Friday Frivolity no. 7: Memories of Rome
On seeking Rome in Rome // Bernini and Fellini // Romanes Eunt Domus
This is an installment in the section Friday Frivolity. Every Friday, you’ll get a short essay, plus a moodboard, 3 things I’m currently in love with, words of wisdom from what I’ve been reading lately, a little shimmer of poetry, a “beauty tip,” and a question to spark thought.
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Memories of Rome
It was around this time of year six years ago that I went to Rome for a month to study abroad. It was not my first time in Rome, but it was my first time traveling alone—the first time, indeed, that I had ever taken a plane by myself. A person alone can wander, two—lovers or friends—can wander, but three or more cannot wander, unless it is night, or they are drunk, or probably both.
Among the great cities of the world, Rome must be one of the best for wandering. New York, with its grid, is boring, L.A. is far too sprawling, Paris has something of a stiffness, and in Tokyo, they say, it simply can’t be done.1 Rome, however, blissfully accommodates the pedestrian who knows not where he goes—indeed, unlocks the secret compartments of her treasure-box for him alone, for the stones of these cobbled streets have been worn down the centuries through by many such predecessors, and will be in the centuries to come by many such successors.
Moreover, it is a city built up in layers, like a cake: below street level, the aging relics of an ancient glory grow whiskered with grass; on top of them, the Middle Ages and the Renaissance rub elbows, sometimes jostling, sometimes placidly content to be companions; the specter of the 19th century resurrects itself over the city in the white marble of Il Vittoriano, which Romans derisively call “The Wedding Cake” or “The Typewriter”; and the contemporary whizzes by on bikes, in cars, by subway, and by bus, blinks in neon, and evinces itself most of all in the people—tourists, inhabitants, and everyone else—who are, after all, what continues to impel this city forward from century to century.
At this vantage point, with all that has changed in my life and in the world, that summer six years ago feels very far away, and the window of memory grows misty. Vignettes rise up, pictures, snatches of conversation, scenes that seem to come from half-remembered dreams, all like fragments of some unearthed pottery, or like the frescoes from Fellini’s Roma, whose bright colors fade as soon as they make contact with the open air. Nevertheless, if fragments are all that remain of Rome’s ancient grandeur, I must content myself with the fragments of my Rome.
Our apartment was located close to the Pantheon, on a narrow lane by a restaurant that always had two or three rickety tables set out. Down the street was a gelato shop that served you not one, not two, but three (!) heaping scoops, and the selection of flavors was seemingly endless. Gelato, in that month, became not a treat but a daily necessity. Nearby was a little grocery store, and it was there that I stocked up on a particular chocolate-covered strawberry jelly-filled biscuit, on olive oil, on basil and mozzarella and the most flavorful tomatoes my American tastebuds had ever experienced for the Caprese salad we used to often make.
The apartment itself was quaint, cozy, and simple. As in many European apartments, the washer and dryer were in the kitchen, a novelty to me. I shared a bedroom with a girl from our writing class; the view looked out onto a kind of courtyard where families hung their laundry, and on weekend mornings, along with the sunlight and the breeze, the window used to let in an exuberant stream of Italian declaimed in a male voice. The students who had occupied the apartment before us left vast quantities of rice there. One night, when we had nothing to eat, I cobbled together for us a meal of this rice with a sort of homemade ghee. It was not the best meal I had ever eaten, nor the most Italian, but sometimes the poetry of taste must suffer for the sake of prosaic survival.
Classes took place in an old palazzo in the Piazza Benedetto Cairoli. There was always lots of sunlight, and if I had often thought that a beautiful environment stimulated creativity, it was there that the thesis was proved. Rumor had it that a countess owned the palazzo and inhabited the floor below us. I saw her once on a terrace, wearing a dressing gown and smoking a cigarette. Across the piazza was the church of San Carlo ai Catinari, beautifully baroque in pale travertine, with flocks of pigeons streaming to and fro. Sometimes we would sit on the steps, idly conversing, watching the crowds. We would often go to a café in the piazza for lunch or for juice after class, and we made friends with a waiter there named Fabiano, who added us on Facebook.
