There Must be Something in the Wine

October 30, 2009

Is it something in the air? The water? The wine? Or, is it simply life in Roma. Everywhere I go, I find couples in passionate embrace.

The first sighting: on the Tiber river. As I crossed one of the stone arched bridges, I stopped to look over the parapet for my first view of the river. There, on the promenade beside the river stood a couple langorously embracing and sharing a very long kiss. This kiss lasted long enough for me to be able to take four shots with my slow digital camera.

Then today, while waiting for the light to change to cross a very busy boulevard, a couple on the opposite corner took the opportunity to sneak a kiss. Well, actually, it was not sneaky at all. They brazenly wrapped their arms around each other, closed their eyes, and kissed each other, long and hard.

The coup de grace was the kiss in Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. What? In Saint Peter’s for goodness sake? Yes. For goodness sake, while larger-than-life statues of saints and popes looked on, a couple stopped, faced each other, mutually hugged, and kissed for a full five seconds. Lightning did not strike, and the other 500 pilgrims in the sanctuary were too distracted by the grandeur of the basilica to notice another couple kissing.

There must be something in the wine.

Giovedi Gnocchi

Yesterday at lunch, we stopped in Trattoria de Lareto, and were greeted by Loreto himself. He does not speak English, but with a menu, we are able to communicate well. We order the antipasto dish, expecting an American antipasto plate: some olives, a pepper, a few slices of salami. Our antipasti arrived and we were pleasantly surprised to find a selection of sliced, grilled vegetables: zucchini, eggplant, greet ad red peppers. Delicious!

Donald has been on a twenty-year search for his grandmother’s gnocchi – il Gnocchi di Nonna we call them. Gnocchi are small potato dumplings, about the size and shape of the last joint of your little finger. They are served with some kind of Italian sauce – usually a tomato sauce. It is not the sauce that is important to Donald, but the gnocchi themselves. When he finds gnocchi in a restaurant, he will often order them. Therefore, he is an expert in the gnocchi. He likes them light and fluffy.

Driving into Rome from the airport on Monday, the subject of gnocchi came up. The driver says, “oh, we have gnocchi on Thursday: Giovedi gnocchi (“Thursday” gnocchi). We think, what is this? Like doing laundry on Monday? We have Gnocchi on Thursday? We decided to see what happened on Thursday.

We enjoyed our lunch at Trattoria de Lareto. Business cards were on the tables, and we noticed that they claimed to serve gnocchi, but there were no gnocchi on the menu. I call over the waiter – When can we eat gnocchi? I ask. He thinks a bit. “Domani”, he says. Tomorrow!. Giovedi gnocchi? I ask. Yes, Giovedi gnocchi.

The driver had not invented the idea of giovedi gnocchi. Apparently Thursday is gnocchi day

Today was Thursday. We took a break from our travels around town this afternoon and went back to Lorento’s for giovedi gnocchi. Mmm Mmm . Donald reported that, no, they were different from Nonni’s Gnocchi, but they were, and I quote, “really good”.

Campo de' Fiori

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

The sun shines brightly, warming the cobblestones in the streets, as I walk to the Campo de' Fiori to pick up some fresh fruits and vegetables. I walk down the street and through the Piazza Farnese, with its two matching fountains to the open air market. This short trip takes me close to 15 minutes, because I stop every ten steps or so to take photos of buildings, doors, grillwork.

Campo de' Fiori originated as a flower market. Maintaining the tradition, several flower vendors set up on the north side of the piazza, and stay open until after dark. In the morning, the rest of the plaza fills with vendors, mostly with fruits and vegetables, along with some clothing, jewelry, kitchen pots and dishes. Strings of chiles and garlic hang from some of the tent covers. A wagon sits at one end of the market, filled with huge pumpkins in shades of rust and orange.

Each stand has bins filled with greens. Some of the smaller bunches of lettuce are carefully placed upright in wooden bins, making pleasing patterns with their various greenery. There is lettuce, chicory, rocket (also known as arugula in the U.S), basil, spinach, all very, very fresh and inviting. The Italian grapes are large and plump, almost the size of plums. There are plums, peaches, and of course apples, pears and persimmons, since fall has arrived.

Some vendors have baskets of finely chopped vegetables: “Minestrone”, the sign says , for making a quick soup. One has more exotic cherimoya, taro root, some other items I cannot identify. In one corner of the plaza, I find a cart with seafood chilling on crushed ice, a table of cheeses (with parmagiana reggiano predominant), and more tables with pasta, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, sausages, jars of honey, bins of spices.

At noon, the market will begin to close, and by 2:00, most of the vendors will be gone except for the flower stalls which will stay until after dark.

