Rome the tenth

So provided that my bag doesn't explode when I try to pack my laptop, I'm good to go. I'm ready to go home, if only to get the dreary "Arrivederci Roma" out of my head.

I only had a couple of hours this morning, and I was torn about where to take my valedictory tour - to the Colosseum, which would be magnificent and inspiring and an appropriate farewell, or to the Spanish Steps, where there would be Babingtons and therefore scones.

Oh well. If you guessed wrong, you can still have a consolation scone. Although in the end I just had toast, because I didn't really feel like filling myself with a wealth of whipped cream, but the thought of a scone without cream is the epitome of unbearable melancholy. It was amazing toast though, and I wanted to buy a jar of the jam, but I'm not sure how NZ border control would feel about homemade preserves. Aren't they known to be deadly to native birds?

But I did see those two most potent symbols of Rome, the dork in the gladiator costume and the pushy flower seller. 

And there was decent view from the top of the Spanish Steps. I feel like I've already taken this photo. Days and places and views are all a bit of a blur at the moment.

So that's it from Rome. I can only leave you with the words spoken by an American woman at the restaurant where I ate last night. As she entered, the waiter called out a cheerful "Buona sera!" and she replied, in ringing tones, "Yes, Boner Sarah!"

So Boner Sarah to you all!

Rome the ninth

I had trouble pulling myself in the direction of the door this morning. I do believe the impending horror of long-haul travel is suffusing my being with deadening dread.

The other day when I was reading about Area Sacra, the probable location of Julius Caesar: The Stabbening, I saw reference to the fact that the site is a cat sanctuary. That's odd, I thought. It's also true. I went past again today, and sure enough, it's a game of spot the kitty down there.

I had just one more neighbourhood to visit - Trastavere. My guidebook promises that it's the most authentic part of Rome. Whatever that means. It's certainly totally photogenic, and mercifully light on the tourists, since there's not many must-see sights.

Giuseppe Gioachino Belli. Poet, strutter, poser.

 

 

I love that Trastavere is not stingy with the greenery.

Oh yeah. Vintage Rome.

Santa Maria in Trastavere. It's cute and neighbourly, as cathedrals go.

Trastavere also smelled amazing, owing to the profusion of jasmine. Incidentally, this is where Raphael's mistress lived. Raph, you old dog.

I think this is the botanical gardens. I was disinclined to pay the entrance fee, so I just stole this photo through the fence, then ran away as the guy from the ticket booth chased me while waving a broom. Yes, very authentic indeed!

She's dressed to match the street! I love it!

Rome the eighth

I like that the ultimate church I visited in Italy is also the ultimate church. Now I just have to stay out of churches for the next day and a half so I don't make a liar out of myself.

So, St Peters. Complete with searchlights from the eyeballs of God himself, seeking out the wicked and giving them nasty sunburn.

Up into the dome. Impossible to properly appreciate without a Go-Go-Gadget neck.

Assorted St Petersness.

So there's that, Michelangelo's Mary of the Giant Lap, also known as the Pieta. Some guy back in the seventies tried to kill it with a hammer, so now it's way up in the very back of a closed-off alcove and behind a wall of bulletproof glass. You know what else could have prevented another such attack? Putting it slightly beyond arm's reach.

According to my guidebook, this is the Holy Spirit. So now I know who to blame for leaving that mess on the windscreen of my car.

I stared at this for ages thinking "Is this actual pope remains? I'm pretty sure it's not actual pope remains. I think it's just a sculpture." IT IS ACTUAL POPE REMAINS. His face and hands have been silvered, to keep him in showroom condition. Catholicism, why you gotta be so weird? Anyway, I like his pope slippers.

Flower stall in the Campo dei Fiori market. The fruit and vegetables here were like, whoa. Everything was so bright and perfect. I like asparagus and all, but I've never marked out for asparagus before. 

This is the Area Sacra, kind of a sunken square of ruined temples. It was only excavated in the 1920s and I think some haphazard reconstruction was attempted, because those are definitely not the original steps or floors. If this is what they think it is, then it's probably where Julius Caesar was assassinated. Beware the Ides of March! They're lurking behind that column there!

I made a point of remembering where this was so I could look it up later, but it's not marked on any map. Maybe they just don't know what it is, or maybe it's just not important. I mean, not everything that survived has got to be sacred this and triumphal that; surely some of it's just sandal shops and used chariot dealerships.

Rome the seventh

So I just realised that my first Rome post got eaten. Luckily I found a draft and hopefully managed to slot it into the correct place, and here it is if you missed it. Because everything I post is unmissable. UNMISSABLE.

Today I objected to anything that involved doing anything. Including moving. But at the insistence of the bells at the next-door church (which play something that sounds a lot like the New Zealand national anthem, or are my ears just homesick?) I managed to get out of bed.

