Expat Writers’ Book Fair

What do you get if you put 80 writers together in a courtyard garden on a sunny afternoon in Rome? No, nothing to do with typewriters or infinite monkeys. In fact, it’s The Expat Writers Book and App fair, organised by Gemelli Press and The Beehive, Rome. More than that, however, you get a plethora of conversation and meeting of like-minded people. I finally, after three years, get to meet Michelle of Bleeding Espresso in the flesh. She’s got her Gemelli Press hat on, and we’re both so busy talking to everyone that we sadly don’t get a chance to sit down and actually have a proper conversation. It will happen, just not today … Instead I talk to the many other fascinating people here. It’s not just fiction-writers, either. I meet and chat to two separate artists, as well as three authors of research papers. Then there are writers of cookery books, films, apps and much more. Three hours fly by in a haze of chat, red wine and delicious food.

As the afternoon wears on into evening, the crowd thins. Conversations become less specifically about writing and more about the really important things like why there are no birds in Abruzzo, or cats vs dogs. I find myself sitting on the steps up to the hotel, chatting with Terry, Robbin and Kelly about everything and nothing in particular.

Where are we going tonight?  Nobody can quite come to a decision, but Robbin, Terry and I are all non-locals at a loose end and spending the evening in isn’t an option. Linda and Steve, the owners of the Beehive, come to the rescue.

We’re going to see if this place is open. It’s cool if it is. If it isn’t we’ll find somewhere else. Happily we fall in with this plan. Kelly peels off home, bike helmet in hand, and we’re joined instead by Gillian of Gillian’s Lists and her husband, Mark. We troop off towards Termini and beyond.

Early evening in Rome is a wonderful time to wander through the streets with new friends. The stifling heat and crush of tourists from earlier in the day has gone, to be replaced by gentle warmth and people strolling in relaxed fashion. We pass a burnt-orange Fiat Cinquecento and I have to stop to take a photo for my ever-growing collection. Terry and Mark laugh at my obsession, but one day I’ll have one of my very own, even if it *will* have to be one with a sunroof so that I can actually get into it. Enticing smells waft out of every restaurant we pass. It’s still early by Roman standards – only 8.00 – so when we stop at a traditional trattoria that is apparently always stuffed to the gills with patrons, there’s a table free. The owner looks worried. We’ve got a booking for that table at 9.30. You’ll have to eat fast. We laugh at his concerns, telling him that we’re not Italian. We can do it. He grins back and ushers us in. English menus are handed out. We discard them and eye the specials menu hungrily. Decisions are made. Starters arrive and are devoured. Onto my fourth – or is it fifth? – glass of wine I witter happily with Mark about third culture kids and classic cars. Of such things are good evenings made. Suddenly, despite our assurances as we arrived, we realise that it’s 9.25 and we need to pay and go. Wallets are pulled out and 20 euro notes thrown into the centre of the table. Chairs scrape over the tiled floor as we climb lazily to our feet, discussing gelato and the various options. Linda suggests a trip to Fassi and other Rome-dwellers agree. We non-locals fall in with the plan and we all wind our way back along the now dusk-darkened Roman streets.

Fassi is a revelation. The place is enormous and brightly-lit and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many gelato flavours in one place. It’s also absolutely heaving at just before 10pm. I really want granita, but their selection of flavours is disappointing – what, no mandorla? – so go for gelato instead. Probably no bad thing. Why eat granita in Rome, when I can get the true Sicilian version any day of the week at home?

True gelato is far creamier and thicker than ice cream, due to the magic of the production process. I don’t pretend to know very much about it further than the fact that I love eating it. However, I am told that the main difference is that gelato is churned slowly, rather than whipped, meaning that there is very little air incorporated. It’s also made with whole milk, rather than cream, and is served at a slightly higher temperature than ice-cream. Good gelato shouldn’t be neon-coloured (a good rule for food generally, in fact) and if you’ve got ice crystals in it then you’ve been had.

