day of May is European Labor Day and just about everyone has the day off. Like every holiday in Italy, May Day has its own traditions and customs, and in Rome it is most widely celebrated by heading out of town for a scampagnata, a country outing. This generally involves either an actual picnic on some lush hillside, preferably with a vineyard in view, or an interminable lunch in some large country osteria where every table is reserved for the entire lunch shift because table turn-over doesn't exist for these kinds of meals.

If it's not possible to make it all the way out to the country, or for those who dread the traffic, a picnic in one of Rome's many sprawling public parks is an acceptable substitute. And of course, no Italian holiday would be complete without the tradition of some specific, local, in-season ingredients. And May Day in the vicinity of Rome dictates pecorino cheese, raw fava beans, and for the non-vegetarians, some prosciutto. (And a bottle of Frascati wine, it goes without saying.)

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Another May Day tradition in the city is the free mega-concert in Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano. Every year, between 800,000 and a million people fill the square to hear dozens of different performers, some very well known and most Italian. I cannot tell you what it's like as my agoraphobia would never permit me to attend, not even if I was paid to do so. To be honest, just the thought of being in that crowd makes me almost hyperventilate. But hopefully you don't share my crowd-anxiety, and if you'd like to attend, the music kicks off at 3pm and lasts until midnight.

Concertone di Primo maggio, 2011, Pza San Giovanni in Laterano
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I know you're all wondering, with baited breath no doubt, how your faithful correspondent chose to celebrate this made up important holiday. I'm sorry to disappoint those of you who may imagine that I have some kind of glamorous life, what with living in Rome and all, but I cannot lie to you, dear readers. My May Day has been pretty boring, although productive. I realized this morning that I have literally practically no clothes. And most importantly, I do not own a pair of jeans. Or I didn't until this morning.

I'll let you in on a little secret. I hate shopping. I mean, I really really hate it. It makes me want to throw up just thinking about it. And I especially hate it when there is something specific that I need to buy, because I will almost surely not find it. I should, perhaps, clarify this a little: I hate shopping in Italy. Shopping in the United States, if overwhelming and over-stimulating, is a wonderful, marvelous thing. But shopping in Italy--at least in 2013--is hell on Earth. Why, you ask, darling readers? Because mid-level Italian designers have decided that it's not 2013, but actually 1991. So the shops are full of baggy T-shirts, off-the-shoulder, shapeless, sweater-dresses, M C Hammer pants, and jeans that are intended to be rolled up tightly at the ankle, like we did in 8th grade. All in the attractive colors of brown, beige, and camel. Every shop looks the same and it isn't pretty. It's a wonder I found any decent jeans at all.

My second exciting May Day event was the dreaded cambio di stagione (change of season). This is when you swap out all your winter clothes for your summer clothes and hope there isn't a late spring cold-spell. (This isn't necessary where I come from, by the way. In Seattle, the temperature is more or less the same all year round.) But it is a must in Rome, where not only does the weather jump from 45 to 85 degrees Fahrenheit sometimes in the space of a few weeks, but also where almost no one has more than a puny little wardrobe (roomy, built in closets are unknown in these parts). Thank God for the soppalco (crawl space).

Jealous, right? I'll bet. But just think, if I hadn't opted for a boring May Day, I wouldn't have had the time to write this post, and that's what really matters, amirite? Um, hello? Anyone still reading?

I do want to mention my absolute best May Day ever. It was in 2010, coincidentally just after I began this blog. Here is the post I wrote about that day: Perfezione e Vergogna (before I realized using Italian titles for my posts was not the best idea if I actually wanted people to read them--silly me). It was a wonderful day that included a bike ride in Villa Pamphilj and the requisite endless lunch in the countryside with a big group of friends.

 But those two highly enjoyable outings are not what made that day so special, nor are they the reasons I will remember it forever. No, that is because of something that happened early, early in the morning. Let me set the scene: I was engaged to be married. We I had decided that the wedding would take place in San Pietro in Montorio, just up the street from where I lived at the time on Via Garibaldi. The church is perched on the slope of the Gianicolo Hill, is the sight of Bramante's exquisite Tempietto, and has a view of Rome that makes you me want to weep with ecstasy.

Tempietto di Bramante, 1502
[Source]

The only problem is, just about everyone in Rome wants to get married there. I had talked to the priest months earlier and he had explained that you cannot book a date at that church any more than one year in advance, to avoid "abusi" as he put it. What did that mean for us me? I meant that we I would have to basically stake out the church on the first day of whichever month we hoped to get married in, one year in advance. And hope to get there in time to get a good date.

