Rome Behind the Velvet Rope

My husband's cousin Anna Rita is no different than the typical big-city, sociology-degreed (acquired after the children were in school, of course), soup-kitchen-volunteering woman in any city in the world; she belongs to museum societies and architectural preservation leagues, she counsels troubled teens, and is the first to get tickets to every special exhibit or play that hits her town.  Her town just happens to be Rome, and I count myself among the fortunate few to be on her list of people she enjoys showing around her beloved city.  It doesn't hurt that she's incredibly pushy and seems to think that my being American boosts her status up a couple of points, but I'm in no position to argue, and I must say that we make a great team.

Anna has used my citizenship to enable us to drive through taxi- and bus-only zones ("I'm with my American cousin and she's leaving tomorrow and we only have five minutes to get to our appointment at the Borghese"); she habitually line-cuts and drags me red-faced to the front; we have even interrupted weddings to look at important works of art ("if they wanted privacy they shouldn't have gotten married in this cathedral'.) She has brought me to places that most tourists never see, and many Romans have never heard of: The Orsini-Odeschalchi Castle at Bracciano (Tom Cruise got married there years after I had discovered it); a lovely convent in Rome with cloistered, vow-of-silence nuns where I knocked over a chair while they were singing vespers; the church of San Clemente which is a 12th century basilica built over a fourth century basilica built over a first century Roman pagan temple;  and The Palazzo Farnese in Caprarola, which goes down in my book as Anna Rita's Greatest Hit.

Like most Americans (alright, American women) I love a castle - the older the better, furnishings preferred though not required - and I don't mean to brag but I've seen my fair share of chateaux in Europe so I feel comfortable saying that Palazzo Farnese should be on that 1,000 Places Before You Die list.  Anna Rita took a Monday off of work to take me there, and after an hour long car ride from Rome, we arrived in the little town of Caprarola which consists of narrow streets around a main piazza, all overshadowed by the imposing castle which seemingly lords over the tiny village.  We arrived to find that the castle was closed to visitors, which we should have known since most national monuments in Italy are closed on Mondays. With a shrug of my shoulders I started toward the car, but Miss Not So Fast Anna Rita started banging on the huge wooden castle door. As my stomach did somersaults the door was eventually opened by a man in a guard's uniform, and Anna started her plea: "My cousin is from Los Angeles and has been wanting to visit this castle but she's going back to America tomorrow; can you please just let us peek inside?" During the following tense five seconds, I went through an Italian Judgement which my years of experience have taught me to endure by making direct yet submissive eye contact.  Save the Alpha-dog for another day.

Maybe the guard fell in love with us, more likely he was bored, but  not only did he open the doors,  he led us on a private tour of the entire castle.  I didn't even have to feign the enthusiasm which seemed to encourage him to show us room after room, secret doors, the courtyard entrance, the Scala Regia - the grand spiral staircase where horse-drawn carriages would ascend with their passengers.  For the two hours we were there, just the three of us, it was easy for me to imagine what it must have been like to wander those halls and passageways during the 16th century.  When the tour was over and he accompanied us to the great wooden doors to see us out, despite protests from Anna Rita, I took some money from my wallet certain that he would proudly refuse it.

So he took the money, but nothing could have tarnished that day for me.  Anna Rita and I giggled on the whole ride home.  If you go,  try to visit on a Monday.

Link to:
Castle Odescalchi Bracciano
Basilica of San Clemente
Palazzo Farnese Caprarola

Grand Marble Staircase at Palazzo Farnese

Venice vs. The Venetian

Several years ago we went to see The Venetian hotel in Las Vegas while on a weekend trip with our family.  After walking next to the "canals" fronted by high-end mall stores, we found ourselves in a large expanse which identified itself with a sign: St. Mark's Square.  Someone within earshot was heard to ask, "I wonder if St. Mark's Square in the real Venice is as big as this?" Recently, a friend of mine reported back to me regarding his trip to Italy that three nights in Venice was one too many; "it's kinda like Catalina - you've seen the whole thing in a day or two, then you keep walking by the same stuff."

These comments do not anger or frustrate me, nor do they provoke me into an argument - I'm not interested in explaining the wonder that is  Venice to those who have no ears to hear. I prefer that everyone stay home anyway because you see, any time I've had the privilege to visit a major city in Europe in the last few years, I've had to elbow my way through the streets, reserve my admission to the museums, and relinquish the solemnity of the cathedrals to microphoneed tour guides followed by bored, feet-shuffling tourists.

My scientific studies show that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who have an interest, a curiosity to see foreign lands and their people, and those who should never leave the country.  The second group can be further broken into two sub-groups comprised of those smart enough to never leave the country, and those who get no benefit from travel other than bragging rights about where they've been, and we all know people from that last group.  They're the ones who return from a trip with a shopping bag from Harrod's, a "j'aime Paris" bumper sticker, and a plastic apron bearing a likeness of the very naked David by Michelangelo.