So back to my gelato. Whenever I try a new gelateria I go for the same two flavours, as a benchmark comparison. (What? Food is an artform here. I take it very seriously, y’know.) My favourites are stracciatella and amarena. Amarena is beautiful to look at – smooth, white vanilla with purplish-red streaks of sour cherries through it – as well as having just the right amount of sharpness from the cherries to cut through the creaminess of the gelato. Stracciatella is what would, in the UK, probably be called vanilla choc chip ice cream. That does it a major disservice, however. Not only is it the fior di latte base much less cloying than vanilla, but the chocolate isn’t in chip form. Instead, it’s drizzled over the gelato in the final stage of churning, where it first hardens and is then broken up in the churn. This means that the chocolate comes through in finer pieces, right through the gelato. A good stracciatella has a wonderful balance of creamy gelato and crunchy flecks of bitter chocolate which leaves you refreshed rather than feeling a bit sick. Sadly, this stracciatella isn’t the greatest I’ve ever had (that honour goes to the bar below my school in Calabria – yeah, I gained a fair bit of weight last summer …), but it’s streets ahead of vanilla choc-chip.

And I’m in a historic gelateria in Rome on a balmy late-spring evening, surrounded by new friends.

All in all, a pretty good end to a very good day.

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 11 Comments

Sign language

He’s at the top of the stairs, grinning enough to split his face in two. His dad, at the bottom, calls up to him. Come on! The boy makes it halfway down the stairs before scampering back up to the top again. What are stairs for, if not to run up and down? Dad’s beginning to lose patience and shouts a bit louder. We’re waiting here. Get a move on! As kiddo reaches the halfway point, Dad shouts again. With a spark of Sicilian fire, the boy stops in his tracks. Rather than shout back, he makes the Sicilian gesture for ‘what the hell …?!’ at his dad, putting the tips of his fingers together and wagging them up and down in front of his chest while hunching his shoulders up towards his ears. Give me a chance! Dad is silenced by his son’s display of eloquently mute backchat, and the boy saunters down the remaining steps with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Further up the road, a woman is tasting ricotta. Her eyes roll in delight and, rather than use words to reply to the question of how it tastes, she pushes her forefinger into her cheek and swivels it in the resulting dimple. Her friend grins in understanding and digs her spoon into the bowl with almost indecent haste.

At the top of the hill an immaculately-uniformed man marshals traffic, including coaches too big for this road on a quiet day, let alone when there’s a festival with hundreds of people and cars trying to get through the town as well. He’s being run ragged, but loving it. His partner may be wearing a more practical fluorescent jacket, but he fades into the background in comparison.  Uniformed man dances in the middle of the road, the whistle clipped to his epaulette bouncing vigorously as he spins to face the cars coming now from behind him, now from the side, now from the other direction. A 4×4, in a direct challenge to our man’s authority, pulls out and tries to roar away up the hill. Uniformed man throws his hands wide and looks to the heavens, before making the ‘what the hell …?’ gesture towards the back of the 4×4, which is now stuck in the middle of the road, in a face-off with a coach. Another driver pulls up to the side of uniformed man and winds down his window. A spirited exchange, clearly mocking the 4×4 driver, takes place, before both men roar with laughter and uniformed man waves his new friend on down the hill.

A gesture speaks a thousand words.

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Vizzini sagra di ricotta in pictures (part 2)

And now we get to the meat of it. Well, cheese. And meat.

Cheese and meat. Mmmm …

A lactose-intolerant’s nightmare.

This woman was at the stall for a good half-hour, tasting different cheeses and amassing an enormous pile of waxed paper-wrapped parcels. It’s a serious business, cheese-buying.

Not just cheese, but salami as well

Oh, and sausages, fresh from the barbecue.

Stacked inside a terracotta roof tile, waiting to be eaten

For those of you who haven’t been to Sicily, it’s pronounced grah-nee-tah, and it’s kind of like a sorbet, in that it’s made of ice, sugar and flavourings. It’s a million times better, though. Eat it for breakfast accompanied by a warm brioche. You’ll thank me for it.