We had originally planned to get married some time in early June, but I wasn't sure how early we I would have to get to the church on the morning of the first of June to line up. How many other couples would have the same idea? June is probably the most popular month to get married... would I have to wait all night? (I had a vision of Claudio and I with our chess set sitting on the steps of the church on a balmy June night, waiting to pick our wedding date with all of Rome spread at our feet. Pretty romantic, right?)

But still, I was worried. I'd only have this one chance. What if 30 couples got there before us and grabbed all the weekend dates? I decided to do a dry run the month before. I figured I would show up at the church on the morning of the first of May around 6am (they let people in at 7) and see how many couples were waiting and ask them what time they got there. Well, I can tell you it wasn't easy dragging myself out of bed before six on a holiday, but luckily I lived very close to the church. I was rewarded with an incredible sight. I have seen the view of Rome from the Gianicolo probably hundreds of times (although I never tire of it), but never had I seen it at dawn. The city had a golden-rosy glow with just tinge of periwinkle. As beautiful as Rome is at sunset, I think it might be even more glorious at sunrise.

When I arrived at the church, the parking lot was full of cars. A few people were sitting around. Fourteen couples were already there, most had arrived the night before and slept in their cars. One couple had showed up at 2pm the day before. It did not bode well. June will be even worse, I imagined. Then I noticed that someone had a list. It was actually a calendar with the available days and times for weddings shown; as soon as a couple arrived, they blocked off their preferred date and waited until 7am to confirm it with the priest. I gave it a glance, just out of curiosity. All the 4pm weekend slots were already taken of course, except one: Sunday, 29 May. I thought quickly. Early June, late May, did it really make such a difference?

I jotted our names down, just in case, and made a quick call to a very sleepy fidanzatino (not yet maritino). "What? You booked what? When? All right... whatever...." Yes, it would have been nice if he had been as ecstatic as I was, but the important thing was he agreed on the date. I felt rather pathetic being the only lone bride there while everyone else was with their betrothed (except there was one groom whose fiancée was out of town and he had brought a male friend with him to keep him company; before he explained this I was thinking, "Did they change the rules?"). An hour-long wait and a quick meeting with the priest and that was it: we had a date for the wedding, in a church with one of the most amazing settings in the city. And that quiet, serendipitous morning is what May Day will always be for me.

I can't close this (very rambling) post without at least one nugget of history. Long before May Day was called by the pedestrian name of Primo maggio, it used to be called Calendimaggio. This term comes from the ancient Roman calendar, in which the first of the month was called the Kalends. As is the case with most Italian words in my vocabulary, the first time I ever heard the word Calendimaggio was in an opera. One of my favorites in fact, Puccini's Gianni Schicchi. Rinuccio and Lauretta desperately want to get married on Calendimaggio, only their families detest each other. Here's a video of the entire one-act opera, skip to 25:55 for the moment in which the thwarted couple despairs that they won't be able to marry on Calendimaggio.

I first saw this opera as a teenager I decided then and there that I too must wed on Calendimaggio. In fact, this was the original date I had hoped for, but am very happy someone talked me out of it, as John Paul II was beatified that day in 2011 and Rome was bursting to the gills with pilgrims, not to mention the traffic nightmares the Primo maggio concert inevitably causes.

In the Renaissance, Calendimaggio was not only a celebration of the arrival of spring (like May Day around the world), but it was also a day when tradition dictated that young men leave flowers at the doors of their sweethearts and maybe even serenade them. One of the few Italian cities that maintains the tradition of Calendimaggio is Assisi, where a three-day festival takes place during the first week of May every year, with processions, concerts, theater performances, competitions and lots of local townsfolk dressed in gorgeous Renaissance costumes. It starts tomorrow!

Calendimaggio di Assisi
[Source]

Happy Labor Day, May Day, Primo maggio, and Calendimaggio!

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My favorite thing about April in Rome

What is it about April in Rome? What makes it the most perfect month to enjoy this incomparable city?

I can sum it up in one word, one smell, one color, one single flower dripping languidly from the vine.

Wisteria (or, in Italian, glicine).

By author

© Claudio Ianniello

 

© Claudio Ianniello

By author

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This is the singular reason why April is my favorite month in Rome. (The fact that the weather is warm but not yet scorching is another reason, I must admit.) What is your favorite month here? And why? Do you, like me, have a weakness for this voluptuous and transient blossom?

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The Best of the Blogs: Rome and Beyond

I’m excited to announce a new feature on the blog: This Week in Rome. Every weekend, I will be linking to my favorite articles, blog posts, videos and other goodies found on the Internets that week. Although I’m calling it This Week in Rome, and I expect the majority of items I post will be about this lovely city’o’mine, it will not be limited to Rome, but may include anything from around Italy and the world that I think would be of interested to my readers.

