My first visit to this ancient city, and the surrounding towns, left me reflecting on the contradictions of Roman life in the 21st Century.
Tuesday morning’s in Torvaianica is market day. Bread, cheese, fruit, vegetables, fish and meat all on offer, fresh from local growers and producers mostly. As is the Italian culture, the cooking and eating of food is unrushed, nurtured and delicate. Making batches of tomato sauce for the months ahead is a celebration of produce and culture. And this is very fresh produce, like enjoying ricotta from a local store with a sprinkle of sugar as a dessert, better than any cheesecake! All of this reverence and respect for food. And then, there is McDonalds. The golden arches were everywhere. Fast food is becoming increasingly popular with young Italians, and the price that the Italian culture will pay is yet to reveal itself. I fear the next time I visit, I’ll be offered Krispy Kremes instead of gelato at the Fontana di Trevi.
Our neighbours in the village couldn’t speak any English. But Giuseppe didn’t care. He tried French, German and Spanish. We managed to figure out that he had three tortoise, two boys and a girl. The boys were horny and the girl wasn’t interested. Perhaps it was because he knew that three of the four of us couldn’t speak Italian, but Giuseppe and his wife approached domestic rows like an Olympic sport. Mostly very early in the morning. Its a cliche, and its true. “Porca vacca!” On the flip side, Friday night was karaoke night in the village. We limbered up with lashings of red wine, popped on the heels and lippy and headed for the bar round the corner. The room filled up rapidly, and the man in charge took up the mic. We were perplexed. Some kind of MTV derivative was on the big screen, with the sound turned down. The man was belting out Michael Jackson and Stevie Wonder. It was pretty flawless. But where was the Karaoke screen? Where were the punters? Where was the book of songs? A few enquiries and a couple of brave singers later, it all became clear. The deal was, you go up, you ask for a song you know. He finds it on his system, and you sing with him, reading the words from a tiny screen on the sound desk. Also, only men went up to sing. Nevertheless, Sonia and I beat a hasty path to the stage. “This Love, by Maroon 5 per favore!”. Now, I wasn’t expecting fireworks. We finished up. Not a peep. Lahn and Pete were looking encouraging, and had attempted a “Woop Woop!”, but basically we bombed. No jolly smiles or laughs. Nothing. We paid the bill and left. It seemed the Inglese had overstayed their welcome.
Towards the end of our week, we drove to Tivoli to visit the gardens and fountains at Villa D’Este. The symmetry, the luscious planting, mosaics and sculptures. Opulent living and a desire to create beauty, even more important than functionality. And then I discovered, mostly in the town of Anzio, that the Italians like to plant lantana in pots around piazzas and on boardwalks. Now, even as a child I was drawn to the tiny collections of multi-coloured flowers. And from a very young age I remember knowing that this plant was firstly a weed and secondly very poisonous. So I was surprised to see what I know to be a pest, and potentially dangerous, plant adorning the historical spaces of this place. Curious.
I left Rome knowing I will return. Hope I can get over the karaoke experience and perhaps share my music with the Romans one day. If lantana can do it, so can I.
