Navigating Rome is like finding a fork in the road after another fork in the road. Each fork leads to somewhere you weren’t expecting to go, but you might just come across the Pantheon if you’re lucky.
This past week has been a lot of exploring. The other day my friend April and I decided to venture across the Tiber River, which leads into Central Rome, where many of the iconic monuments are located. The neighborhood of Trastevere has been a comfort zone that we had yet to break. But that day, we were on a mission and took the leap (walked across a bridge). The other side had much more shops, whereas I noticed Trastevere seemed to be a gallery of restaurants. Immediately April was almost tempted to buy a 50 euro purse from a gift shop but it felt to tourist trap-y so I advised against it. Do you ever walk into someplace and know it was designed with the intent to make you spend more than you should? The next day she found the exact same purse for 30 euro. A happy ending.
Back to the journey, we continued to walk straight until we came upon a sunken square of ruins. It was called the Largo di Torre Argentina, and upon reading some plaques we found out it was the site of ancient Roman temples of various shapes and sizes. It was amazing to see the pillars intact and the shapes of the buildings come alive after looking at painting recreations. I spoke to the woman checking tickets and she wished us luck on our studies, and to explore the city as much as we can. She also complimented me on my Italian, which gave me the confidence to ask a nearby fabric store owner what their favorite place to eat in the area was. The store owners talked amongst themselves before deciding on a place called “Ba’Ghetto.” As we wandered to find it, we found a plaque saying “The Talented Mr. Ripley” was filmed on this street. I have yet to see it, but Matt Damon, Gwenyth Paltrow and Jude Law all in one movie sounds amazing. As we turned the corner, and Italian street vendor called to us. “Ciao ragazza! Ciao!” he said to me. Then he turned to April, who is Asian American and speaks only English, and said “Ni Hao!”
We were still laughing when we found Ba’Ghetto, a kosher restaurant nestled in a bustling historic neighborhood street. Street musicians were playing accordion and many Jewish families were walking around or enjoying food. Looking at the tables, the pizza looked absolutely delectable. We sat down and the waiter recommended we get something called supli. He made fun of our American accents but in a goofy way, like when I said, I can’t just get one thing, I need all of them! The waiter walked by and parroted, “Awl of themm?” He was right about one thing though, the supli was extremely delicious and I was obsessed. It’s a fried ball of rice cooked in tomato sauce with a melted mozzarella center. I ate it again the next day at a different place and I floated on my walk home.
There was a narrow alleyway near the restaurant (there is no deficit of pretty alleyways) and it was populated with doors to homes and apartments. As we strolled by, we noticed people staring down at brass tiles in the cobblestone. They were in front of every door on the street, and there were words engraved in them. I stopped to look at one out of curiousity, and was shocked at what they said. Each tile had a name of a former resident of the street and four dates. The day they were born, the day they were arrested by German police, the day they were deported to Auschwitz, and the day they were murdered.
It was chilling. It was also humbling to think that if we hadn’t looked down, we may have not known. A whole street just gone. As we read more, whole families appeared. I saw teenagers, young parents, elderly people, and even a baby. Later on, I learned we had been in the Jewish Quarter of Rome. It was the block where Italian Jews were confined to living in in the early 1900s, once considered a ghetto from how tightly packed it became, and later the site of a devastating invasion by Nazi soldiers.
A reminder than not all of history is beautiful.
Wet dogs pranced down the street. Where did they come from? It was only once we reached the end of the street that we found their source: a water fountain with statues of children riding dolphins and holding turtles. Dogs jumped in the water and bathed in the coolness while their sweaty owners looked on, jealously. It was a refreshing view. We walked far enough to see the Colosseum from afar, peeking from between buildings. It was more humongous and amazing in person, although I didn’t go inside just yet.
The next day, I wanted to go to a free botanical garden tour offered by the school. I got there right as it was supposed to begin. As I waited, a woman who I had seen on campus approached me and said that there was an extra spot in the paid “Masterpieces of Rome” tour. Did I want a spot? Of course. So I got a receiver and earbuds to follow the elegant and stylish older guide as she took us through the city. It was a great tour, although she spoke quickly enough that you might miss a whole fable in a minute. We walked past a fountain built by a wealthy old family, a house where the prostitute muse of the painter Raphael lived (nicknamed “The Baker’s Daughter,” a nice way of saying she was baking something else) and various courtyards and museums.
We came upon the turtle fountain again. She told us it was called “Fontana delle Tartarughe,” and it was commissioned by a duke after he gambled all of his fortune away. The father of the duke’s fiancee didn’t want his daughter marrying the broke man, but the duke used the last of his money to build the fountain to impress her and the father. Whether it worked she didn’t say, but it certainly impressed me. I was glad for the tour, and met a lovely Sicilian girl who joined me at an art gallery a few days later.
That same weekend, I went to the street market Porta Portese and bought a bunch of cheap clothes of linens and mesh and even a cool Betty Boop purse. But as I went to pay at a stand that advertised everything 3 euro, the man proclaimed that the specific table I had collected clothes from was actually 10 euro. “Dov’e dice 10?” I said, Where does it say 10?
He said that it just is 10. I noticed that he only said that after I had spoken English to my friend. I suspect that some places charge more when they find out you’re American. So my words of advice, don’t speak English!
ni hao!
Justice for April fr