Now you all know how good I am at keeping up with my weekly posts! You’ll recall my weekly bi-yearly history posts I dash out every Monday whenever I can find the time. But this is going to be different! I can no longer keep these gems to myself. When I read something fascinating, or hilarious, or spot-on true, I’ve just got to share it with you beloved bloglings, and this is where I plan to do it.

Before this feature is officially unveiled at the end of next week, I’d like to take this opportunity to sing the praises of just a few of my very favorite blogs, although there are many more wonderful ones out there. They are all on my blogroll, but a list of names often do not do justice to the uniqueness of each, so I want to give you a little taste of them here, as they are sure to show up often on my weekly review posts.

So, in no particular order:

Mozzarella Mamma

Patricia Thomas is a foreign correspondent for Associated Press Television News, and one of the few foreign journalists with accredited access to the Vatican. Although her blog covers many fascinating news stories, it is also a chronicle of her life as a mamma in Italy, raising three children with her Italian husband, juggling her career and family life in a land where being a mamma comes with some enormous expectations.

Un’Americana a Roma

If you’re interested in delving into the complex psyche of the average Italian, this blog is the perfect primer. Shelley Ruelle has called Rome home for over a decade, and in that time has garnered a keen understanding of the workings of the Italian mind. She blogs about everything from Italian politics to Roman culture to the random absurdities of life in Italy, all with a refreshing dose of honesty and plenty of hilarious commentary.

Revealed Rome

This is the perfect blog for people who are planning a trip to Rome and want all the insider advice and tricks. Amanda Ruggeri is an indefatigable writer who will fill you in on all of Rome’s best kept secrets, and make sure you don’t fall into any of the many dreaded tourist traps this lovely city so helpfully provides. She’s got her finger on Rome’s pulse, and doesn’t miss any of the most important cultural events that hit the city.

Parla Food

There is one question I get more than any other from friends, friends of friends, clients, and anyone I have ever come into contact with, who is planning a trip to Rome: Where should I eat? And my response is invariable: ask Katie Parla. Katie is a certified sommelier and holds a Masters in Italian Gastronomic Culture, so it’s safe to say she knows what she’s talking about. She has spent the last 10 years exploring Rome’s culinary jungle, her taste is impeccable and she tells it like it is. She blogs about every gastronomic option in the city, from greasy street food to Michelin-starred excellence, from craft beer to organic wine, from traditional Roman cuisine to authentic Ethiopian, Korean or Indian, and everything in between.

Diario di una Studentessa Matta (Diary of a Mad Student)

Melissa Muldoon may not be an Italian resident, but this linguistically gifted American woman has mastered the Italian language more than many of us who live here full time. After falling in love with this undeniably gorgeous language during her many trips to Italy, she decided to perfect it by regular blogging… IN ITALIAN! To be honest, I don’t know how she does it. I have a hard enough time stringing together a coherent sentence in my native tongue. If you’d like to improve your own Italian skills, reading is one of the best ways, so hop over to her blog to read her musings about Italy, all in Dante’s glorious Tuscan.

Letters from Florence

When I feel like laughing until I practically burst a spleen, all the while nodding my head in emphatic agreement, and crying with gratitude that there is somebody out there who has the same gripes and 

frustrations with life in Italy, but is able to express them with hysterical and beautifully crafted prose, I visit this site. Elizabeth Petrosian lives with her family near Florence and writes about all aspects of life in Italy, with side-splitting hilarity and not a grain of sugar-coating. Her most priceless posts tell of the antics of her almost unbelievably horrid in-laws.

Senza Bidet

There are quite a lot of us American expats living in Rome and blogging about the craziness that such a life entails. But what if the shoe were on the other foot? Laura is Italian, born and raised in Rome, with an American husband and two half-and-half kids. They live in LA and Laura blogs in Italian about the things that madden or bewilder her as an Italian expat in the US. For example, why does her doctor not acknowledge the dangers of colpo d’aria, why are her American friends so shocked when she tells her little boy, “Se non te stai zitto, t'ammazzo di botte!” (I’ll beat you to death if you don't shut up), and why, God, why, are there no bidets in America?!

Check out these amazing blogs; I promise you won’t be disappointed! I only hope that after you’ve discovered them, you’ll still have time to visit my little blog! Stay tuned for my upcoming This Week in Rome feature, to be inaugurated next weekend.

What other exceptional Rome or Italy blogs do you love?

All images are copyright of the authors of the respective blogs.

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My secret Italian dream-job

Perugia, April 2005

I have a secret dream, dear bloglings. A deep, burning desire that comes upon me strongly almost every time I walk down a busy street in Rome, and often when I'm walking down a quiet one.

I want to be a vigilessa. A lady traffic-cop.