The rest of us, those who have been and those who want to go, know the truth: Venice is a magical place.  It is full of wonders crammed into the most unlikely spaces on meandering little streets surrounded by water and connected by footbridges; it is a marvel of engineering and architecture and unsurpassed in its grace and beauty.  Don't ask me if the canals smell of stagnant water because I was so awestruck by their magnificence that I could barely breathe. Don't ask me where I went  because I found it impossible to retrace my steps, often finding myself happily lost in the maze of dark streets and medieval gallerias.  I've been to many a look-out point in my life: the Eiffel Tower, the dome of St. Peter's, the Empire State Building, but the sight of Venice from the bell tower in Piazza San Marco is like no other - devoid of modern buildings and automobiles, the view has scarcely changed over the centuries.

In my next life I'll spend the spring months of the year in an old palazzo on the Grand Canal and I'll haunt the museums and churches, of course getting there early before the tourists arrive, and I'll never have to go to the same place twice.  If you promise to love Venice as much as I do, you can come too.  Otherwise, I recommend saving yourself the trip and going to the The Venetian in Vegas where the canals smell of chlorine.

Link to: St Mark's Square Venice

Morning Rituals or Random Thoughts While Cleaning the Marble Counters

When I open the store in the morning I go through my  rituals, almost always in the same order (make coffee first, but wait until my chores are done before pouring any) and with a spirit filled with hope for a prosperous day. As we perform our perfunctory duties on a daily basis we tend to play the same tape through our minds at certain points in the process, and as I spray watered-down Murphy's Oil on the Rosso Verona countertop, I am brought back to my days as a student in Rome when, on my morning walk to school,  I would watch the shopkeepers on the Via del Corso as they prepared to open their stores.

Dressed in smocks to protect their stylishly understated clothes, the shopgirls dutifully vacuumed and mopped, the windows were polished.  No Roman would rely on a public service department to maintain the streets and sidewalks, so these were swept with old, straw witch-brooms and scrubbed with soapy water and a brush. Only then could the shopgirls make a quick dash to the bar for their final cappuccino of the morning where they competed for bar space with the businessmen in their summer gabardine suits, they too squeezing in what was probably their second or third espresso before surrendering to the monotony of the office. 

I would walk by and observe them all, never having the courage to enter a bar alone, afraid that my face, my clothes, my lack of Roman attitude would give me away as not One Of Them.  I remember a particular store on the Via di Propaganda before I would turn down Via della Mercede to get to the Dante Alighieri Italian School for Foreigners in Piazza di Firenze.  It was a showroom for Brunschwig & Fils, and had one club chair in the middle of a shiny Black Absolute granite floor, and I often wished that I could be the shopgirl there, watching the world go by while waiting for someone to come in and buy that one chair.

Now, these many years later, I'm happy to polish the countertops and mop the travertine floors at our store; to begin a day so simply gives me the chance to clear my head for the many tasks ahead as well as a sense of accomplishment in having cleansed  our space of the previous day's events.  As I lose myself in the welcome mindlessness of cleaning, sometimes I even pretend I'm working at Brunschwig & Fils.

Link to:Dante Alighieri School of Italian Language
Brunschwig & Fils

The Elegance of White Marble

Any home magazine published this year is certain to feature an article or advertisement with photos of a kitchen or bathroom with white marble.  White is the new black, and the popularity of White Carrara, Statuary, and Calacata marbles is showing no signs of waning.

On a recent episode of "Selling New York" on HGTV, one of the selling points of a multi-million dollar apartment in Manhattan was the "Calcutta" marble bathroom.  (If they want to call it Calcutta, it's fine with me; just keep asking for it.)  Many of the apartments featured in the show boast of recent professional remodels, and it's no surprise that the NYC designers choose white marble kitchens and bathrooms to add elegance and value to the properties.

My favorite TV Italian chef has a Calacata kitchen island in her home from which her show is shot, which is not surprising since Italian households have had White Carrara or Statuary marble kitchen tables since the invention of cappuccino and biscotti.  I could cry when I think of what became of my Roman mother-in-law's White Carrara worktable where she used to hand-roll her pasta and share espressos and cigarettes with her sisters - after she passed away, her daughter Liliana remodeled the house and got rid of all of the traditional Italian furnishings and gadgets. (I grabbed a few post-WWII tea towels and trattoria ashtrays, thankfully.)  Having grown up with that aged and worn marble-topped pine table, Liliana couldn't appreciate its value and threw it away.  I'm not sure if she would make the same choice today - Italians are finally experiencing a resurgence of "vintage", and it's about time they showed some appreciation for their abundant resources, although that puts me at a disadvantage next time I try to haggle at Porta Portese.

White marble is elegant, classic, and timeless.  A White Carrara bathroom at home is akin to having a spa experience everyday.  A Calacata kitchen island is a work of art.  It takes courage for those of us who actually use our kitchen counters to allow the marble to wear and age, but my mother-in-law and her generation would have never fussed over a few nicks and scratches.  They were too busy rolling out the pasta.