A Philistine’s View of Rome

The Dinner

Ok, Ladies and Gentlemen. The dinner at Alessandro’s family restaurant was one of the most amazing meals I’ve ever had.

We sat down at the long table, with a little seat-switching and maneuvering to make sure all the little boys got to sit together. William, Henry and their new friend Roberto were determined to sit near each other, and to also include Phillip (William’s pre-existing friend from the Americans in Siena). Once everyone was finally in place, the water and the wine starting flowing.

The first course included platters of bruschetta, stuffed tomatoes and supli (or, “rice balls,” as we so elegantly dubbed them). The bruschetta was of a most hearty variety, with big, thick slices of toasted bread that had been rubbed with garlic and topped with the reddest tomatoes imaginable.

But of everything we ate that night, my favorite was the roasted, stuffed tomatoes. I tell you, these tomatoes were other-worldly. I haven’t stopped thinking about them. The tomatoes themselves were—again—red, red, red. They were filled with risotto and slowly roasted on a bed of diced potatoes. The final result was far beyond anything mere words can describe. I even think a few people at the table were crying over how good they were, knowing they would never, ever eat anything so good in their lives again.

The supli (rice balls!) were magnificent little critters. Simply put, they were breaded, fried balls of rice with cheese in the center. And I ate way more of them than I probably should have. ‘Nuff said.

Any other day of the week, these three things would have made a more than perfect dinner. But, nooooo…Next came the pasta with teeny-weeny, teensy-tiny little mussels. Garlicky, buttery and peppery, with adorable little shells and spaghetti. Mmmmm…

But, wait! There’s more! Next came the fabulous meat-sauce rigatoni I had so loved the night before. (Had I dropped a few hints that I might like to have some more...? So what if I did. Don’t you judge me.)

Then, just when everyone was begging the waitresses to stop bringing food, out came plates full of the sweetest, juiciest melon you ever did see. My little Henry is just nuts about cantaloupe, so at this point he woke up (oh, did I not mention that the boy fell asleep across two chairs? He did. Probably because it was 10:30 at night). Also, William and Phillip and Roberto came in from outside (oh, and I didn’t mention that the boys went outside shortly after the first course to play soccer in front of the restaurant? Well, they did). The little boys tore into the melon (as did the grownups), and then ran back outside to play some more, with Henry tagging along with them.

At this point, we were nearing 11:00. Didn’t I think it was a little strange to let my small children play soccer in the middle of the night on a street in Rome, you ask. –Why, yes. Yes, I did. But somehow, I didn’t worry. Everyone in the restaurant seemed to know Roberto, as did everyone eating out on the patio. It seemed to me that our boys were as safe or safer than if they’d been playing in our own backyard at home.

We finished up the meal with after-dinner drinks of limoncello and grappa and something else in a pretty bottle that I didn’t know what it was. As I don’t really like limoncello (it smells too much like Pledge furniture polish), and grappa tastes like burning fire to me, I just enjoyed watching the hilarious facial expressions of the more adventurous folks at the table.

With everyone in good spirits (get it? Good spirits…oh, I’m hilarious), we wandered out of the restaurant into the gorgeous Roman night. We collected the kids from their sidewalk game, and Alessandro led us to the bus stop. After many hugs and double-cheeked kisses, Alessandro put us on the bus, saying something in Italian to the driver. (I can only imagine it was something like, “These people are drunk off their asses. Please help them get off at the right stop.” Or maybe it was just, “These are my friends. Take good care of them.” Essentially, the same thing.)

It was truly an amazing night, followed by yet another spectacular night’s sleep in our SUPER DOOPER HOTEL. After such a big day, it was rest that was much needed and appreciated.

The next morning was Sunday, when we’d be finding our way to church. English-speaking church. More on that later.

United Colors of Benetton

Sunday—Fabulous breakfast at fabulous hotel. Blah, blah, blah. You know the drill.

We got dressed up all pretty and headed out to church, not getting lost and actually arriving on time. Miracle.

The church (aka The Church of Scotland) featured lots of English-talkin’ and a service very reminiscent of our Presbyterian service back home. Loved it. What I loved even more was that the pews were a virtual United Colors of Benetton ad with people from all over the world. The guys who greeted us at the door were from Africa, the two dudes sitting next to us were from Pakistan, the choir was a mix of ladies from Korea, Africa and I don’t know where else. In the congregation, there were Dutch people, Scottish people, an expatriate from Baltimore, and visitors from South Carolina (ahem!), Ohio and maybe Canada? Oh, and the pastor was Scottish…ahhh….You know how I love a Scottish pastor…

Afterwards, we met in the church’s little social hall for a little socializing. As we nibbled on store-bought Italian pastries and snacks, I finally took note of the fact that li’l Henry was looking kind of poorly. He was sitting in the corner with his snacks, looking kind of wilted, and his sniffly nose seemed to be getting worse, and not better.

I said to George, “I think the boy has a sinus infection. And maybe also an ear infection.”