The ricotta-makers. The guy on the right was dying for us to stop taking photos of the food. Signora! Signora! Si fa una foto di noi? But of course I can …

They all smoke while working. It adds to the flavour, I’m told.

On a hot spring day, would *you* want to stand next to a blazing log fire stirring a giant cauldron of milk? No, me neither. My taste buds are glad they did, though.

And the final product: ricotta fresh from the cauldron, spread onto a metal tray, sliced up and handed out in milk-sweet, still warm chunks.

Best. Thing. Ever.

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Vizzini Sagra di Ricotta in pictures (part 1)

A sagra is a food festival, and they’re always worth going to. The ricotta sagra at Vizzini is held every year from 23-25 April, and features – unsurprisingly – ricotta in all its different forms. There was, however, much more to it than just cheese …

There were classic vehicles too. This one was a Giulia Super 1.3, apparently. Whatever: all I really know is that it was black and shiny and retro-cool. I loved it.

Cuteness personified. Or motorified.

Kid on the right of the picture = future Fonz

Who lives in a house like this? A very lucky person, that’s who.

What are stairs for, if not to run up and down?

Sbandieratori (flag-throwers) and musicians, pre-procession. They’re kind of like a much more elegant version of majorettes, dressed in medieval costumes, and these ones looked a bit nervous. Mind you, I think I would too, at the prospect of flinging giant flags into the air while walking through narrow streets filled with people.

The Italians love their choreographed dances. This was going on in the main square. A local radio station had set up a mixing desk and was playing such classics as Gioca Jouer and YMCA. (To those of you who just followed that link: I’m so sorry …)

These little girls, however, were far more interested in just running in circles

I know, I know. You’re saying, “but I thought this was supposed to be a ricotta festival – where’s the damn cheese?” Patience, Skywalker. That’s a whole post in itself, and it’s coming up in part 2 on Friday.

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Why I write about Italy

old piano keys
Photo credit: viamoi

Heyyyy! Ciao! Angelo weaves towards our table with outstretched hands and a grin on his face. He’s a little bit the worse for wear, but then I think I probably would be, too,  if I owned a bar. Where you go? We miss you! We think we not see you again! He’s pumping my hand up and down, greeting me like the oldest friend in the world, instead of just a girl who came and drank in his bar two weeks previously. He turns and spots Lucia, who hasn’t been here before. His eyes rake up and down before coming to rest on her face. Wow. Your eyes – they are … beautiful … He takes her hand and starts to caress it. What’s your name? Lucia does her best shyly flirtatious Lady Di smile as she tells him, knowing that the fact that she has blonde hair and big blue eyes, but an Italian name, is an absolute killer for Sicilian men. True to form, he melts instantly. He does a turn around the table, both greeting old friends and making new ones, but at the end he’s back at Lucia’s side, like a bee to honey.

It’s not long before the lid of the white baby grand in the middle of the bar is open. Angelo bangs out a quick tune. He waves me over. Come! You play! I feign reluctance, but if I’m honest this was the whole reason I suggested coming to this bar this evening. I haven’t played piano properly since before I came to Italy, and my fingers are itching to get to the keys. I sit down and start to play. It comes a bit more easily than it did the last time I tried, two weeks ago. The muscle memory is there – it’s just been asleep for a very long time and needs a louder alarm call. I try Bridge over Troubled Water. In days gone by, this was a tune that I could – and did – always play without thinking. Friends of mine got sick of hearing it. Now the fingers are rusty. They don’t always hit the right notes and my mind gets distracted. I get further through than I did the other week, though. Not to the end, but through a verse at least. I can hear the girls discussing the music and trying to remember the title. They finally get it, with a cheer of recognition. I smile and switch to I Know Him So Well. Their voices tune out and I carry on playing, losing myself in the music, singing along softly, wrinkling my nose at wrong notes and feeling my fingers get more and more accustomed to the once so-familiar, now almost-forgotten movement over the keys.