I leave the Campo de' Fiori with tiny French green beans, a bunch of arugula, a few handfuls of mixed greens, and a bag of Italian grapes. As a last-minute impulse, I stop and buy a bunch of sunflowers for a special treat.

On the Street Where We Live

Our apartment is on the Via Guilia, just one short block from the Tiber River that winds its way through Rome. The Vatican is just across the river from us, as is the Castel Sant’Angelo. Via Giulia was built by Pope Julian II as a thoroughfare to the Vatican. At that time, it was pedestrian free – for coaches only. The street is narrow, allowing SMART cars and scooters to park on either side, with barely enough room for one car to pass through. For that reason, it Is one way. Also, because there are no sidewalks, pedestrians wander down the middle of the street, stepping aside if a car comes nosing its way through. We walk on Roman cobblestones – three inch volcanic bricks.

Yesterday, I discovered that we are on a bus route. Bus 116, which runs all over old Rome comes down our street about every 20 minutes. I had read in a guidebook that the buses run about every 15 to 20 minutes all over Rome. I first realized we were on a bus route when I saw the “Fermata” sign for Route 116 designating a bus stop. While leaning out my window spying on neighborhood activity, I finally saw my first bus. I had not heard buses going by, because they are electric, and noiseless. Later in the day, while out walking, I encountered several #166 buses and clocked them at 15 to 20 minutes apart. Aha! The guidebook was right. They are tiny buses – maybe 12 people can sit on seats lining the walls of the bus, maybe another 12 can stand in the middle.

As we walked toward the Palazzo Farnese our first day here, hoards of young people dressed in black – apparently not a statement here, as everyone is wearing their black winter wardrobe – swarmed down the length of Via Giulia. Traffic became quite hectic for a few minutes as cars struggled down the street, and we walked against the tide of young people. Yesterday, at about 1:00PM, we heard a ruckus outside, and, looking down from our 5th story windows, we saw the crowd of teenagers surging down the street again. Ah! School lets out at 1:00PM.

As an aside, I sat next to an Italian gentleman on the flight from New York, an English professor at the University of Calabria. We were discussing Italian universities, American universities, similarities and differences. I asked, “Do Italian universities have a foreign language requirement?” He said, well, some majors require specific languages. I clarified: in U.S. schools, many universities require one or two years of a foreign language. He shrugged. This is a high school requirement in Italy – students must be proficient in a second language. Most choose English, but, he remarked, it is so critical to be able to communicate in a second language. I agree.

More about our neighborhood

We are surrounded by churches: Saint Catherine of Siena is a block down the street; Santa Maria della Morte, where we notice skulls decorating the façade among the usual cherubs and scrollwork; the church across the street seems to be Holy Mary of the Suffering – it is hard to tell, but carved stone letters say Beatae Maria Sufragii above the door – we can see two bells on our side of the building, but they do not seem to ring. There are at least 2 more churches within two blocks of us. Throughout the day we hear bells ring, at some length at 6:00 and 6:30. (More later about this, as I plan to look up the system of bell-ringing for various masses).

Our Apartment

From the street-level front door – green with a decorative brass knob right in the middle - we climb 65 marble steps to our 5th floor apartment. A circular staircase within the apartment takes us to a rooftop patio, with views of six local churches, and by peering off to the west, we can just see the top of Saint Peter’s Basilica. We have bright, sunny days, with very moderate temperatures. Just a week ago, there were several days of thunderstorms, and now everyone is wearing jackets, even though jackets aren’t needed this week.

We have four windows looking out over the street. We hear interesting sounds, or conversations, and run to the window to see what is going on in the neighborhood. This morning an odd rattling sound caught my attention, and I watched two men rolling an upright grand piano down the cobblestone street. As a garbage truck approached, they veered the piano between two SMART cars, to let the garbage truck pass. They veered off the street several times, for cars, for the bus. I watched them push the piano up the street another block, where they turned left up the Via di Bresciani. We are so easily entertained while on vacation.

Day 1: Travel

Today I felt like I had won the lottery. On a flight from San Francisco to New York, from sea to shining sea, as the pilot phrased it, I won the lottery of the air: a seat on the aisle with no one sitting next to me. Further, I was the only passenger on the 757 jet who won the lottery of the air.

I immediately flipped up the armrest next to me, let myself spread out just a little bit, and fell asleep.

The flight departed from San Francisco International at 6:00AM on Sunday morning. When I reserved the flight, I thought, “we are going to be flying all day anyway, so what does it matter what time we leave?” Well, it matters when you start figuring out what time to get up in the morning.