Now I don't mean that I actually think that it could happen, or that I would ever go through with such a thing--even if it were possible.

But every time I see someone double- or triple-parked, I long to flip out a ticket pad and write them a big fat multa, right on the spot. Or better yet, get their oversized (and completely unnecessary) SUV towed far, far away. Every time I see some unprincipled maniac swerve to avoid a tottering old lady on the crosswalk, coming perilously close to knocking her to the ground, my blood starts to boil and I wish I had the power to stop them. To make them see that what they are doing is not only a violation but a reckless endangerment of their fellow citizen. Every time I see someone riding in the front passenger seat with a baby in their lap, I want to shout, "You won't take your baby out on a sweltering summer day without a woolen undershirt, but you're fine with letting her fly through a windshield? For shame!" Every time an ambulance is blaring down the street, only to be held up in traffic because no one will pull over to let it pass, I wish I could make them imagine it was someone they loved in that ambulance, in desperate need of a doctor.

I know there are much more terrible atrocities in the world, but what bothers me is that these things are done with such complacence, such indifference, and so often. I see at least one of these things happen every single day. And no one seems to bat an eye; it is so utterly accepted.

How I long to bring these reprobates to justice. How I yearn to show these vile degenerates that there are consequences for their shameless, selfish behavior. How I would delight in their sputtering, indignant outrage at being expected to obey their city's laws, laws that were only designed to protect them and their community, their shock at being make to recognize that their convenience should not come at the cost of another person's safety and peace of mind.

I would write so many tickets I would get carpal tunnel and tendinitis. I would have the tow truck company on speed dial. I would be the nightmare of every double-parking, red-light-running, texting-while-driving, child-endangering person who dared to get behind the wheel of a car. I would inspire terror in every last rione.

But, no. It is not to be. I can do nothing.

Sure, I can glare at them until my eyes are sore. I can throw them a few local gestures so maybe they'll understand. I can even shout obscenities that they'll never hear. A friend of mine will happily testify that I once slammed my hands down on the hood of a car as I was crossing a sidewalk when the driver thought it was okay to inch so close to me that her bumper was actually touching my knees. I might even scribble down a license plate number when I see something truly heinous, but even if I reported it what good would it do?

As I walked from my bus stop back to my apartment yesterday, I witnessed a well-dressed businessman on a scooter with a small boy on the back and a toddler on the front. The toddler had no helmet. Maybe daddy's reasoning is that the smaller the head, the less it will be damaged if it smashes into asphalt. Mere seconds later I saw a man texting with his phone inches from his face as he sped down the street. And as if this wasn't enough to start me seething, the next car that passed had a friendly-looking mother and her little girl standing up in the back seat, leaning through the two front seats to chat with her mom. As I stared wide-eyed at the little girl, I noticed the mother smile at me. She probably thought I was admiring her child. This all happened in less than a minute.

As I turned to walk onto my own street, I could barely make it onto the sidewalk. My street has one of those imaginary sidewalks, where there is no actual curb, nothing to separate the pedestrian from the homicidal drivers but a faded blue line of paint. Nothing to stop those drivers from parking right on the narrow path we pedestrians rely on to avoid getting mowed down. Nothing to stop them from inventing parking spots that don't exist, blocking the end of the sidewalk so that anything thicker than the legs of Kate Moss would never be able to fit through, God forbid a parent with a baby carriage or someone in a wheelchair. Nothing to stop them, when their car won't fit in the parallel parking spot, from parking diagonally, with the nose of their car virtually touching the wall of the building, so that even Kate Moss would have to walk out into the street to get around it. Nothing, that is, except...

Super-Vigilessa!!

I see myself flying in to save the day, with a navy blue cape, white leather gloves, and a white, cone-shaped helmet (see photo above). With a flick of my whip I can yank cell phones out of drivers' hands, disintegrating them with a twinkle of my eye. I blow my whistle and drivers' brakes are instantly hit, so the little old lady can make it safely across the street without having to fear for her life. Any cars parked irresponsibly will be crushed with a single glace. I would have to wear a mask, because the percentage of villains (bad parkers/drivers) in this city is so extremely high, my life would be in constant danger. But I would be brave, and fight traffic crime to my dying breath. I would be the hero of every pedestrian whose only dream is to be able to use a crosswalk without getting crushed, or to open their front door without finding a parked car blocking it. Ah, I can see it all so clearly.

But it'll never happen. Because in Italy, the only thing more important that doing your job...let me rephrase that...one of several things more important than doing your job is looking good while you're doing your job. So in Italy, when traffic cops are not posing for photographs in a sunny square in Perugia (see photo above) they are doing this.

It's lovely. Don't get me wrong. Very picturesque. That's why I took a picture of it. But it doesn't actually accomplish anything. It doesn't make me, a pedestrian, feel any safer.