I head back to the table. The girls ‘awww’ at me: Why have you stopped? I’ve run out of material … How about chopsticks …? I shout with laughter. I’m not playing that! Two minutes later, of course, I’m teaching Lucia the fingering. Angelo appears again and chivvies me along the stool so he can sit and play. With a cheeky glint in his eye he starts knocking out a basic accompaniment to a song that he makes up on the spot. Lucia! Guarda mia! Lucia giggles, embarrassed, and then realises: Wait a minute – did he just say look at me with ‘me’ in the feminine form? I roar with laughter and give her a rather filthier possible version, using the possessive form, a few ellipses and a raised eyebrow. Angelo carries on busking while Lucia and I run back to our table in paroxysms of giggles.

It’s midnight. Angelo’s friends have come into the bar to join him. It’s time for us to head home. Jade wants to take an anthology of Emily Dickinson poetry from the books which are piled high on the shelves behind the tables, but there’s a sign saying it’s no longer possible for people to borrow them. She puts it back on the shelf and we go to pay. Angelo homes in on Lucia. Bellamia! Your eyes! I look into them and I just – ohhhh … He clasps his hands to his heart and turns the full force of an adoring Sicilian gaze on her. For you, I write poetry! Jade sees her opportunity. So, if Lucia wanted to borrow that Emily Dickinson book, would that be OK? Angelo, true to form, doesn’t miss a beat. But of course! Lucia, for you, anything! Come tomorrow, I give you the book! It’s a – how you say – *colpo di fulmine*! You understand?  The bolt of lightning that Angelo talked about has clearly hit him hard. His friends are all in on the act now, and the whole group of us are standing bantering at the doorway to the bar, enjoying the mix of cultures and languages as both English and Italian flow freely. To passers-by, it’s the perfect Sicilian scene. Friends, laughing and joking together in the early hours of the morning as the light spills out from the doorway onto the street.

*This* is why I came to Italy.

This post was inspired by the Italy Roundtable bloggers: arttrav, At Home in Tuscany, Brigolante, italofile and WhyGoItaly

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Gifts

girl, boy, balloon
Photo credit: Brandon C Warren

It’s the final day of lessons before the Easter holidays. Unsurprisingly, I had very few students in yesterday, and have even fewer today. My boss has dictated that I have to give my teenagers a test, which is disappointing. I’d planned an ace lesson all about chocolate, including youtube videos and everything. Ah well. It’ll keep. Amid groans of dissent – But it’s EASTER! – I pass out the mock exam papers and settle them down. There’s a knock at the door. Ilaria, the school secretary, pops her head around the door. Can you come outside a moment? Pulling a nervous face at my students, who titter appreciatively, I go out into the corridor.

Standing outside is Matteo, a shy smile on his round, bespectacled face. I love this kid. He used to be my student at the beginning of the year, but the class was wrong for him, so I lost him. I miss him. Every lesson he’d turn up to class dressed in immaculate designer jeans held up with Alviero Martini belt, Hogans buffed to a gleaming shine, and shirt collar peeping just-so over the neck of his knitted pullover. Mummy’s boy? Yes. But also an absolute sweetheart, who would always kiss me hello and goodbye and smile politely while the rest of the class ran amok. A perfect grown-up gentleman in a chubby, eight-year-old boy’s body. Now I only ever see him in the corridors between lessons, but his face always lights up as he says, “Ciao, Maestra!” and gives me a kiss.

Today he seems shyer than usual. Ilaria nudges him. Go on, Matteo. He shuffles his feet and then thrusts a chocolate egg in my direction, not brave enough to meet my eyes. For you, Maestra. It’s small – about the size of a Kinder egg – but in true Italian style is presented beautifully, nestled neatly in a porcelain goose, the whole thing wrapped in cellophane and ribbons. I could cry. None of my other students have given me anything, and yet this little boy, who I haven’t taught for three months, has come in specially to give me a gift. I bend down to give him a kiss. Thank you, Matteo. Happy Easter. Beaming all over his face, he gives me a little wave as Ilaria takes him by the hand and leads him away. Buona Pasqua, Maestra.

