The Streets of Rome - Vicolo dell'Atleta

One of the many things that delights me about this city is its street names. Every street, road and alleyway in this town was christened for a very specific reason.

The one on my mind today is Vicolo dell'Atleta. Athlete's Alley.

Tucked away amongst the narrow backstreets on the quiet side of Trastevere, this picturesque vine-covered alley slightly inclines, adding to its charm. But why the name?

At the beginning of the tiny street, just around the corner from Via Genovese, the façade of an extraordinary building can be found. This was the site of a tenth century synagogue in what was once the heart of Rome’s Jewish Quarter, (before it moved across the river to its current location).

Sadly, only a shell of the synagogue survives today, but the thousand-year-old facade, with its columned archways, that probably once sheltered a loggia, along with its pointed arch detailing gives us a glimmer of the medieval soul of this city. An even more significant detail is the faint but unmistakable sight of Hebrew letters etched onto the columns.


But where does the Athlete come in? The doorway on the lower left is the backdoor of Spirito diVino, a fantastic restaurant whose main entrance is on Via Genovese. We've eaten here a few times, and the food and wine are superb, but the true wonder is underground. Although the restaurant itself lives on the second floor of what remains of the medieval Synagogue--you would never guess with the stark modern interior--downstairs, if you ask, you will be led into their wine cellar, an ancient room which, the owners boast, "predates the Colosseum!" The wine cellar in fact dates back to the 1st century AD, and what is even more astounding is what was found there. Why yes, an athlete.

Apoxyomenos, to be precise. But more on him another day.

Photo sources: 1, 2

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Seen in Rome: Priests like gelato too

Rome is a place brimming with photo opportunities, from nuns buying corkscrews at Ikea to gladiators in the metro, not to mention the real wonders. Now, I am extremely far from being even a decent photographer (well, maybe I'm half-way decent. If you meet me on the street and ask me to take your photo, I will make sure you are roughly in the center, and that you can see whatever is behind you that you are posing with, and not, say, the pavement. It will most likely be in focus and my finger will not be in the shot. That's about all I can promise).

Still, in Rome, even half-way decent amatuer photographers can come up with some good shots. One of my all-time favorites is the waiter at Pizzeria ai Marmi with 8 pizzas in his hands. Another personal fave is the graceful traffic cop in Piazza Venezia. Problem is, I never carry my camera around with me anymore as I did my first year here, so all the interesting photos I have date from that period. I will try, beginning next week, to carry my tiny camera at all times, and post a new photo every Tuesday. Hopefully this will have the added bonus of keeping my eyes ever open to the details all around me, sometimes beautiful, sometimes hilarious, but always picturesque.

Photo by author

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An Introduction to the Seven Kings of Rome: Fact or Legend?

Once upon a time, when I started this blog -ah, my life was so much simpler then- I was ambitious enough to think that I would write six times a week, with every day of the week dedicated to a different topic. And I chose Monday as history day. I had the lofty idea that I would write out a concise history of Rome, one blog post at a time. Not a bad exercise for me, really, as no matter how much you think you know, there is always so much more to learn. Now more than ever I have reason to do so.

So, let's see, on 26 April 2010 I wrote about the Founding of Rome by Romulus and Remus. Right on cue, one week later, I presented the fascinating story of the Rape of the Sabine Women. And then.... nothing. Wow, two whole weeks it lasted. We can definitely do better than that! Let's try to make it at least three weeks this time...

Maybe a little perspective on Ancient Roman history would be timely. The history of ancient Rome can be catagorized into three main periods: the Roman Kingdom (or the Regal Period), the Roman Republic, and the Roman Empire. Having barely begun this concise (but hopefully thorough) history, we are still quite early on in the first, the time of the legendary kings of Rome, seven in number.