I have to cross Via Ostiense at least twice a day, and every time I step onto those zebra stripes, I take my life in my hands. Or rather, I put my life into the hands of unscrupulous lunatics who, at best, don't give a damn how close they get to me as long as they manage to swerve around me as quickly as possible, and at worst, figure that even if they do hit me, they'll probably be able to get away, and if not, the consequences won't be too bad. It's not like they'll do jail time, maybe just a little fine.

And that's the root of the problem: no consequences. My staunchly law-abiding Maritino will often grumble about the double-parked cars on a street we often take, as it causes major back-ups because, although it's a two-way street, only one lane of cars at a time can fit down it, due to all the double-parkers. It makes him almost as angry as it makes me. This is when I smugly inform him that if his country's laws were actually ENFORCED, certainly not everybody, but most people would stop breaking them.

But that will never happen, will it?

Italy needs a Super-Vigilessa.... why can't it be me?

All photos by author

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Celebrating 100,000 hits!

(I'm sure there's a hilarious mobster joke to be made about that title somehow, but it's just not coming to me.)

I am excited to announce that my itty, bitty blog reached the (to my ears) impressive figure of 100,000 hits yesterday! I know that there are many blogs out there that receive 100,000 hits a day, so in the grand scheme of things, 100,000 in the 2 1/2-year life of a blog sounds like small potatoes, but I'm still excited and proud!

Image source

To my faithful bloglings out in the ether, thank you for every single one of your clicks; they have brought me steadily closer to this milestone! In spite of the stats that I can regularly check, and the wonderful comments that I receive, it is sometimes hard to believe that anyone is actually out there, reading my humble thoughts and musings. As a blogger, you send your missives out into the great void and hope that someone is out there reading. A number like this is an assuring proof that my readers actually exist.

But where do all my lovely readers come from? How do you find my site? Could it be that it's just my mom and a few loyal Facebook friends and Twitter followers? Luckily, Blogger makes it possible for me to see where the bulk of my traffic is coming from, and the overwhelming majority of it is from Google searches. And what are you searching for that leads you to my site? The top queries that have pointed people to my blog are, in order: Caravaggio (what a shocker), Illuminated manuscript, Numa Pompilius (it turns out I've written four posts about the guy), Pinturicchio, the Last Judgement, and the Mars of Todi. What I've taken from this is that the more obscure the subject I write about is (with the exception of Caravaggio of course), the more likely people searching for information on it will come to me, since fewer sites have written about it.

My traffic from Facebook and Twitter is surprisingly insignificant by comparison. This is probably my own fault as I don't post to those sights all that often, although I have read that Facebook now shows your posts to only a small percentage of your page's fans (unless you pay them), but that is a topic for a different post.

And then there are the occasional bursts of traffic when an important website or publication mentions my blog, like the Irish Times or the Fatto Quotidiano, and that is always a plus.

But mostly it's people's curiosity, facilitated by Google, that leads thems to my site, and hopefully many of them like what they find and come back for more.

Another interesting question is where do all of you lovely readers live? What countries are tuning into The Pines of Rome the most? Topping the list is the United States (not surprising since I'm from there), followed by Italy (I live there and write about it) with the UK coming in third. Rounding out the top ten are Canada, Germany, France, Australia, the Netherlands, Russia and Spain. I am always thrilled when unexpected, distant and diverse countries pop up on my traffic report, and there have been many, including Vietnam, Mauritius, Algeria, Venezuela, Sri Lanka, Chile, Qatar, Iraq, Pakistan, Ghana, Ethiopia and Mongolia. Readers from at least 109 different countries have visited my blog. This makes me very, very proud.

But perhaps the most important question is, what are you reading? Which posts have the most visits? The overwhelmingly most popular post is Michelangelo's Last Judgement and Marcello Venusti's copy (who would have guessed?) with 6343 hits to date, more than double the second most popular, Six months a wife and an illuminated manuscript. In third place we have Caravaggio, you devil!, followed by Numa Pompilius and his calendar, Salvador Dalì: Renaissance-inspired Surrealism, and The Borghese Gallery and the fate of an ill-gotten collection, part 2. I am particularly happy to see that last post on this list as it is one of the ones (together with its prequel part 1) that I am most proud of.

And speaking of, what are my personal favorite posts? Probably my absolute favorite is Siamo Romane.... Trasteverine, written back in 2010 when I thought I was leaving Trastevere forever, an ode to my beloved neighborhood. This post has garnered very few hits, as I wrote the title when I didn't know anything about SEO (P.S I still don't, but I do know to write my post titles in English now). I had particular fun writing Are Italian women really unhappy?, The Borgia Pope, Pinturicchio, and La Bella Farnese, The lost art of writing by hand, A Room with a View, fate and the allure of Italy, and So you want to move to Rome? My advice: do it!