I return to my rambunctious teenagers with an enormous grin on my face. They’ve given up on the pretence of doing the test individually, and are comparing answers, but stop as I come into the room. Federico cocks his head to one side. You shouldn’t be so happy about receiving chocolate from a boy, you know. He raises one eyebrow in mock severity. I laugh. Get back to your test, Federico. 

This post was inspired by the Italy Roundtable bloggers: arttrav, At Home in Tuscany, Brigolante, italofile and WhyGoItaly

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | Tagged , , | 14 Comments

Off the beaten track

Prudence and Ducky by Shadow Planet on Flickr“So it’s becoming obvious why your grandparents left here, Maryann,” I muse out loud. We’ve been to Borgetto twice in the past two days, and both days we’ve climbed our way to the top of the mountain, into the heart of thick, damp clouds. There doesn’t appear to be anything of note in Borgetto itself. The town below the cloud line, Partinico, has more to it, but that only means that they can, legitimately, claim to be a one-horse town. Borgetto doesn’t even seem to have a dog. It does, however, have exceptionally narrow roads. There’s a rudimentary one-way system in action on the streets, with arrows spraypainted onto the road surface. It’s not entirely helpful when they’re not done at junctions, though. “Can we go this way?” asks Maryann, as she swings the wheel left. I’m not sure, but we’re committed to it now, and at least we’re going downhill. Maryann curses the fact that she can only drive automatic. “If I could drive shift I could’ve got a smaller car.” We crawl through streets built for donkeys and carts, eyeing the wingmirrors and hoping that nothing comes the other way.

Up ahead, I see someone pulling out of their driveway and about to turn towards us. Maryann is in the process of negotiating a tricky manoeuvre involving cars on either side, muttered curses and extreme sucking in of breath. Having finished, she looks up and notices the other car. “No WAY, buster!” He agrees and backs up. Maryann looks across at me. “OK, I’ve had enough of this. Let’s get out of here.” We make our way out of town, Maryann jubilant at having finally found her Sicilian roots, me breathing a sigh of relief at having some air and space either side of me.

Ten minutes later claustrophobia seems like the easy option.

I’m clutching the sat-nav in my hands and directing Maryann in a slow-mo parody of rally car co-driving. We’re in cloud so thick that we can barely see ten foot in front of the bonnet, on a road that’s crumbling down the side of the mountain, covered in bits of bush and rock from whenever the last time it was that there was a landslide. I’m trying not to think about the fact that it might have been recently. My feet brace into the footwell as I direct our slow progress down zig-zagging mountain bends. “OK, follow the road round to the left, coming right back on yourself …” Judging by the undisturbed debris scattered about it doesn’t look like there have been any cars down here for a while. I just hope the road’s actually going to get us to the bottom, because turning round isn’t an option, and going backwards around these bends doesn’t bear thinking about. We plough grimly on.

I glance up for a moment and do a classic double-take. ‘What the …?” There’s something large and white looming out of the cloud straight ahead of us, where there should, by rights, be road. Maryann stamps on the brakes. A second later she starts to laugh. “Oh my god, look! It’s sheep!” She’s right. Nothing but sheep, gazing at us curiously and cropping the grass on a steep incline on the far side of the reflex-angled bend. I laugh shakily and turn my concentration back to the sat-nav. “Slowly now – sharp right hand bend coming up …”

Image by Shadow Planet (Creative Commons)

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The Pasquetta barbecue

Pasquetta – or Easter Monday – is the day when young Italians shake off the shackles of their family duties. Having spent Sunday with their parents, aunts, uncles, little sisters and brothers, and all the other people that make up the Italian extended family, they can now have a day with their friends, guilt-free. The supermarket at 11am is mayhem, as they head there to stock up on pounds of meat and cheese, along with piles of bread and bottles upon bottles of water, wine and soft drinks. The crowd at the butcher’s counter is three people deep, as everyone puts in their order for anything that they can throw on a barbecue, while the shelf which usually stocks the sacks of charcoal is almost empty, with just one lonely bag left. The staff on the checkouts – themselves young and probably planning barbecues as well – are counting down the minutes until the shop closes in just under two hours’ time, scanning items through as if their lives depended on it and waving away offers of exact change in favour of a quick transaction.