I say legendary because the truth is, we don't really know if any of these kings actually existed. In 390 BC, Gaul sacked Rome, plundering the city and destroying virtually all of the city's records. Since we have no official documents to give us the truth, we must rely on Titus Livy's version of events, written at the end of the first century BC and into the first century AD (as Eddie Izzard puts it, right around the BC/AD change over, when "you didn't have to wind your watch back, you had to get a new bloody watch"). Can we trust what the great historian told us (I'm referring to Livy here, but I think Eddie fits that description too), writing nearly 800 years after his story began?

Livy tells us there were seven kings, ruling Rome from 753 to 509. From a practical standpoint, it's rather hard to believe that over nearly 250 years, in such a volatile time and place, the growing power that was Rome was ruled over by just seven men? With an average reign of nearly 35 years? No usurpers? No overthrows? No assassinations? Seems unlikely.

However, the early Romans were, as always, ahead of their time. The crown was not hereditary, but rather bestowed upon the man chosen by the curiae, a group of ten elected representatives. Under those surprisingly democratic circumstances, maybe it was possible for Rome to be ruled peaceably by so few individuals. Well, we'll almost certainly never know for sure, but does it really matter? As I've written about before, I always tend to go with the legend. I mean, by all means, search for the truth if you can find it, but if the fact have been completely obliterated by vicious mobs of barbarians, then you might as well revel in the legend. As Goethe put it, if they were great enough to invent such stories, we, at least, should be great enough to believe them.

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Channeling Lucrezia Borgia at Palazzo Corsini

With the craziness of the wedding now over, I’ve finally had the time again to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: reading. My chosen genre of the moment is history, with a particular emphasis on Renaissance Italy (shocker, I know). For the past month I’ve been inhaling books as fast as I can, which has perhaps explained my silence on the blog waves. The book I’ve had my nose in these past few days has been Sarah Bradford’s meticulous history of the life of Lucrezia Borgia. One of my all-time favorite historical characters, this gusty, intelligent and (if contemporary chroniclers are to be believed) absolutely wanton woman was the beloved daughter of the Papa Cattivo (evil pope) Alexander VI, aka Rodrigo Borgia. The rumors are salacious, but the truth is no less fascinating and I’ve been gobbling this book up in every free moment. She was audacious, she was a natural blonde, and she was passionately adored by some of the most powerful men of her time.

On a different yet related side note, last night the Maritino (little husband, I think I simply must start referring to him thus) and I attended a concert at Palazzo Corsini. I have a special relationship with this Baroque palace and make a habit of stopping by to breathe in all the gorgeousness of the place every few months. But the concert last night brought my love affair with Palazzo Corsini to a higher level.

The group, Insieme Vocale e Strumentale Chiaroscuro, performed works of Spanish music from the 16th century. I must admit, as much as I lust after Renaissance art, I have never cared for Renaissance music one bit. I suffered through that semester at conservatory, counting the days until we would begin studying Verdi and Puccini (even Handel would have been a pleasant respite!). Last night, however, in that setting (although admittedly, what you see today of the palazzo is clearly late Baroque, bordering on Rococo, although the shell of the palace is much older), on a terrace lit with candles, and transplanted palm trees swaying in the background, the music made much more sense.

As I listened to the simple harmonies of the viola da gamba, lute, and wooden flutes, the soprano, alto, tenor and bass voices singing Spanish poetry, I felt as though transported to the time of Lucrezia herself. Half Spanish, and at the height of her beauty and fascination around 1500, Lucrezia’s essence seemed to be floating in the air. Some of these pieces could have been the same songs she herself enjoyed, listened to, danced to. What must court life have been like five hundred years ago for the precocious teenage daughter of the Pope cavorting around the Vatican and later the much-feted Duchess of Ferrara?

My fantasy of having my own private time machine may be unlikely to materialize, but occasionally, on rare nights such as this, it is possible to go back in time, even if only in your imagination. One of the reasons I live in Rome is because time travel is more possible here than any other place on earth.

Photo sources: 1, 2

(Above: Detail from The Disputation of St. Catherine by Pinturicchio, modelled after Lucrezia Borgia)

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Celebrating Peter and Paul

Happy Saint Peter and Paul's Day!