Between classes and schoolwork, we got in as much exploring as we could. Our first expedition was to a park with a view of the Circus Maximus, with lots of rocks and fountains and statues. The writing students scribbled; the art students sketched; all witnessed a miniature drama unfold before our eyes. A couple had gotten into an argument. Visibly they fought, the woman heated, the man in consternation. The woman stormed off in a huff. The man paused for a moment, looked around, closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaled, and then decided it was in his best interest to follow her. She led without looking at him. We wondered if they would make up. We were not left wondering long. About an hour later, we saw them at the municipal rose garden taking a picture together in a heart-shaped arch wreathed all over with roses “damask, red, and white”; the man kissed the woman on the cheek, she beamed, and they walked off arm-in-arm into the orange garden.
Other fragments: meeting up with a college friend at the Trevi Fountain by night, where the water and marble were lit up with a glow almost ghostlike; walks down by the Tiber, above which the beautiful trees used to stretch their green splendor in a way I have never forgotten; standing under the awning of a building on some narrow street as a sudden rain poured down, making the cobblestones slick and dark, the tourists running, a businessman putting his briefcase over his head.
One Saturday, I got it into my head to venture out to the Via Appia by myself. In the Piazza Venezia, I boarded a red bus, which—glory be to God—took me to the right place: the Catacombs of San Sebastiano. I was just in time for a tour. I joined a group made up of families, and we descended into these stony, airless chambers to be regaled with tales of martyrdom and theft. Emerging from darkness, I wanted to collect my thoughts, sat on a bench, and was soon accosted by a group of Spanish high schoolers. From there, I walked on, passing the Circus of Maxentius, the Tomb of Caecilia Metella, the Villa of the Quintilii. The sun was searing and relentless. Cars ceased, the road became more rural, and I began to see Romans biking and strolling. Little side streets emerged, offering peeks of houses; I wondered if I had walked so far I had reached the suburbs. I don’t know how I made the walk back to the bus stop. I have never been more relieved in my life than when that red bus finally showed up.
On our last night, we went to the little island on the Tiber River, where there was a hospital, a little church, and a restaurant where I had the most delicious spinach ravioli, and where the menu described the fish as “fresh (knocked out).” From there we went to Trastevere and sat on the steps of a church; a convivial crowd had gathered, and we listened to musicians sing and accompany themselves on the guitar. Behind us we heard some people talking and surmised that they were students; somehow, we came to introduce ourselves to two of them, a man from Florida and a man from Dublin.
There must have been a spirit of adventure in the air. We took them to a bar we had been to twice, where for €1 you could get the so-called “porno shot,” really a rather pleasant chocolate-flavored decoction. From there, we crossed the bridge, certain that because we were with an Irishman, it was absolutely the right night to check out an Irish pub we had often passed by. On the way, we pointed out the ruins of where Caesar had been stabbed, now turned into a cat sanctuary. The Floridian taught the Irishman to make the drink known as an Irish car bomb. Around 2 or 3 in the morning, the streets became suddenly deserted. The Colosseum loomed large, empty, and illuminated, stranger and more profound. It was like catching a glimpse of the former glamour of a faded actress who in her younger days had held audiences the world over in thrall.
We came to the Piazza di Spagna, where a girl was having a photoshoot in a dress that looked like a pastry. We sat on the steps, murmuring in low voices; the girl and her photographers seemed to have vanished like a vague dream. Tired of sitting, we ascended the Spanish Steps and found ourselves at the entrance of the gardens of the Villa Borghese. Although it must have been 4 in the morning—it was still dark—a security guard was there, who let us pass. In the gardens, I met my favorite Romans: Cicero, Virgil, Ovid—in bust form. We sat down in the middle of a road—nobody was there—and watched the sun rise over the city, washing it in gold and amber. I think two among our group fell in love with each other. That was no surprise, though. In a place of such eternal poetry, anything is possible.
Moodboard of the Week
(from top to bottom, left to right)
Photograph of the Via Appia: The Via Appia, or Appian Way, was one of the most important roads in Ancient Rome, connecting the city all the way to Brindisi in southern Italy. It would be a fun experiment to attempt to walk the whole thing!
Mariacarla Boscono by Nadine Ijewere for Modern Weekly China, September 2019: I love how Boscono’s feathery, sparkly, bright pink dress contrasts with the ancient ruins of the Roman Forum. Rome is the iconic model’s hometown, and in this video for British Vogue from 2019, she takes you on a lovely tour.
