Obelisks, Gelato and Catholics: Un viaggio a Roma

We’d never seen so many men without pants. Or shorts. It wasn’t what we’d expected of twenty-first century Romans, but, being our first trip to the Eternal City, we were open to anything. After our first dozen or so sightings, though, it became ever more apparent that these were not, in fact, locals. By our second day we had learned that they were Scots in town for the big Six Nations Italy-Scotland rugby match, which ended up being played before a 75,000 strong crowd, a great percentage of whom wore kilts (and, despite Lauren’s curiosity on the subject, we never did find out if it is common practice to forego any other article of clothing underneath the plaid and pleats).

    Lured into a trattoria on our first afternoon in Rome by its proximity to our apartment and our hunger, we probably paid more than we should have but enjoyed a long lunch with two enormous courses. My second featured an eye staring out blankly. Luckily, the gustatory experience proved much more interesting than the fish’s expression. The sea bass, cooked and served whole with roasted potatoes and fresh tomatoes on a bed of lettuce, qualifies among the better fish I’ve had—so tender, moist, and full of flavor. Niko is reliable when it comes to food choices at restaurants and Italy is always ready to give him his favorite dish: la pizza margherita. With the little guy still sick but on the mend and generally not favorable to cities we didn’t know how this little trip south would turn out, but thanks to the full effect of antibiotics finally kicking in, plenty of delicious pizza and gelato and, most importantly, a much-prized stroller lent to us by a British friend of Lauren’s in Lucca, when it came time to return north Niko didn’t want to leave.

    Our home base sat within a block or two of the Pantheon and not too far (a judgment made possible because of aforementioned stroller) from many other tourist sites. Besides making sure we got at least one gelato a day (and happening upon two of the best gelaterias in Rome by pure chance) Ingrid also showed some interest in these heavily touristed historical buildings, piazzas, obelisks and monuments—especially the ones with direct bearing on the gods (as with the Pantheon) in large part due to her reading of Percy Jackson and the Olympians series by Rick Riordan. 

We hadn’t intended to see many of these places given Niko’s dislike of walking and not being sure how quickly he would be rid of the worst of his illness, but we lucked out (thank you Zara, goddess of strollers!) and ended up visiting the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, the Coliseum, Explora (Rome’s Children’s Museum), Villa Borghese (large city park), the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Quirinale neighborhood, the Campo de’ Fiori, Santa Maria Sopra Minerva and Sant’Ignazio churches, Piazza Venezia and the Altare della Patria (or “wedding cake” as some refer to it, a giant monument to unified Italy’s first king, Victor Emmanuel II), and, as if that wasn’t enough (it was for Lauren and Niko), Ingrid and I walked to the Vatican and back to visit St. Peter’s Basilica. Mamma mia, che bella!

            On Sunday we knew our sojourn would be coming to an end and we’d have to be headed back on the Frecciargento in the early afternoon. I journeyed out mid-morning to find gloriously traffic-free streets. It so happened to be the morning of the Maratona di Roma, so I positioned myself below the “wedding cake” for a fine view of the start. 

The hand-cyclers came roaring around the corner first, most practically completely on their backs, arms turning in tandem around and around to propel themselves forward. It was very inspiring to see these athletes making the best of their situation and racing despite difficulties that would make many not even consider competition (and oh, those cobblestones must’ve been rough!). The “able-bodied” marathoners came next, thousands upon thousands, roughly half of whom were foreigners. 

After they passed I was about to head back to the apartment but stuck around when I noticed the organizers hurriedly switching some road blockades and announcing that runners were coming through again. It turns out a 4k fun run started after the marathon. People from six to ninety ran and walked past me with the biggest smiles I’ve seen in a long time, some with their dogs, some with their kids or grandparents, some alone or in groups of friends. Witnessing nearly 100,000 people between both events out exercising on this beautiful spring day put me in a great mood and hopeful for city-dwellers everywhere.

            After some more sightseeing and marathon watching that morning we made our way toward the nearest metro station, some two or three kilometers away. Taxis weren’t running inside the marathon loops so we counted our blessings once more for the passeggino and also for the wheels on our suitcase. Sometimes it’s not your day but others the pizza lands right-side up and thus it was for us when, with time dwindling before our train left the station and the metro car finally showed up—packed so much noses peeked out, funhouse-like faces plastered to the windows—and we shoved our stroller and children into the sweaty mass that when the horn buzzed and the door closed on the handle to our suitcase (which was still out on the platform) Lauren managed to maintain her grip while I pried the doors back open and quickly snatched the valigia back in, we made it to the station in time, and even got an earlier regional train from Firenze back to Lucca since it was running ten minutes late. If I believed in such things, I would have to say that in the great balancing act of chance we were due for such a flip of the pizza.

            Will Ingrid and Niko remember the Pantheon or all of the obelisks we recorded? Or even the hand-made, organic gelato? Something tells me that eventually these memories will fade until they are memories constructed more from photos and their parents’ nth retelling of tales from the trip. But we had a great time and all left with smiles. Right now that’s just what we needed. Whatever they remember or don’t is just fine and, if I had to bet, I’d wager it would be the thousands of men in skirts that ends up sticking. And I’d double my bet had we personally—visually—found out to be true what Lauren suspected the Scots’ underlying sartorial choice did not include. 