As the patron saints of the city of Rome, their day is a special occasion (as well as a public holiday) here in the Eternal City. The day begins with a spectacular mass at St. Peter's Basilica which ends with the Pope kissing the feet of the medieval statue of St. Peter.

On tour in the basilica yesterday, as they were setting up for the big event, I was delighted to see the marvelous bronze all decked out in papal vestments and the famous three-tier papal tiara. Despite my many years in Rome, this is the first time that I have seen it all dressed up. The statue itself was almost certainly created by Arnolfo di Cambio, making it a late 13th-century work. The right foot of the sculpture protrudes slightly and for hundreds of years, faithful (and superstitious) visitors have touched, rubbed or even kissed that foot so many millions of times, that its toes have almost completely worn away.

Across town, Peter's co-honoree is celebrated at his mighty church, St. Paul's Outside the Walls with a street fair that lasts most of the day. The second largest church in Rome, and the 3rd most important (after St. John's in Lateran), deserves a post of its own, so I won't go into detail just now. Just one tiny note: even though most of what we see today is no more than 150 years old, due to the heartbreaking damage the great basilica suffered in 1823, nevertheless its external aspect, the courtyard, the columned portico, the gold mosaic facade, the dramatic pediment, is the closest Rome has to offer to what Constantine's St. Peter's Basilica must have looked like in its day.

Photo sources: 1, 2, 3

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San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, or When the inspired outshines the inspiration

No answers? No guesses? No comments whatsoever??

This either means my question was too hard, or no one reads this blog. (I suspect it's a combination of both.)

Ok, I won't keep you in suspense any longer. I'm sure some of you couldn't sleep last night, going through a mental catalogue of every work of art, church, building and monument in the city, desperately trying to discover the work that was inspired by the brilliant mosaic ceiling of Constantia's gorgeous mausoleum. I'm heartless, I know. So here it is.

The dome of Borromini's masterpiece, San Carlo alle Quattro Fonatane. Let's take a look at both side by side.

The same interlocking crosses, hexagons and octogons grace this oblong dome designed by the greatest Baroque architect who ever lived, and the similarity cannot be a coincidence. I like to imagine the tortured and solitary Borromini visiting the Mausoleum of Constantia and being inspired by such a small and for most probably unnoticeable detail to create the dome of arguably one of the most beautiful churches in Rome (and at over 800 that's saying quite a lot).

But Borromini took this motif and made it his own, coffered instead of mosaic, stark white instead of multi-colored, and a shallow dome instead of barrel-vaulting. A rare example of Baroque art being inspired by early Medieval art. Not surprisingly, the design of Borromini's dome is famous, and the inspiration sadly obscure.

Borromini's San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane ("at the four fountains", named for the fountains adorning each corner of the intersection right outside) has been nicknamed San Carlino for its tiny size. With convex and concave surfaces at every turn, columns placed at oblique angles to the altars and not a straight line in sight, the entire church seems to undulate. This sense of movement is one of the characteristics that came to define Baroque architecture, at which Borromini was head and shoulders above his contemporaries including his rival and nemesis, the ever-popular Gianlorenzo Bernini, who should have stuck to sculpting. For proof of this, visit Bernini's painfully inferior Sant'Andrea al Quirinale just down the street. (In my humble opionion, of course.)

Now, not to go on and on about my wedding (I'll do that later...), the thought of this church crossed my mind as well during the early days of planning. Tiny and intimate, just what I wanted. Achingly beautiful, a true jewel of a church, dare I say it, perfection? Only two tiny problems: my dress was a rich ivory and the chruch is blindingly white. The bride mustn't clash with the church, no? (Okay, I'm joking. I didn't actually think about this at the time.) But more importantly, the church, as glorious and serene as it is on the inside, opens up right onto a busy intersection which would hamper rice throwing quite drastically.