Pierre-Athanase Chauvin, View of the Gardens of the Villa d’Este, Tivoli (1811): I love the colors of this painting and the way it captures the beauty of the Villa d’Este's gardens. The Villa d’Este was built in Tivoli, a town 30 kilometers northeast of Rome, in the 16th century at the behest of Cardinal Ippolito II d’Este, of the powerful Este family of Ferrara. d’Este was one of the richest cardinals of his time and a well-known patron of the arts. He was awarded the position of the Governor of Tivoli; since ancient times, Tivoli had been a popular summer spot and was the location of the Villa Hadriana, the summer residence of the Emperor Hadrian. Much of the marble and statuary from the ruins of the Villa Hadriana were taken by d’Este to be repurposed for his own villa, which he wanted to rival any of the grand villas of the classical era. What makes the Villa d’Este special is not only its spectacular gardens but also its extraordinary use of water: it has 51 fountains and nymphaeums, 398 spouts, 364 water jets, 64 waterfalls, and 220 basins, for which the Aniene River was diverted.2 All of these operate solely by the force of gravity—a marvel of engineering, making use of some of the very first hydraulic automata. Listen to the water organ here.
aerial view of the Villa d’Este, by Karelj. Via Wikimedia Commons. The Colosseum at night, from Roma (1972): Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita (1960), with its famous scene of Anita Ekberg and Marcello Mastroianni in the Trevi Fountain, captures Rome wonderfully in black-and-white, but I must say—for a meditation on the city and a whimsical wandering through its streets and lanes and history and people—I prefer the full-color Roma. Even though I haven’t watched it in a while, I always remember the hilarity of the liturgical fashion show, the sad poetry of newly discovered ancient frescos fading as they hit the open air, and the poignant ending, which features that icon of Italian neorealism, Anna Magnani, months before her death.
Vatican fashion show from Fellini’s Roma Gian Lorenzo Bernini, The Rape of Proserpina (1621-22): This sculpture, located in the Galleria Borghese, depicts the abduction of the goddess of spring, Persephone (or, by her Roman name, Prosperpina), by the god of the underworld, Hades (Pluto). It’s astonishing to see the level of lifelike detail up close: Pluto’s powerful musculature contrasting with Proserpina’s fear and anguish; the flesh of Proserpina’s waist and thigh yielding to Pluto’s forceful fingers. What’s even more astonishing is that Bernini was only 23 when this was completed! The Galleria Borghese also contains his sculpture of Apollo and Daphne, based on another tale from Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
Bernini, The Rape of Proserpina (1621-22). Via Columbia University. A picture I took while crossing the Tiber to Trastevere: This is the picture that inspired me to write this post in the first place. I was going through some old pictures when I saw it, posted it on Substack Notes, and then decided I wanted to try to recapture some of my other Roman memories as well.
Toni Servillo as Jep Gambardella in The Great Beauty (2013): This movie, directed by Paolo Sorrentino, has so much stunning cinematography and captures the poetic beauty of Rome’s juxtaposition of ancient and modern so well. It features an aging writer who has come to a sort of existential crisis in his life, and all the while the city accompanies him, a faithful and magical companion.
Jep Gambardella in La grande bellezza (2013) The view from my school’s building in Rome: The back of our building overlooked a little park, and I used to love sitting there and people-watching. There were always so many birds—and babies!
Keats–Shelley Memorial House, photographed for Condé Nast Traveler: The Keats-Shelley House is located right by the Spanish Steps, and it was where the poet John Keats, suffering from tuberculosis, came to spend the final months of his life when his doctors urged him that going to a warmer climate might improve his health. It did not improve, and Keats died at the age of 25 in February 1821. In accordance with Roman law of the time, the walls were scraped and all items in Keats’ bedroom were burned. In 1903, the American poet Robert Underwood Johnson undertook an effort to purchase this house, and it was dedicated to the Keats–Shelley Memorial Association in 1906. It contains manuscripts from both Romantic poets, as well as several other contemporaries, locks of their hair, a library with over 8,000 words of Romantic literature, Keats' death mask, and a very cute little gift shop.
Keats’ deathbed, photographed by Enrica Vinciguerra. Via Himetop. 3 Things I’m in Love With This Week
Rome Edition
Caro diario (1993): This wonderful film, written and directed by Nanni Moretti, who also stars as himself, is so full of fun and delight and humor. It’s divided into three parts, and the first part takes place in Rome, where Moretti rides his Vespa through the city, musing on the city's organization, the summer influx of horror movies, and film criticism. A great movie when you want something lighthearted but still meaningful and beautiful.