Some math: We have to arrive 2 hours early for an international trip – our ultimate destination was
Rome. Then there’s the shuttle . early Sunday morning, it’s about a 45 minute drive to the airport from our doorstep. I need about 45 minutes to fret over last-minute organization, getting dressed and all that, and getting the house shut tight. I set my alarm for 2:30AM. I considered not going to bed at all. I am a late bird, with a usual bedtime between 11:00PM and midnight.

Which leads to the question: which is more painful? Trying to wake up and function after 3 hours of sleep? Or, staying awake all night? Answer: I am too old to stay up all night anymore. I appreciate whatever sleep I can enjoy. And I truly enjoy sleeping. It is one of my favorite activities.

When the aircraft staff announced that they had closed the door and we were about to take off, and I looked at the center seat in my row, I sat up tall and looked down the rows of seats. It was a full flight. I had watched the gate attendants cut off standby, sending disappointed students down the terminal to search for other flights. When I realized that I had truly won the lottery of the air, I stifled a jubilant whoop, took a deep breath, expanding my shoulders over the invisible line separating the seats, slammed the armrest upright, closed my eyes and fell asleep.

Just for the record: before sleeping, I leaned across the aisle to my husband and asked, "Would you like to trade seats?" And, thank God, he said "No."

Preparation for Travel

This is how I know when I am emotionally ready to take a trip: I start packing my books. "What should I take? How many books? What kind of books? What kind of reading will appeal to me??" 

I have collected a few cheap ( and you know, when I say 'cheap', I mean cheap) paperbacks that I can discard after reading. Often at the last minute, I start swapping books in and out of my bags. This one. No, this one. 

Second, I begin thinking about handwork. I always take something to work on: knitting, crocheting, sewing, embroidery, something. If it is a car trip, I often bring knitting because I can knit as a passenger and it doesn't make me throw up. All other activities make me carsick. This time, I think I will bring 4-inch squares for a quilt. Tea Leaves, it is called. (see photo)  

Third, I worry about what clothes to bring. Donald told me that I was required to replace that green fleece jacket that I wear all the time. I know that I wore it all over Florence a year and a half ago. I think I wore it in Alaska five years ago. I have no idea how old it is, but he says it is beginning to show its age and it's embarrassing to be seen with me wearing it. So. I ordered a new jacket - two, actually, because I wasn't sure which size. Neither fit correctly - one was too small, the next size up was too large. Oh well. I packed them up and sent them back. 

I bought a jacket at R.E.I., brought it home, wore it around the house for about 20 minutes, and took it back. I just didn't like it. Finally, I took a good look at the old green fleece jacket. I don't see what the problem is. After a lot of fussing, I am taking my favorite jacket.  

The clothes to be packed have been hanging from a hook on my bedroom door for four days. Each night, I look at the weather and swap out one or two items. So far, it has been warm, cold, wet, dry. I will just have to Be Prepared. 

Once we are in transit, we begin to play the "What did we forget?" game. We know that we can plan for weeks, make packing lists over and over, but there is always something important that gets left behind. My goal is to always have passports and flight information at a minimum. Stay tuned: What will we forget this time??

Pea Shoot Soup

I found a recipe for Pea Shoot Broth, which I tried tonight, making substitutions for some ingredients with what I happened to have in my pantry.

Pea Shoot Broth

Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large pot. When warm, add 1 small chopped onion and cook for 2 minutes, stirring. Then add 1 diced celery branch, and continue to cook for 3 minutes. Then add pea shoots (about 6 oz), and cook, stirring, for 3 minutes more. Then pour 6 cups cold water, and grind black pepper liberally into the broth.

Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer for 10 to 15 minutes. Stop the heat and add a few leaves of Cilantro (I confess the original recipe called for Parsley, but I never seem to have any at hand) and let infuse for 10 minutes. Strain the broth through a colander into a large bowl.

= = =

It smelled so wonderful, that I immediately made a soup. I have a lot of pea greens from the CSA, and the latest batch had quite a few miniature pea pods attached, so... Pea Soup !!

Pea Shoot Soup

Heat 1 tsp olive oil in a 3 quart pot. When warm, add 1/2 cup diced celery and 1/2 cup baby pea pods. Saute until the celery begins to brighten. Pour 3 cups of pea shoot broth into the pot, bring to a simmer. Simmer the vegetables for about 5 minutes. At the last minute, add 1 small diced tomato, 2 ozs diced tofu (or small beef or chicken slices might be nice). Simmer for another minute or two, add 1/4 tsp Chinese five spice for a little additional flavor.

Makes two medium-size bowls of delicious soup. Mmmm Mmmm

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If I were to do this again, I might try grated ginger, cinnamon and cardamom simmered with the vegetables in place of the five spice.

More about Pea Shoots: http://www.peashoots.com/