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Mysterious Mausoleum

The Mausoleum of Constantia, one of the eeriest and most evocative spots in the city, is what inspires me to write today. Constantia (sometimes called Constantina) was the daughter of Emperor Constantine and his second wife Fausta. Despite a medieval legend that would have her devoutly praying at the tomb of St. Agnes (now the site of the magnificent basilica, Sant’Agnese Fuori le Mura), miraculously curing her of leprosy (curiously, a legend nearly identical to one associated with her father Constantine), she was by most accounts a vicious, greedy and not particularly religious person. However, due to her miraculous cure, she was venerated (but it seems never canonized) as a saint, although she is not recognized as one by the church. Nevertheless, her 4th-century mausoleum was later consecrated as the Santa Costanza church, and is attached to the same basilica of Sant’Agnese associated with the legend. Both are located northeast of the historic center, off of Via Nomentana.

The mausoleum is cylindrical, like the Pantheon, with exposed brick walls and intricate mosaic ceilings around the outer ring, or ambulatory. A double row of columns separates the ambulatory from the heart of the mausoleum where the altar sits, and the streaming light from the high windows above contributes to the spooky atmosphere. Perhaps the dark, gloominess of the ambulatory in direct contrast with the light, airy space beneath the dome is what makes this space so mysterious.

A rather shabby copy of Constantia’s imposing porphyry sarcophagus sits where the original (now housed in the Vatican Museums, pictured here) once stood. Much more painful is what has become of the domed ceiling. The original mosaics that once filled the dome were sadly destroyed in 1620, to be replaced with mediocre Baroque frescoes.

The 4th-century mosaics are without a doubt the most interesting detail of the mausoleum. While the 5th-7th century mosaics in the apses depict Christian scenes, the barrel vaulted ambulatory mosaics are much more pagan in style, depicting mostly flora and fauna or geometrical shapes in deep colors (mostly reds and greens) on an off-white background. My favorite section of mosaic is a puzzle of interlocking crosses, hexagons and octagons. For any other lovers of Roman art and architecture out there, does it look familiar? Is there another spot in Rome (hint: much more recent) where this same pattern is repeated? I am curious to see if anyone recognizes it. Please comment if you do!!

This mausoleum-turned-church was one of the few contenders when I was first considering where to get married, a very long 18 months ago. I loved the idea of getting married in a circular space, with the guests seated all around us. The way the light streams in from the upper windows is breathtaking, not to mention the rich detail of the mosaics I love so much. What eventually deterred me were the morbid connotations of getting married in what was once a mausoleum, and the fact that I was determined to wed in the historic center. The church we eventually chose was perfect for our wedding, and before long I will write a post on that loveliest of all churches.


Photo sources: 1, 2, 3

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Trick of the Eye

After nearly a year’s absence, I am happily returning to my much-neglected blog. Following what has been quite surely the busiest, craziest and most overwhelming 12 months of my life (which culminated in my own unforgettable nozze), I have at last the time to devote myself once again to the simple pleasures all around me here in my often maddening and always delightful adopted city.

To ease myself back into this blogging thing, today I’ll post an article I wrote for WHERE Rome magazine, published in January. It’s brief over-view of the Eternal City’s many optical illusions. Each one thrills and fascinates me and deserves much more than a paragraph, but alas, with a limited word-count of a tourist magazine, one is forced to be succinct. I intend to expand upon this theme and write more thorough and in-depth descriptions of each one of these glorious sites in the weeks to come. In the mean time…

Just when you think you’ve seen everything in Rome, something right around the corner surprises you. Hidden alleyways, forgotten works of art, unexpected vistas waiting to amaze you at every turn. But nothing is more confounding than the Eternal City’s many optical illusions. Mischievously tricking your eye, these beguiling phenomena have mystified and delighted viewers for centuries. Go in search of them, and you won’t be the first –or the last– to be deceived.

Perhaps the largest –and most famous– optical illusion can be found in St. Peter’s Square. Gianlorenzo Bernini’s ingenious elliptical design is bordered on both sides by four rows of daunting travertine columns, 284 in all. But stand in a particular spot in the square and the outer three rows disappear from view and only the first row can be seen.