Caro diario (1993) “Teach Yourself Italian” by Jhumpa Lahiri in the December 7, 2015 issue of The New Yorker: I remember reading this essay when it first came out and finding it so interesting that Lahiri was willing to take the risk to switch from writing and living in English to writing and living in Italian. From my experiences with translation, I know that trying to think in another language unlocks so much untapped creativity and shapes your patterns of thought in ways you would never expect, but I could never imagine totally giving up English! Lahiri describes moving to Rome, her first few months there, and the everyday trials and tribulations that inhabiting a new language entails. The spareness of her prose as translated from Italian is really lovely.
“Romanes Eunt Domus”: From Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979), a bit of hilarity for anyone who has studied (or been forced to study) the Latin language. John Cleese taught Latin for a couple of years, and he definitely put it to good use here!
Words of Wisdom
I determined to make the best of whatever situation I was in; during my years of dependence my subjection lost its portion of bitterness, and even ignominy, if I learned to accept it as a useful exercise. Whatever I had I chose to have, obliging myself only to possess it totally, and to taste the experience to the full. Thus the most dreary tasks were accomplished with ease as long as I was willing to give myself to them. Whenever an object repelled me, I made it a subject of study, ingeniously compelling myself to extract from it a motive for enjoyment.
— Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian
I started reading Memoirs of Hadrian this week after spotting it in a bookstore and still have yet to finish it, but I fell in love a mere few pages in. In the novel, the Roman emperor Hadrian, the third of the “Five Good Emperors,” following Trajan, writes a letter near the end of his life to his successor, Marcus Aurelius, recounting his life, imparting his wisdom, and ruminating over his decisions and experiences. I’m amazed by how well Yourcenar manages to get inside the head of this historical figure and recreate his world. This book was published in 1951, but its style is closer to that of Juvenal and Tacitus; Yourcenar herself described most historical novels as “merely a more or less successful costume ball,” but here you get a real sense of having a through line from this fictional autobiography to the very real Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. A beautifully meditative book—exactly the antidote to our harried, distracted times.
Poetry Corner
Rome
O thou new comer who seek’st Rome in Rome And find’st in Rome no thing thou canst call Roman; Arches worn old and palaces made common, Rome’s name alone within these walls keeps home. Behold how pride and ruin can befall One who hath set the whole world ’neath her laws, All-conquering, now conquerèd, because She is Time’s prey and Time consumeth all. Rome that art Rome’s one sole last monument, Rome that alone hast conquered Rome the town, Tiber alone, transient and seaward bent, Remains of Rome. O world, thou unconstant mime! That which stands firm in thee Time batters down, And that which fleeteth doth outrun swift time.
—Joachim du Bellay, from Les Antiquitez de Rome, translated by Ezra Pound
At the end of our course, one of the MFA students/instructors gifted all of us with a copy of Poems of Rome, a beautiful volume from the Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets series. Reading through it always brings back my fond memories from the study abroad program. It begins with this poem, my very favorite Rome poem, by Joachim du Bellay, a 16th century French poet who was part of La Pléiade, a literary circle led by Pierre de Ronsard. The book gives several translations, from literary heavyweights like Robert Lowell, Seamus Heaney, Edmund Spenser, and Yvor Winters, but this translation by Ezra Pound is, I think, the best among them and captures beautifully the dichotomy between the idealized Ancient Rome that travelers go looking for and the actual city of Rome as it exists when they find it.
Beauty Tip
Add a piece of history to your living space to give it layers!
I recently bought this beautiful old rocking chair in Cape Cod last weekend, put it in my room, and it has since impelled a migration from my beloved bed.
Lingering Question
How can you “extract… a motive for enjoyment” from something you’ve been dreading to do in the upcoming week?
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This is my first time doing an entire Friday Frivolity post dedicated to just one theme! Please let me know what you thought by dropping a comment, give this post a like if you enjoyed, and subscribe to Soul-Making for more!
From the Archives
The last is according to Flâneuse: Women Walk the City in Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice and London by Lauren Elkin.
I've been twice but I've never meandered the way you did - I love how you painted the scene
I also like your lingering question - How can you “extract… a motive for enjoyment” from something you’ve been dreading to do in the upcoming week? - I guess just jump in :-(; be a dare devil.