Outside, it seems like people are already barbecuing fiercely. The sun is struggling to make it through the haze of smoke, and the usual heavy scent of orange blossom is overpowered by the smell of burning charcoal. Two young men race across the zebra crossing against the lights, yelling and laughing. The sound of a fire engine comes ever closer. The smell of charcoal changes and becomes thicker, more choking, more sinister.

Walking is unpleasant today. Not only unpleasant, but dangerous. On the corner of Corso delle Provincie and Via Firenze, thick black smoke billows into the sky and the reek of burning plastic fills the air. It seems there is more than just barbecuing going on. Person or persons unknown are setting fire to dumpsters all over the place within a five-block radius. On this particular corner there are three dumpsters in a row. The furthest one is already nothing but a metal frame, its plastic shell completely gone, but the middle one is only half burnt and the one closest to the Metro – as yet – untouched.

Firemen arrive on the scene and leap from their vehicle. The wind whips and whirls the flames around, blowing them this way and that, now closer to the orange tree, now towards the cars, now back towards the firemen. The firemen race to unfurl the hose before too much more damage is done. Every second counts. Finally they’re ready. There’s a momentary pause before the water kicks out. The men holding the hose brace against the pressure, directing the water to the heart of the fire. It doesn’t die easily – the wind is still buffeting the flames and encouraging them along – but a minute or so later it’s gone. The firemen keep the hose trained on the shells of the dumpsters for another few seconds, but there’s no time for them to waste. The smell of burning plastic is getting stronger again and, looking up into the sky, it’s clear that there are at least three more fires to deal with. Repacking the hose, they race to the next scene, as pieces of charred paper flutter down gently from the sky and are picked up by the miniature whirlwinds happening at street level, mixing in with the ever-present leaves, dust and grit of the city streets.

Image by Young Einstein (Creative Commons)

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

On food and friendships

Hey. You want to help me research my family near Palermo? It’s a casual request from my American friend Maryann via Facebook, and I say yes without thinking twice. It sounds like it should be fun, but it’s not going to be happening for a while yet, so I put it to the back of my mind and forget about it.

So I booked my flights. I’m coming late March. I’m wrapped up with work and don’t have much time to spend thinking about about the ins and outs of the trip, so it’s just as well that Maryann’s organised. She arrives on a Friday and we head out for dinner to discuss battle plans for the weekend of research. I take her to a great little trattoria that I know. It’s cheap and cheerful, with plastic glasses and tables, and paper napkins and tablecloths. The service is patchy – interestingly, when I first went there in the summer, tanned and dressed in flirty summer clothes, accompanied by two other likewise-attired girls, one of whom was a 6’ blonde Swede, it was fine. But now the sun’s gone behind the clouds and she’s gone back to Sweden and the service has gone downhill. The important thing, though, is that the food is unfailingly great. The mixed meat platter defeats me pretty much every time I have it, and I’m a girl with a big appetite. The burgers are some of the best I’ve ever eaten; succulent with cheese mixed into the meat, and the thin slices of horsemeat are always juicy and chargrilled to perfection. Then there’s pork in various different forms, and by the time you’ve worked your way through that and a half litre of red wine you’re thanking god for the 20-minute walk home which always seems like such a chore on the way there.