Thankfully, since we were in a room full of kind-hearted, English-speaking Christians who knew well the city of Rome, we grabbed the first one we saw and asked, “Where should we go with a sick kid?”

It was suggested that we take Henry to a pharmacy, where we were assured that a pharmacist would not only diagnose him, but also prescribe and give him medicine. And I quote, “Pharmacists have a lot more power here than they do in America.” So, with that information, we said thank you and goodbye, and headed down the street to the first green-crossed Farmacia we could find.

We walked in, waited for the customer in front of us to finish with the pharmacist, and then said, “Orichette infect-ion-y.” Or something like that. George actually looked up how to say it semi-properly in Italian. I just pointed to Henry’s ears and frowned.

Then, after a surprisingly short conversation, the pharmacist reached under the counter and brought out a bottle of oral antibiotics, as well as a bottle of antibiotic ear drops. The grand total: 22 Euro.

(Shhh….Don’t tell, but I think I love socialized medicine.)

BACK TO SIENA

That’s pretty much all that happened in Rome. Good food, excellent gelato, cushy hotel.

(As George was reading these last couple of blog entries, he laughed and said the blog should be called: “A Philistine’s View of Rome.” –Yeah, well. I figure if I’m going to embrace my inner philistine, I might as well do it in Rome.)

On our last day in the city, we met up with an old friend who’d flown in from Hungary. She and her 4-year old son traveled back to Siena with us, where we kept busy showing them around for a few days (we actually know where stuff is now!) and re-visiting every playground we’ve found thus far.

During their time with us, we traveled to Orvieto with George’s Dante group. Orvieto is stinkin’ adorable, and I really enjoyed it. In some ways, it looks just like Siena, except all the buildings are a little bit shorter. I kept thinking of it as Siena’s cute baby brother. Lots of window boxes filled with red geraniums, a really pretty cathedral, plenty of cobblestones. Adorable.

Also, we discovered Orvieto’s weekly outdoor market (something I keep missing in Siena), where I had a hankerin’ for a hunk of cheese. Luckily, there were samples set out with each kind of delicious hard cheese, and my plan was to nibble until I was full. But then I met the cheese I couldn’t walk away from. I don’t know its name or where it came from, but I just had to have it. My friend and I decided it wouldn’t be too terribly decadent for us to buy a half a wheel and split it, so that’s just what we did. And then we also bought a big bag full of fruit, including pears, apples, and one mighty perfect peach. I was a happy, happy girl.

My friend and her son went back to Hungary on Thursday, and that left us here with a fairly quiet weekend. I spent Friday cleaning the apartment while George went to the Laundromat to do two loads of laundry (Grand Total: $20—Yikes!). Saturday, we slept in and generally squandered the day, but we made up for our slothfulness by going to a concert that night in the courtyard of the Palazzo Publico. The event featured a group of very talented, very pimply-faced musicians from the Brentwood School in England.

Whaaaat? They were teenage musicians…I’m just telling it like it is.

(Truly, these kids were frickin’ geniuses. And as soon as they grow out of their pimples and get decent haircuts, they’ll be world famous and I’ll still be typing in obscurity on this computer. So, just let me have my fun, will you?)

Anyway, we arrived a little bit late (what else is new?), and settled in to listen to the absurdly wide-ranging program. The selections ranged from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, to the disco era’s Earth, Wind and Fire, to the theme music from Cinema Paradiso. –Crazy.

After listening to the first straight-up orchestral number, I admit I was feeling a little trepidacious when the dude in charge announced that their own “little Italian-English songbird” would be singing for us “O Mio Babbino Caro” (which just happens to feature prominently in one of my favorite movies, A Room with a View.)

A baby-faced brunette—wearing a skirt that was heartbreakingly and unflatteringly too tight—walked to her spot in front of the orchestra, and I prepared to wince. But, oh my! No wincing required. This girl was astonishingly good—so good that I pulled out my camera and turned the dial to “video” and bootlegged myself a copy. Afterwards, the audience went wild with applause, and I could only imagine that in a few short years, this girl would be gracing many a stage with her amazing talent.

The night went on like this for the next two hours. First, some awkward-looking kid would lumber out to the front of the stage, then I would think some unkind or at least pitying thoughts about their person, and ultimately that kid would knock my socks off. After about the fifth or sixth kid, I finally learned my lesson and just prepared myself to be wowed.

What I found most entertaining, though, was the reaction of the audience. I was sitting on a row with several of the American women from George’s Dante group, and we were absolutely giggling at ourselves. “Ooooooh, that drummer is so cute. When I was in school, he’s totally the sort I’d go for.” “—Oh, not me. I would have gone for the clarinet.” “Oh, wait. Now who is this guy? Oooooh! That voice!” And when a certain tall blonde boy got up to sing Bobby Darin’s “Beyond the Sea,” he was met with a sea of ladies old enough to be his mother (or grandmother!), pulling out their cell phones, recording and swooning.

Afterwards, as we walked out into the surprisingly chilly night, we giggled some more and teased each other about our inappropriate crushes. I remember suggesting that somebody should get those boys some bodyguards to protect them from these old, old women…