A Thanksgiving Communion

For sixteen years, starting at age nineteen, I didn’t eat animals. Cheese? Sure. Eggs? Of course. Fish? Nope. Chicken, Beef, Ham? No, definitely not and no way. Did my sophomore summer preparing fries and spending hours soaking up the smell of sizzling ground-beef patties have anything to do with it? Or was it the ethical quandary surrounding the mass slaughtering of animals to produce the millions and billions of hamburgers my employer sold? Perhaps it was a concern for health—cholesterol, arteries and all of that? How about the ecological and humanitarian costs of putting so many resources and energy into this food source when, if they were instead applied toward producing other non-animal foods could provide nutrition for ten times as many people and seemingly solve many food crises? When I didn’t want to make my meal companions too uncomfortable or felt like giving them a little surprise while I got on with my salad or meatless casserole I would answer their queries questioning my vegetarianism with this statement: ‘I just don’t like the taste’. Truth be told, that was a lie, and my reasons did include some of the typical environmental, health and moral reasons many vegetarians give, but it was fun to say and entertaining to see the shock register on the meat-lovers' faces.

            Then one summer in the middle of triathlon season a few years ago I felt like I needed something more in my diet, tried elk stir-fry from a local farmers market, a week later visited a former student on his dairy farm where we received a few pounds of fresh ground meat and then grilled it up back home. My first burger in sixteen years. In theory it shared similar origins with the burgers I’d worked with years earlier, but somehow (the fact that the meat came from one cow and not dozens, one cow whose diet was mostly grass, and one who was not packed in with others all of her life may have had something to do with it) this one was so much better. There was no turning back. And no, I didn’t get sick.

            In Italy the opportunities to eat meat abound. Since I’ve been eating meat for several years now the dietary transition moving over here definitely wasn’t as difficult as it could’ve been (I did come across mention of a society for vegetarians in Italy but don’t think their numbers will threaten to put any meat growers out of business in the next century or two). I can’t believe I’d lived all of those years without prosciutto! And the steak I had the other night, cooked (slightly), sliced in quarter inch strips and topped with fresh-pressed olive oil, arugula and shaved parmesan! So satisfying on a primal level, and pretty darn tasty, too.           

          

          I have trouble imagining consuming octopi, organs, veal, heads and eyeballs, although I do admit to eating rabbit. Once. The second time I saw a rabbit here it was missing only its fur and skin. Pink, shiny, and stretched out on its side behind the glass display, this bunny was not hopping anywhere. It was Monday and I’d gone to the local butcher’s shop to look for a bird we’d be needing soon. The rabbit’s eye met mine.

            When I was a vegetarian I used to think that if I were to eat meat ever again I should be prepared to slaughter the animal myself. Were I starving and looking for meat for survival I don’t doubt my capability to do so, but in this first-world corner of the planet I am fortunate enough to inhabit the thought of doing so still slightly sickens me. Nevertheless, even now as a meat eater I think it couldn’t hurt for everyone back in the States who eats meat to, if not slaughter once themselves, at least see the process done, or maybe visit one of the butcher’s shops like those over here where everything is so much more…alive, or recently alive anyway. Where it is obvious what part of the body that chunk of meat is, or which animal it is, that it is an animal. Call it a reality check.

            Anyway, I felt reminded that what I was looking for was also an animal, and that it would be killed and prepared for my family and me. They didn’t have it, but after a minute on the phone my butcher said it was all set. Without taking my name or phone number, he simply told me to come back in two or three days. When I returned Thursday he went in the back room while my mind conjured up various versions of what this 6-7 kg bird might look like. Would some feathers still be in? Head (eyes)? Claws? But no, there were no obvious parts left on that we wouldn’t see back home, and in fact its innards had also been handily scooped out for us. Was this because the butcher knew what I, as an American would expect? Or was it just typical for this bird (and I’ve seen little hens—entire little hens—shrink-wrapped on small foam plates at the grocery store)? When he brought our turkey out the lady next to me exclaimed in admiration and smiled, chattering with the butcher about the bird and possible steps to prepare it. I paid and took the heavy and soft bird—thankfully we wouldn’t have to defrost this one—and we set about making our meal.

            Except the oven didn’t work. It soon became clear that I was to do anything possible to remedy the situation ASAP. After frantically calling the owner of our house and then the realtor who sometimes helps out, explaining our situation and trying to understand the waves of Italian rushing at me through the phone, I finally found a switch. The switch. Yes, apparently all of the other times we’d used the oven the switch had been flipped on, unbeknownst to us, and therefore we’d been unaware said switch even existed! So the oven heated, the bird cooked, and Carol and Michael joined us during their visit all the way from Massachusetts for a wonderful Thanksgiving meal. Being so far from home, familiarity and routine made this tradition (which we often share with Carol and Michael and other family at their house) ever more poignant and important. The Italians went about their daily Thursday routine as every other but in our home the American holiday was alive and well. Ingrid and Niko smiled and laughed more, fought less, rallied with us around the common goal of producing and enjoying this special meal and enjoyed lots of playtime with their grandparents on the soccer field, reading a book or putting together and flying a toy jet fighter. For hours the house took on the rich and comforting smell of the meal that was coming together.

            I had so much to be thankful for and first and foremost on the list was family. The wars and hate in the world hadn’t gone away but they were still outnumbered by peace and love and on that day the politics, economics and environmental consequences of food production and food choice just didn’t bother me. The world I see every day is multi-hued, filled with contradictions, more free-response than true or false. So when I took a bite of that turkey there was no ex-vegetarian’s remorse, no guilt, and no sense of lost ideals. What I felt was extreme satisfaction in the moment, a profound communion with family and with the cycle of life. An animal had died but nourished all of us. Who knows, maybe I'll return to a non-meat diet in the months or years to come, but for this third Thursday in November, Mr. Turkey, I would like to extend to you my deepest thanks.