Tonight I go for the mixed antipasti and grilled prawns, too tired to contemplate digesting pounds of meat. Maryann and I sit and lazily work our way through the wine, while getting to know each other. Our friendship was started online and we’ve only met in the flesh once previously. We talk about her family – logical, given the reason that she’s here is to find out about her Sicilian-born grandparents – and mine, swapping anecdotes and stories and enjoying the company. The four-piece busking band that always come into the restaurant to play in the evenings arrive and work their way through their repertoire. I hear the same songs every time I come here, but they’re slick and cheery and really good, so I always chuck money into the pot when they come round collecting. Tonight the people on the table next to us sing along, and I hum the tune with them. I’ve managed to work out a few of the lyrics by now, and can sing the chorus. I join in and the guy singing at the next table grins at me in complicity.

A cake appears from the kitchen, festooned with sparklers and glittering silver tinsel. I assume it’s going to be for the table of girls two tables across from us, but it goes to the three guys behind them, who look like two middle-aged brothers and one of their sons. The cake is for one of the two older guys, and his son (nephew?) points and grins as the table of girls shriek ‘auguri’. Dad (uncle?)is laughing but embarrassed at the attention and the ridiculously over-the-top cake, and pulls his hat down over his eyes while he waits for the sparklers to finish spitting sparks everywhere and the tables around him to stop singing happy birthday.

Conversation slows as the food and wine begin to take effect. Maryann asks for the rest of her pizza to be boxed up. I tell her the story from the summer, when I came here for the first time with the Swedish girl and an Irish girl. Niamh couldn’t finish her pizza either, and asked for it to be boxed up so she could take it away. Giggling from the wine, she decided to name it after our Italian teacher, who was the one who had recommended the trattoria to us. When we then decided to go, not back to our hotel as planned, but out dancing, the guilt she felt at dropping ‘Daniele’ in a dumpster was comical in the extreme.

Coffee arrives, and I knock it back, enjoying the jolt of energy that it gives me. I stretch and pull my padded jacket on, belting it around me against what to me still feels like hideous cold. Maryann laughs at my acquired soft southern-Italian blood. We stroll home in companiable silence, through crowds of families out for their late night passeggiata.

Photo credit: Steve Kay (Creative Commons)

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A day with the mosaics

mosaic at piazza armerina“Is that dog dead?” asks Maryann in a curious kind of a tone, pointing ahead of us. I follow her finger and see a large tan and white heap in the road. It doesn’t appear to be moving at all, but given the fact that we’re in a tourist trap, albeit off-season, you’d think someone would have moved it by now if it really *were* dead. We walk closer, until we’re standing over it. Still it hasn’t moved a muscle. I’m beginning to think that we’ve happened upon something far too grisly for a sunny spring afternoon, but then I notice a tiny rise and fall from his sides. This pooch is accustomed to hot weather and he’s conserving all the energy he can. There’s not even a twitch from his ears to acknowledge the fact that we’re standing right next to him, and only the merest flutter from his flanks to show that his lungs are still working. Sun worshipping in its most extreme form.

We continue along the road down towards the main attraction, Villa Romana del Casale, which is a Roman villa covered by a landslide in the 12th century AD and rediscovered at the beginning of the 19th. We’ve come to see mosaics, but so far there are only rows upon rows of white tents, flaps roped shut, blank fronts telling us that we’re here at the wrong time. Or maybe exactly the right one, depending on your point of view. In high season they’ll all open to hawk tat for the tourists, but today, in late March, it’s too early and there are too few visitors to make it worth most of the sellers’ whiles to turn up. Plus, it’s nearly lunchtime. Only mad (or semi-dead) dogs and Englishmen are out at the moment. A cheery man selling olive oils and artisan cheeses calls Buongiorno! and tries to tempt us in with tasters. Resolutely we walk on. We’ve got some mosaics to see, dammit.