As you probably know by now, I'm not that into self-promotion (except in this post, of course), but I will take the opportunity of this blogger-milestone of 100,000 hits to ask you to help The Pines of Rome continue to be more and more read. If you like this site, please share it with your friends and family and anyone you think might enjoy it. If you have a blog of your own, consider adding mine to your blogroll. You can follow the blog directly if you have a Google account, or you can subscribe to get new posts delivered to you by email. If you are on Twitter, please follow; if you are on Facebook, please "like". And, for goodness' sake, comment! Reading your comments is truly a joy, and I respond to every single one.

My goal is to rack up another 100,000 hits in less than half the time it took to get the first 100,000. That is, I aim to reach 200,000 hits one year from today. I can't do it without my lovely bloglings, so keep reading, friends! And, in the meantime, if anyone would like to explain to me (using small words) what pings and backlinks are, I would be most happy to learn!

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So you want to move to Rome? My advice: do it!

I began writing this post in my head last night, as I was trying to fall asleep (the only free time I have these days, as my dearth of blog posts testifies). The idea for this post came to me on the heels of some amazing friends who have been making stops in Rome in the past weeks. Seeing Rome through fresh eyes never fails to remind me of how amazing this city is, and how unbelievably lucky I feel to live here.

View from Via dei Fori Imperiali, photo by Giulio Menna

It is so easy to get bogged down by the negative things about this city. Every city on earth has its unpleasant aspects, but Rome’s can be so glaringly obvious and pervasive (especially as one transitions from happy-go-lucky expat to permanent resident) that it is easy to lose sight of the innumerable wonderful things, the things that made most of us expats move here in the first place.

In the space of two weeks, I have been blessed by the appearances of a number of friends, none of whom live in Rome, but all of whom have a connection with it. Cristina and Tim are ex-expats, who lived here for years and were some of my first friends when I arrived. They have both moved on to have fabulous careers outside Italy, but can’t help feel that magnetic pull to allure of this city, and are even tempted, every so often, to chuck it all and come back (although –sadly for me– I know they won’t).

Another is India, a former yoga student of mine who spent 18 magical months here as an adolescent and now, at 20, wouldn’t be able to survive a year without at least one week spent in Rome. She visits every July and her enthusiasm for Rome is contagious.

And then there’s Maeve. Were it not for a blossoming opera career in New York, she would have taken up residence in this inimitable town long ago. But, as with most musicians, career comes first, and so she’s content to visit once a year, study the language and soak up the culture. Spending time with these four amazing people has renewed my delight in Rome. After a couple of months of more griping than usual about this fair city (and its ever so difficult residents), thanks to my friends I have returned to my “default setting” of being enchanted with my adopted hometown.

Detail of Villa Medici, photo by Patrizia Ferri

And this led me to think about the people I know who aren’t happy to come here only for short visits. People who, like me, can’t help but heed that insistent voice that tells us there is no other place for us, at least at this moment in time, than Rome*. That to live anywhere else would be to deny one of the deepest desires of our souls.

People like my new friend Margaret, who even as I write this is plotting her move here. Although at a completely different stage in her life than I was as I schemed to find a way to live here 8 years ago, she nevertheless reminds me of exactly how I felt when the thought of living in Rome was not yet a reality.

People like travel writer and fellow blogger Keane Li who finds charm and fascination in every angle of the city, and captures them so compellingly in his writing. He asked me recently, in a message that I have shamefully yet to reply to, what advice I could give him on how to make the transition to live here permanently. Maybe I haven’t replied because it’s a big question. There are so many things to consider, including finances, the language barrier, work permits, the bureaucratic nightmare of becoming a legal resident, the horrifying discrepancy between salaries and living expenses, not to mention the shock of up and leaving your home, job, family, friends and culture in one fell swoop.

But, unlike most big questions, this one has a short answer:

Do it.

At the risk of sounding like a decades-old marketing campaign, just do it. There will be so many people, both those who have attempted such a move and those who would never dare, who will tell you it’s not possible, or better yet, that it’s not worth it. That it’s a big risk, it’s financially draining, it stagnates your career, and so on. All this, and for what? Just to live in a foreign country? Life will still go on, just as before.

Detail of the Fountain of the Triton by Gianlorenzo Berlini, photo by SpirosK

Yes, life will go one, and sometimes more frustratingly than before (I wrote about this in a guest post not long ago) and it’s important not to imagine that life will be as easy and deliciously carefree as Woody Allen and Julia Roberts make it seem in the movies. But naysayers who get off on telling others how things can’t be done are generally just smarting because their own experiences were less than ideal.

