I always think I know Rome quite well, at least as to what extraordinary church, palazzo or ancient ruin is where and which of those I want to see. Gaps in time, however, play havoc with middle aged memories and streets or Roman hills are not always at all in the direction remembered resulting in much harrumphing from ageing husband when the long road taken is not the right one and the tourist map doesn't have its name. As for the Italian I once spoke quite well after a year living in Florence, well, I can manage a menu usually, most directions, just, but conversation beyond the 'ancora un altra bottiglia di vino per mio vecchio marito' is completely out of the question. So far so depressing but being in the eternal city is far from that, especially, notwithstanding three spectacular thunderstorms and accompanying downpours, in June when it is hot but there is still air to breathe, the trees are bright green and flowering and there is the scent of jasmine on the breeze.
We stayed in the former convent, the Casa di San Giuseppe, in Vicolo Moroni in Trastevere, hard by the Piazza Trilussa with its useful taxi stand; all the restaurants and bars of Trastevere including the one where we suffered through the England/Uruguay World Cup debacle, and the glories of the mosaics of Santa Maria in Trastevere with its splendid cosmatesque pavement. On this occasion we ran out of time for other adjacent pleasures such as the church of Santa Cecilia with its extraordinarily touching, true to death, sculpture of Cecilia, martyred in the 3rd century and recorded as her body was found when her tomb was opened in 1599; and San Pietro in Montorio with its austerely remarkable Bramante Tempietto. We did manage to find time to eat well; in Osteria La Gensola for perfect fish and Paris for old fashioned atmosphere and a lot of prosperous priests enjoying the good things of life. Elsewhere, a simple lunch in the dolce vita interior of Dal Bolognese in the Piazza del Popolo was a disappointment with surprisingly leaden pasta including tortellini in brodo which, when properly home made, is my absolutely favourite melting moment but maybe we let the side down by not ordering more seriously, not booking so as to sit on the fashionable terrace and not dressing the more glamorous part.
My son who has escaped too much forced sightseeing in recent years at the hands of his mother, in Europe at least, by living in South America, showed remarkable tolerance for flogging round as many churches, palaces, fountains or anything else springing back to mind, in the day or two available. Of course as is well known to be the case in Rome, everything is always shut at exactly the moment chosen for a visit and only the more obscure sites are not stuffed beyond bearing with other horrid people. St Peter's, O lord, I have never previously had even to think of queuing to get in to extent that it was completely out of the question. The Vatican I could have left out perhaps but said son was keen and with advance online booking, even as it turned out for the wrong date, we made it to the Sistine Chapel and the Raphael rooms with room to breathe and space enough to pause and take in. Actually there is never really long enough for that, it is always just a promise for another visit and as it seems to be restore a fountain year and the Trevi is wrapped in canvas and scaffolding as tight as a Christo sculpture, the worry is where to throw the coin to ensure the return. Once upon a time I remember, although are these memories accurate I wonder, one could lie on the floor in the Sistine Chapel, without fear of furious guards or crowding, trampling feet, and gaze but those days will not return until at least one of the 4 horsemen gallops clean across the earth.
Over-populated or not, the Chapel remains remarkable in real sight, great 3 dimensional painted limbs bursting out into space from the arch of the ceiling, appearing almost as solid and muscular as their artist's massive marble figures elsewhere and equally lacking the whiff of sanctity. There is a Michelangelo exhbition currently in the Capitoline Museum 450 years after his death which I found oddly unsympathetic, perhaps it is just difficult to enjoy his works massed together out of its expected contexts even if they have never been those originally intended, most of all by his patrons. We failed, time again, to get to San Pietro in Vincoli for the famous horned Moses on Pope Julius II, Michelangelo's greatest patron's tomb - it is an image of terrifying power and did at least end up in the right place albeit other sculptures made or partly made for the tomb are exhibited far from here and their substitutes are not at all the same thing.by lesser artists in every way. The permanent Capitoline exhibitions are fascinating, fine and educative as to the Roman image and life. They need to be taken in bite sized pieces really to appreciate them properly, as ever a flying visit is by no means enough for understanding or longer term enjoyment of mind. One can always enjoy the perfection of Michelangelo's Campidoglio, a snap of the eye takes in the wonder where Marcus Aurelius rules this astonishingly wonderful space in all his magnificence. Spectacular even in copy, the original of the statue is to be enjoyed these days in its rather hideous special pavilion inside the museum.