To view St. Peter’s from a different angle, hop in a cab on Via Piccolomini, high on Vatican hill, where the dome can be seen in all its glory. The trees that line the street create a kind of frame for the basilica, and as you drive toward it, the frame widens, and the dome appears to shrink on the horizon.

Illusions involving Michelangelo’s masterpiece don’t end there. Across town, on the Aventine Hill, at the villa of the infamous Knights of Malta, take a peek through the keyhole and the magnificent cupola can be viewed. Although it is miles away, it appears to be just on the other side of the door, nestled amongst the greenery in the villa’s garden.

Inside the basilica, surely the most prized work of art is Michelangelo’s first masterpiece, the moving and graceful Pietà, carved when he was only 23. The master’s grasp of human anatomy was fiercely accurate; nevertheless, if the figures of Mary and Christ were to stand side by side, she would tower over him, at least two feet taller. This can be explained both by Michelangelo’s decision to use a triangular shape for the composition, thereby necessitating Mary’s overly large lower body, as well as his choice to accent Christ’s weakened and vulnerable state in death, appearing small in his mother’s arms.

Illusions continue to abound inside the Vatican Museums, most particularly in the Gallery of Tapestries. The Resurrection of Christ, an early 16th-century Flemish tapestry based on designs of the school of Raphael, was woven using the technique of shifting perspective. View it from the left, and you will see Christ’s head turned toward you and his eyes making contact with yours. Slowly walk toward the right and not only will his eyes follow you, but his head and body turn as well, as does the rectangular stone he is stepping on. The illusion was achieved by double stitching: miniscule overlapping stitches that disappear behind one another depending on where you stand. Entranced by this effect, you might not notice yet another illusion on the vaulted ceiling of the same gallery. Using the tromp l’œuil technique of painting shadows, what appears to be an intricately carved ceiling of bas-reliefs and moldings is in reality entirely two-dimensional.

Haven’t had enough? The nave of Sant’Ignazio di Loyola near the Pantheon possesses a dramatically frescoed vault with what seem to be dizzyingly tall columns and hundreds of figures ascending straight into the heavens. More stunning still is the make-believe dome, in fact just a round canvas stretching across the church’s crossing, which –from a vantage spot marked by a marble star on the floor– appears to be a lofty, ribbed and coffered dome. Both were frescoed by master illusionist Andrea Pozzo.

Perhaps most mystifying of all is Baroque architect Francesco Borromini’s baffling perspective at the Galleria Spada near Campo de’ Fiori. Stand in the courtyard and you will see a long portico of columns that leads to a small garden and a whimsical statue. As you walk down the portico, the floor inclines upward, the columns shorten, the path narrows and the vaulted ceiling declines. The garden is just a few square feet and what seemed like a life-sized sculpture is not even as tall as your hip. You have been tricked again!

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The Villa of Dreams

In keeping with my ebullient mood, I feel the need to show off a little.

How lucky am I  to take my regular exercise in the grounds of a glorious Renaissance villa? Complete with manicured gardens, meadows, fountains, lakes, and hundreds and hundreds of my beloved Roman pines? I write of the Villa Pamphilj, a summer haven sprawling over Gianicolo hill and into the valley behind it, created in the 17th century by the rascal Camillo Pamphilj, (son of the infamous Donna Olimpia Maidalchini--more on her later) and originally called Bel Respiro. It has been a public park since the 1960s, at which time it was sadly cut in two by a busy new street. Only in the year 2000 was a sky bridge built to connect the two sides.

At 185 hectacres (455 acres) the villa feels like bit of countryside within the steaming city, and this lush retreat, high above the bustle of Rome, offers surprising tranquility.  A few nights ago I took a twilight bike ride through my enchanted forest, bringing along a camera to capture what I knew I would fail to express in words.

The Villa's lovely lake. What are all those little dots in the water?

Oh my goodness, turtles!

Lots of turtles!!

Turtles and ducks and swans, oh my!

The one spot in the villa where you can see the very tip of Saint Peter's dome.

I've been looking for a new place to live... I think I've found it!