Don’t listen to them. You have a desire, a calling, even. You can’t explain it; you just know. Don’t let anyone change your mind. Hearing other people’s experiences is necessary, but ultimately, only you know what is right for you.

I felt this unexplainable calling too, from a very young age, as I’ve written about before. I didn’t know why I was supposed to be here. I just knew that I had to come, and stay. (PS Coming is easy; it’s the staying that is the hard part.) So come I did, and let me tell you, the first year was hard, nothing like the month-long study trips I had taken years before. But I toughed it out; I just knew I was supposed to be here, and now I realize why: his name is Claudio. (Not that he’s the only reason, of course! My lifestyle here alone is enough of a reward.)

I don’t intend to suggest that everyone who moves to Rome should stay here indefinitely. Some people come for six months or a year, get their fill of gelato and amatriciana and move back home, richer and wiser for their experiences. And there are others who stay 10, 20 years, or even their whole lives. Whatever the case, if you want to be here, come. It goes without saying, be prepared. Save up some money, learn the basics of the language, have a plan for how to make money, and don’t be too flippant about legal requirements (it’s not 2005 anymore), but just come. Things will work themselves out.

Photo by Mark Turner

It won’t be without sacrifices. You may end up living on a fraction of what you are used to in your home country, and some may see this as a step down on the socio-economic ladder, but I see it as an opportunity to learn to live with less. You’re used to living in a two-storey house? Try a cozy one-bedroom for a change, or move in with roommates, making new friends in the process. Think you can’t live without your SUV? Discover the freedom of commuting by bicycle. What you will receive in cultural, gastronomic and artistic wealth will more than make up for any temporary material lack you might feel.

I truly believe that when you are doing what you are meant to be doing, things have a way of working out. Not always exactly as you had envisioned, but brilliantly nonetheless. So if you really, really want it, take the risk. Give notice. Buy those tickets.

Source

In short, just come. And be sure to look me up when you get here.

*Or Paris, or Tuscany, or Spain, or wherever it is your heart wants to be

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How I moved to Italy and married the love of my life, part 1

As you may have already guessed from the name of this blog, I love Roman pine trees. I adore them actually. I could sit and look at them for ages. Today I have come to the pines for some inspiration.

I am writing this from a bench in my favorite spot in Villa Pamphilj, what I call the pine grove, where the trees all grow in straight parallel lines. No, I didn't bring my computer to the park. I would never commit that sacrilege! I am writing this out longhand. It almost feels like I'm writing in a diary, perfect for the post I have in mind.

As you well know by now, it was my not so brilliant idea to post about my wedding every 29th of the month (because I got married on the 29th), but I quickly got overwhelmed by the back story I wanted to tell.

It started out fantastically. I had a great time writing about my ancestors, and how I feel that they have, in some strange way, guided me here. But when it came time to write about myself, I clammed up. In January I skipped the post, in February I admitted my reluctance to get too personal, but my lovely bloglings encouraged me to bag my inhibitions and open up. So here goes. (I have a feeling this is going to be long. I'll have to do it in multiple parts. Oh, how I love to draw things out. I apologize in advance!)

To tell this story properly I must begin, if not in 1861, then at least in the early 80s when I discovered that I have Italian blood. I can't remember the exact day but I remember the feeling... I felt Italian. Of course I had no idea what being Italian ought to feel like, but I knew I felt it. Never mind that I was only one quarter Italian, never mind that I spoke not a word and had never set foot in the country. Never mind the German, Irish, English, Portuguese and who knows what other blood I had--that didn't matter. What mattered was that I was Italian.

No, this isn't me, although I wouldn't be surprised if a photo of me like this exists.

Not by citizenship of course. The Italianess came to me from my mother's mother, and a ridiculous and sexist law makes it impossible for me to claim Italian citizenship through my ancestors. But that didn't stop me, especially as an exuberant 7 year old, from feeling Italian.

I'll never forget my first trip to Italy, with my mother and sister when I was 14. At that time I was blindly obsessed with the film A Room with a View. I ate, slept and breathed this film. I literally (literally!) had the entire script memorized. Being kissed on a hillside with Florence in the distance was just about the most romantic thing in the world as far as I could tell, and I wanted it to happen to me. So going to Florence was almost a pilgrimage.

I'm embarrassed to admit that at that age I didn't care much about the David or the Botticellis or even the Duomo. I cried when I stood in the Piazza della Signoria, not because of the amazing art surrounding me, or the hundreds of years of history, but because I was standing where George caught Lucy when she fainted.

A Room with a View, Merchant Ivory Film

Ah, the romance! How this scene thrilled my adolescent heart!