Of course, in the evening, as the huge wedding cake edifice of the monument to Vittorio Emanuele shines above the Piazza Venezia in the glow of the sun and the ruins of the forum take on earlier form in the lowering light, it is too late to drop in on the Bambinello sleeping in Santa Maria in Aracoeli - one for another day. The Aracoeli is usually high on the itinerary in Rome beside the Pantheon and Santa Maria sopra Minerva, both reached as soaked cobbles dried in the sun after a storm. The former as ever, stunning but bursting full, the latter quiet enough to enjoy the frescoes once the relevant coins were scraped out of pockets for the slot of the lighting machine. We failed to eat ice creams in any of the old shops in the area or drink coffee in Piazza Sant Eustachio - there is a lot more competition for the crown of best of either than was once the case - but we did buy numerous pairs of red or purple cardinal's socks, now incredibly good value, in one of the several clerical outfitters. On any walking tour in this vicinity and en route perhaps to the Piazza Navona one would likely, as we did on another day, take in San Luigi dei Francesi with the marvels of the Contarelli Chapel, the Caravaggio paintings of the life of St Matthew, which, for the moment of looking, throw every other painter into the shade.
We went in the morning cool all the way up the Via Nomentana, fuori le mura, to the church of Sant Agnese and the next door blessed peace of Santa Costanza's high domed mausoleum with its glorious 4th century decorative mosaics of everyday life and nature. Transport can be an issue when getting to or from more distant oases that leave the mega crowds behind although there is usually a bus to some recognisable destination and the Via Nomentana is a straight thoroughfare out from the centre of Rome. As it was we took the Metro and walked from the Policlinico station through the university area to San Lorenzo fuori le Mura, the ancient site of pilgrimage that stands above the tomb of poor overcooked St Lawrence, now doomed for all time in art to carry about the gridiron that was the instrument of his torture and martyrdom. Better perhaps than St Agatha with her cut off breasts carried by her on a tray like slightly bizarre blancmanges, she popped up in the church in Piediluco which we visited while staying in nearby Labro, beside St Apollonia with the tongs holding just one of her full set of pulled teeth. The enormous Campo de Verano cemetery behind San Lorenzo ensures continual funerals to an almost crematorium-like level of queuing hearses and we naturally encountered one going on in the basilica as we tiptoed, eyes lowered, down the side aisles to view the mosaics in the apse and the catacombs beneath.
A rush back to Trastevere for a splendidly typical Roman lunch of suppli and carciofi alla giudia followed by variations on a theme of ossobucco or offal with friends while the rain deluged around our umbrella covered table and rivers ran down the street, then back to our tracks at the vast edifice of San Giovanni in Laterano. The Scala Santa was well attended both by pilgrims and by those carefully recording the painful upward progress on one or other digital device. These chroniclers were often monks, priests and nuns who one presumes use such uncomfortable images further to propagate the mysteries of faith. We of course sprang up the side stairs but I did once go up on my knees many years ago just to see what it was like. I can't say I found it either temporally or spiritually uplifting although I have a great fondness for St Helena or at least the idea of her, this indomitable matron packing up her relics in the Holy Land and heading for home.The True Cross has certainly proved to be miraculous, multiplying endlessly down the years and making plenty of money for determined entrepreneurs on the way. The basilica itself is magnificent, the sheer scale of the thing, the baroque, including enormous statues, overlaying centuries earlier and earlier still, mind blowing. Then the delightful leavening of a beautiful apse mosaic that includes in its border, the river Jordan running under the feet of several saints and the Virgin patting a rather small pope, a Nicholas I think, on the head like a faithful dog. In or on the water there are putti having fun, riding a swan here and quite obviously wind surfing there while a pair of fine headed deer stand guard by the cross above. The cloisters of San Giovanni vie for the title of most beautiful with those of San Paolo fuori le mura and are masterpieces of the cosmatesque.