There’s a gaggle of people perched on and around a bench next to a tiny kiosk, which seems to be where we need to go to be counted. As we approach, one of them, a man with wild grey curls and uber-cool sunglasses, gets to his feet and staggers towards us crying, Welcome! He then throws himself to his knees in front of us, holding his hands out for our tickets. We’re so glad to see you! Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, for coming! You’re goddesses among women! The rest of the bench-dwellers are half-laughing, half-rolling their eyes at their companion’s antics. I hand over the tickets, giggling too much to be able to speak. Still kneeling, he rips them and bows his head as he passes them back to me. Please – enjoy your afternoon! A cool woman sitting on the bench rolls her eyes at me as she twirls her finger at her temple. But he’s mad, no? I laughingly agree, but add that he’s also rather wonderful. She raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

There’s borage growing wild along the path. Miniature sweet peas, too, in purple and pink. There are probably geckoes hiding in the undergrowth, but it’s not hot enough for them to be out yet. Wind rustles through the pines as we round the corner and get our first sight of the Villa. It’s bigger than I was expecting, and, pleasingly, looks like an archaeological site, rather than a polished tourist presentation. The inner areas are covered over with corrugated plastic rooves, while an outer part is open to the elements. I step over a wall footing and gasp as I realise that I’m standing on – not near, not next to, but *on* – a collection of the most beautiful animal mosaics. Maryann, who has been here before, points me towards some good specimens. “Look! There’s a pretty much complete bull over here. He’s just missing an eye.” I work my way along the path, marvelling at the casual way that this is left open for any Tom, Dick and Harry to walk on. Maryann chuckles beside me. “Back home we just don’t have this kind of history. The Italians have got it coming out of their ears. C’mon – this way …” She leads me up a set of scaffolding planked steps and into the first of the inner areas.

Those animals that seemed so impressive a minute ago? Nothing compared to this.

Naked, muscled gladiators race across the floor, blood spurting from spear wounds. Snakes wind around their feet while their horses fall, wounded, to the ground. The room depicts the labours of Hercules, but all I can think is that this was one hell of a fight. I’m not sure who’s come off worst, the hunted or the hunters; either way it was dramatic. The storytelling and artistry across this floor are as fresh as the day it was first put down, despite the damage – and, after 800-odd years covered by a landslide, there is some – to the mosaic itself.  Gobsmacked is, I think, the best word to describe my state of mind right now.

And it’s not finished yet.

Glancing up I see a battered piece of A4 paper stuck to a wall. It’s pointing the way to one of the main attractions of the villa, informally known as the bikini girls mosaic. An A4 computer printout, for god’s sake. Ramshackle, downbeat and quite, quite perfect. We follow the sign into the main building. In the first building the sun was beating our brains into oblivion through the corrugated plastic, but in here it’s shady and cool. It’s also – impossibly enough – even more impressive than Hercules and his naked battling. As promised, there are girls in the Roman version of bikinis playing ball. However, a corner of their mosaic has been lifted to reveal that underneath there’s another, separate, floor, also covered in mosaic. And round the corner there’s a 60m corridor depicting a hunt from start to finish, in just as much intricate detail as all the rest, but with the bonus of being virtually undamaged. Maryann nudges me. “Look! There’s a guy in a crate!” Sure enough, behind the lion which I had been eyeing up making short work of a deer, there’s a gryphon guarding a small box with a metal gate on it. From the shadows inside the box emerges one half of a human face, eye rolling in terror. They didn’t go for moderation, these Romans.

lion and deer mosaic at piazza armerina

We continue on, and so do the mosaics. “Ooh! An Emu! No, wait – that can’t be possible. No, it’s an ostrich. Still amazing, though.” Every inch of this floor is covered with animals. “I guess it’s like showing off, really,” muses Maryann. “Kinda like making everyone look at your holiday snaps when you get back home. Hey, look! A peacock!”

I could take days poring over all of this. My stomach, however, is protesting against the idea, and complaining that it hasn’t been fed since last night. Hard as it is to tear ourselves away, the mosaics will be here for thousands of years to come. Restaurants, however, only serve until 2. It’s time to go.

More information about Villa Romana del Casale here

Images by Kate Bailward – click to enlarge.

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