A Room with a View, Julian Sands and Helena Bonham Carter

What can I say, sometimes fiction is more moving than history. Blame it on my youth.

We took an overnight train from Paris, and in the morning as the train barrelled through Tuscany, I stumbled down the corridor and bumped into someone. "Scusi!" I said, automatically. Then I stopped, realizing, "I can say 'scusi' now... I'm in Italy!" Bliss.

What would I have thought then to know I would one day live here? Maybe I knew all along it was inevitable. As life sometimes works like dominoes, my obsession with A Room with a View introduced me to the music of Puccini, which began a whole new (and much more time consuming) obsession, this time with opera.

By 16, Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro filled every available corner of my brain. Just as much as I longed to perform the role of Susanna, I equally longed to be able to speak Italian. I would memorize the endless recitativi from Figaro, and rattle them off, imagining I was having a conversation with an Italian (preferably a dark, handsome, male one).

Ten years and many trips to Italy later, I was plotting to find a way to move here permanently. I no longer yearned for anything so specific as a kiss in a barley field. I just wanted to live this magical place, to soak up the beauty that Italy emanates from its very core. At first it was more of a day dream, something that almost didn't seem possible. But I wanted that dolce vita so bad I could taste it. Eventually it became a mission, until finally one day, I said to myself, "What's stopping me?" and three months later I was here.

[Cue record scratch as blissful Amelie type music screeches to a halt]

Those of you who live here know, life in Italy is not only about romance, cobblestones, and picturesque alleyways. It can be a frustrating, exhausting and extremely harsh place to live, despite what the films make you believe. I found that out not long after arrival.

I'd love to be able to say I met the man of my dreams the day I got off the plane, and that my life fell instantly into place. Instead followed four mostly wonderful, sometimes miserable and always challenging years on my own in this crazy country. Still, I wouldn't trade those years, what they taught me and how they shaped me, for anything. You'll have to tune back in this time next month to hear the rest of the story.

If you are wondering what all of this rambling has to do with my wedding, well, I'm getting to it. I have never been capable of telling a short story. The point is, just like Mr. Beebe, I am naturally drawn to all things Italian. If it were not so, I would never have met my dashing Maritino.

Photo sources: 1, by author; 2, 3, 4

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The benefits of letter writing

About a month ago, I was inspired to write three long-hand, stamped, mailed letters and I wrote about it here. Well, bloglings, for all of you out there who thought I was crazy, old-fashioned, living in the past, behind the times, technologically challenged, or unable to accept the reality of this changing world we live in, well, all I have to say is, look what was waiting for me when I got home today:

Oh, yes. Pay off. I spent a lovely chunk of time this afternoon like this:

I think I may just have to grab some stationery supplies and head to Villa Pamphilj.

Photos by author

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Procrastination and over-sharing: a blogger's dilemma

I woke up this morning to a love note (complete with stick-figure drawing) from the Maritino in honor of our nine-monthiversary. (I guess we're still in that annoying honeymoon phase.) In addition to making me giddy and teary at the same time, it reminded me it's time for another wedding post! (I missed this little tradition last month).

When I first got the idea of sharing little tidbits of my wedding on the 29th of each month, I thought I would be creating light-hearted posts about my many Rome-inspired DIY projects, or at most sharing funny anecdotes about the challenges of planning a bi-cultural wedding. But as usual I started over thinking it. I thought it would be cool to tell the back story of what brought me to the altar (alongside the greatest man alive), and this included the telling of what brought me to Italy, since if I hadn't moved to Italy, it's highly unlikely I would have met said greatest man. Before I knew it I was writing about my great-great-grandparents and the hand of fate that led me to come here, and if any of you have been following this ambling string of posts (anyone?), I'm sure you're wondering when I'm going to get to the point.

Well, I've been putting it off actually. You see, despite writing a blog (and we all know only narcissists who love revealing all of the vile and personal details of their lives to total strangers write blogs), I've been hesitant to begin to reveal what I know will not just be musings about garters and flowers, but what is actually a deeply personal and probably excessively sentimental story. It's a story I want to tell, but part of me feels incredibly silly, revealing my girlish ideas about destiny and love. And beyond that, does anybody out there actually care to read it?

Ah, it's been a long day, and the hour hand is sneaking closer and closer to twelve... I am about to let myself off the hook for this month. Just too sleepy to open up my diary for the world to read tonight. Besides, I've got to post on the 29th, haven't I? (Excuses, excuses.)

So, dearest bloglings, I apologize for the lack of content in this post, but it has given me the courage to tell you a story, so stay tuned and you'll hear it next month (that is, unless I can think up another story about my ancestors to tell you instead). I thank you for your patience with me. Goodnight.

 

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