We were caught again by opening or closing hours at both Santa Maria Maggiore and lovely Santa Prassede nearby with its delicious mosaiced chapel of St Zenone. Bother. We made it to San Clemente, the basilica at least if not its several further layers of history down to the temple of Mithras. Luckily the Irish Dominicans in charge here were holding a convenient mass in their church, so just a taster for us before trudging in some state of dehydration to a friendly gay bar in the close vicinity of the Colosseum for a much needed refresher of ice cold beer and then home to bath and change in anticipation first of a short baroque concert under the weight of marble and gilt of Sant'Agnese in Agone in Piazza Navona - interesting but a bit of a mixed blessing as to composers, followed by the England World Cup game against Uruguay where a hoped for English victory was snatched from us by the twinkling boots of Luis Suarez. At least he didn't bite anyone on this occasion.
On then towards Labro in Lazio, Umbria, for a wedding in that mediaeval hilltop village with its gloriou views across the deciduous woods and down to the lake at Piediluco just below in the valley. First negotiating the route out of Rome, up the Via Nomentana again, easy I said although my Rome maps gave up before the tangenziale, the Grande Raccordo Anulare, which, like all unfamiliar ring roads is almost impossible either to get onto or off in the right place and direction. We did worse on our return and might be there still had we not finally spotted signs to the airport. Once on the right motorway, heading more or less north, we fairly sped along and thoughts of lunch and sights to see meant Montelibretti simply because it appeared at the edge of yet another map before it ran out and seemed to have the Palazzo Barberini, a very shut up castello we discovered, and the church of San Nicola de Bari, likewise. Lunchtime of course and where should we find it?
Looking over a parapet at the top of the hill we spotted the Vecchio Mulino which proved to be a cavernous pizzeria with a large terrace looking out over the valley. It was discouragingly empty apart from one large table of elderly men on the terrace. As it turned out the restaurant was hiding its light under an unpromising bushel; irritable waitress, elderly patron dozing fatly by the till, too many pizzas for him and none for us as the oven isn't lit until evening. Set menus were thrown onto the table, take it or leave it but the elderly men were feasting on excellent looking mussels so we said yes once the beer, no Peroni, something unheard of, had taken the dust out of our mouths. Well, apart from ending up eating a 7 course lunch and waddling out of the place feeling of like size with its owner, we struck lucky indeed. Mussels were followed by rice with cream of scampi and the whole delicious beasts in there to prove it was real, a fritto misto di pesce, salad, and then the wheels fell off. We struck up with what turned out to be a retirement party and they were making an afternoon of it with local scrumpy style wine in 2 litre plastic coke bottles, something rather better out of glass and, if we didn't watch out, god knows what in the grappa type line. They followed up their set menu with cries for spaghetti and, by now, their best friends, we had that too, perfection and followed by a retirement cake of exterior garishness that belied melting sponge stuffed with fresh strawberries. The espresso was good too and essential. Many photographs and best wishes later, embraces for the cook and the waitress, the patron was back dozing again leaving his hard working daughters in charge, we escaped for Labro and a perfect wedding weekend..
The church of Sta Maria Maggiore in Labro is itself a delight, the gentle faded blue painted ceiling arches just added to by wedding clothes and beautiful posies of white roses and oak leaves at the ends of the pews. The service itself was taken, uniquely perhaps and with papal dispensation, by a female Scottish Episcopalian vicar from Edinburgh. It seems the local bishop has a sense of humour. My only regret about Labro, on its apparently truffle studded hill, is that we mistakenly failed to take advantage of that rich harvest, early as it seems, since there were apparently a small hill of their own of fresh truffles on sale in the local bar as we left.
We returned to normal life and the airport for a late Sunday night flight via a soothing visit to the fountains and unfortunately Sunday crowds of the Villa D'Este in Tivoli after burning off some of the weekend's excesses with a storming walk round Hadrian's Villa. The ruins here astonishing as always for size and only spoilt like every major tourist destination by the barriers and fences and all the paraphernalia of health and safety that save us from ourselves by ruining every space and vista and destroying any real sense of what might once have been. There are still plenty of places, plenty of wonder and unique pleasures to see in the world and I continue to seek those most recently emptied by some drama or other, but, in the best known, one would sometimes happily welcome the four horsemen and be hanging on to the horses tails to see what has been before it disappears for good under weight of numbers and numberless edicts for our better touristic organisation.
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