Acqua Paola. This aqueduct is not ancient, although it follows the path of the ancient aqueduct, the Acqua Traiana. A few underground sections of the original aqueduct are still intact, and were incorporated into this Renaissance one when it was built  in 1612 by Pope Paul V Borghese. It brings water to Rome from the volcanic lake north of the city, Lago Bracciano, and feeds many of Rome's most important fountains, such as those in Piazza Navona, Piazza Farnese, St. Peter's, Trastevere, and of course the Fontanone.

The view on my ride home. Ahhhhh......


All photos by author

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"Siamo Romane... Trasteverine..."

When does buying olives and cheese nearly make you cry?

When you are buying them at the loveliest, sweetest, most delectably delicious salumeria in the most perfect and adorable neighborhood in the greatest, most beautiful city in the world... and when you know you are soon to be leaving that magical neighborhood with that wonderful shop.... (perhaps forever?)
No, I'm not leaving Rome. As much as she frustrates me, I don't think I could bear to part with her. But--at least for now--I'm leaving Trastevere.

People always ask me, "What is so great about Trastevere? It's so crowded/chaotic/loud at night/touristy/overpriced/cliché/covered in graffiti... Why do you insist on living there?"

Oh, only for a million and one reasons. But the one I'm thinking of right now is the one and only Antica Caciara. Baskets of the freshest ricotta cheese on the planet sit temptingly in the windows, along with dried meat hanging from the doorway with the worrying tag "Coglioni di Mulo" (mule's testicles). Inside the smell of the cheeses and cured meats could tempt even a vegan. Row upon row of olives, tubs of freshly made pesto and other sauces, barrels filled with bottles of local wine, narrow wedges of parmigiano lined up on the shelves. But all of this isn't the best part.

The best part are the people who work there. If you've ever lived in Rome, you know that the shopkeepers here are not always the friendliest bunch, especially if you are a dreaded foreigner. But the owner and his two charming assistants are the loveliest and most helpful people imaginable. Not even in my home town of Seattle--where customer service is an art form--have I been treated so well. Roberto, the owner, is soft-spoken and patient, carefully explaining how each cheese should be served and stored. At first I thought he was just unusually kind (which he is) but his assistants (one of which I assume to be his wife) are as courteous and friendly as he is. Samples are obligatory and leaving without a chat is unthought of.

As I bought my gaeta olives, I realized that this might be the last time (for a while) that I visit this delightful bottega, the reality of my departure from Trastevere--and all that I will miss about it--came crashing down on me. The winding streets, the cobblestones, the local shops on every corner: the fishmonger who keeps laughably short hours, the green grocer with his overpriced but glorious wild asparagus, the old man who beautifully frames my cheap prints, the two ladies at the laundrette who distinctly disapprove of me, the guy at the wine shop who's always ready with a smile and a "ciao bella!"...this is what I will miss most. Enveloped in the warmth of my adopted community, the graffiti fades into the background and all I see are ivy-covered buildings. My ears tune out the incessant car-alarms and revving of motors and I hear only churchbells. Even the stench of urine is covered by the scent of wisteria and freshly baked bread.

Trastevere means, "across the Tiber" and it is a neighborhood distinctly separate from the rest of the center of Rome. When you are there you feel it: time slows down a touch, the buildings get shorter and the streets get narrower. Sidewalks don't exist. A knife sharpener pushes a file attached to a bicycle through the streets, shouting up to the windows so the casalinghe can run down with their knives. They say some of the oldest Trasteverini pride themselves on never venturing to the other side of the river. And sometimes I think, well, why would they?
When I told Roberto and his wife that I was leaving Trastevere, they were sad, because they could see I was sad. "Trastevere è un piccolo villaggio dentro una città," said she, my thoughts exactly. "Trastevere brilla..." said he, and it does. On a sunny afternoon, approaching the Ponte Sisto, the bridge's sanpietrini shine as if lit on fire, like a golden brick road leading to the neighborhood I love best in all the world. From the battered fountain to the crooked rooftops, the medieval towers, the umbrella pines, and at last the Fontanone.

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