I dragged myself over the Quirinal Hill to the Spanish Steps again, where, in the spirit of the Grand Tour, I had scones at Babington's Tea Rooms. That horse, he's like the guys in gladiator costumes outside the Colosseum, posing for your photo and then demanding payment. Luckily he was more than happy to accept my offering of the sugar I stole from Caffe Florian in Venice.

Babington's is adorable. It's all dark-panelled wood, and tableware in turquoise with pink accents, and the waitresses in full 1950s-style turquoise skirts. There were no waiters on duty at the time, but I wonder if they have to wear turquoise pants. Because I would tip lavishly for that spectacle.

From there I pootled down to the Ara Pacis, which is what's inside that super-modern piece of architecture I was surprised by my first day in Rome. Apparently there's widespread dislike for the building, but I thought it was magnificent. It's practically made of light. That's where the Vatican Collection should be, rather than lurking in those dark rooms.

And this is the Ara Pacis, the Altar of Peace, built to commemorate the peace that Augustus brought to the Mediterranean region through the waging of extensive wars. Heh, my eyes rolled involuntarily as I was typing that. It's a pretty cool thing in itself though, and the rope there is misleadingly angled, because you can walk through it. You could even get up on it and mime slaughtering some sacrificial cattle. In the name of peace, of course.

All these carvings are of actual Augustinian celebs, and are so well done that historians have been able to identify a bunch of them by comparing them with other known likenesses.

A sign went up in the elevator today saying that the hotel's rooftop bar is open for the summer. So that's where I'll be. For the rest of the week.

Rome the sixth

If my feet weren't so sore I'd be kicking myself for walking so far today. Like, 20 kilometres far, according to the map. Did you know the minibar at this hotel is free, and I can't even bring myself to hobble the four metres over to it.

Proof that some roads actually lead away from Rome.

Good grief - I was so wrecked from my walk this afternoon that I forgot what I did this morning - and it was the Vatican. That's Saint Peter's, and trust me, it's not that the church is small, it's that the piazza is huuuuge.

This giant pope will devour us all!

I got there pretty early, so I headed to the Vatican Museums first, reasoning that the line there would still be short and St Peter's would be a breeze to pop into afterwards. As it turned out the museum line was shorter when I walked past it on my way out than when I arrived, and by that time the line for St Peter's was all-the-way-around-the-piazza epic. So St Peter's will be a job for another early morning. Anyway, this is the courtyard of the museums, complete with spinning installation thingy.

Typical lavishness of the museums. This part used to be papal apartments, and so doesn't function very well as a museum - it's a one-way system and woe betide you if you get stuck behind a tour group.

So here's Raphael's The School of Athens, High Renaissance fan fiction. I've always loved it, but I was kind of dismayed that it's in a reasonably small room, and I couldn't really get a straight-on view of it because of a crowd of Germans, and when you try to elbow your way through Germans boy howdy do they elbow back.

The guy in the black hat is Raphael's self-portrait. I suppose he was trying to come across as modest, but he mostly looks bored, like, "Painting, schmainting. Is TV invented yet?"

In between the Raphael Rooms and the Sistine Chapel is the contemporary art section, and, to be honest, that was my favourite part. How silly that I come to Italy and develop an interest in modern art. I neglected to make a note of the artists, but I do remember the crucifixion is a Matisse.

And this is a Dali. I believe it's called Crapbag, My Half-Horse Has Melted.

The Sistine Chapel itself (no photos, no bare knees or shoulders, no talking, no stopping on the steps and no looking) was, I have to say, disappointing. Any atmosphere was ruined by the attendants constantly shushing everyone, and the tour guides speaking louder to be heard over the shushing. The chapel was dimly lit and there just too much going on on every flat surface to be able to appreciate any of it properly.

I was considerably perked up by the exhibition of some of the Russian Imperial Faberge Eggs. These ones are the Hen egg, the Rosebud egg, the Bay Tree egg and the Coronation egg, which is just a copy because I'm pretty sure George Clooney has the original.

I'm not sure who or why, but I think this is based on a traditional bogan bedspread design.

That thing! What the heck? And I never managed to figure out what it is, because about five minutes later I accidentally wandered up someone's driveway, then realised I was somewhat lost. And hence began my afternoon of walking.

I had gone uphill in search of a view, and kept going up and up, with less and less clue about where I was, getting increasingly angry with my map-reading skills, until I realised I had walked right off my map. I kept expecting a massive vista of Rome to appear below me around the next bend, but everywhere was completely treed in. It was a stupid walk and I wanted to punch it in the face, but I did eventually (obviously) find my way to the view and hence my bearings. Anyway, with the aid of Google, it is now within my power to tell you that this impressive piece of work is Villa Doria-Pamphili.

Monuments to Giuseppe and Anita Garibaldi, red shirt wearers and fighters for the unification of Italy. It always blew my mind a little that Italy as a country is younger than New Zealand - this year is the 150th anniversary of Italian unification, and we had our sesquicentennial in, what, 1990?

This lighthouse does an exemplary job of keeping ships away. And I'm sure the lack of ocean also plays a part.