Wallpapering Dumpsters?

Wallpapering dumpsters? That's what the artist Finley (her last name, and the only one she uses) does. She does it in New York City, where these pictures were taken by Rob Bennett for today's New York Times, whose Penelope Green got the scoop. But she also does it in Rome, where she lives--and we don't mean Rome, New York.

Ours minds are boggled. Wouldn't Finley have to move mountains of garbage just to get access to Rome's bins? Where goes she find the wallpaper, from our experience a commodity as rare in Rome as Kraft processed cheese slices (which by the way are delicious)? How will Rome's mayor--an ex-thug who detests art and has failed to get the dumpsters emptied on a timely basis (how difficult can that be?) react to Finley's guerilla tactics? Will Romans, who have rejected carpeting for their homes because of a genetic fondness for the unadorned surface, turn away from the wallpapered dumpster in disgust? Stay tuned. And if you come upon one of Finley's creations, send a photo our way.

Bill

Joining the Roman Crowds

One of the cultural shocks of modern Rome is how Romans get into lines... or don't.

Each time we return to Italy (even if we're gone for just a few days), we have to adjust to the Roman concept of a ticket line - everyone crowd to the front and try to ace out everyone else. Believe me, the little old ladies are as good at this as anyone else. It's not done with any sense of bad faith, it's just the way they do it. Once in a great while someone will take to self-managing a line, trying not to let obvious late comers squeeze in ahead, but that's the exception.These two photos also illustrate some exceptions.


This first one shows a line for the first day showing - in English - of the film Angels & Demons in central Rome. So the people in this cue were primarily English speakers. They did, however, adhere to one of the Roman rules for lines - just let them go out into the middle of the street. If you have to line up, don't do anything sensible like wrap a line around a sidewalk or building. Putting yourself out into traffic is secondary to maybe losing your place.

This photo, of a woman pulling a ticket # at a market, is one answer to Romans' inability to queue-up, as the English would say. These ticket machines have become ubiquitous in markets, even in stalls at farmers' markets and open-air markets, post offices (compounded by a lettering system for the type of service you want) and, of course, at bakeries. They're also common in hospital waiting rooms. Yes, take a number there too. Even with the numbering system, we've seen heated (even by Italian standards) arguments break out over whose turn it is to get a medical test.

Our advice if you find yourself in one of those all-crowd-in "lines" for anything in Rome (tickets to the opera, buying bread) is that you better learn the custom; otherwise you'll truly be left out in the cold. But, like Italians, do be good natured about it.


Dianne

California Dreamin'--in Rome!

Romans love their sunshine, and the city--the newer parts, especially--is appropriately laced with terraces and balconies, all with floors of cement or stone. So we were shocked to see an actual wooden "deck" being built, and so near to our apartment in Monteverde Nuovo, just down the street, in fact. We congratulated the owner for bringing a bit of California to Rome. Not long after we took the photo, a table and chairs appeared, stained the color of the deck, which now seemed to us a tad small for the expected family gatherings. Below the deck, and stretching around the corner into the street side of the property, the beginnings of an elaborate vegetable garden--perhaps another sign of the growing influence of the Golden state. Bill

Keeping Rome Clean: Part 2

Rome has a few street-sweeping machines, the kind with rotating brushes that tidy up near the curbs. But because automobiles normally take up both sides of the streets, most of the sweeping is done by hand, with long-handled, curved brooms of the sort favored by the Wicked Witch of the East, tools descended from the Dark Ages. We've never tried one--it doesn't seem as if they can be bought in stores--so we can only assume that the odd-looking things are functional for the outdoor work they do, that the curve of the broom makes it possible to get around and under the city's cars and trucks, many of which haven't been moved for months, as the owners fret about never finding another parking place.

In recent years, the storied straw version of the street broom has been replaced with green plastic. The march of progress will doubtless trouble the traditionalists, but those with an artistic bent may have a different view. We like the dash of color in the line-up above, where brooms in a row await their sweepers. Bill

Rome 2nd Dirtiest City: Laments, and a Solution

We were disappointed--one might say devastated if it didn't seem hyperbolic--to learn that Rome had been named the second dirtiest big city in the world, after Athens. How to deal with this terrible news, this reminder, however deserved, of our failure as a city, as a people?

How could this have happened? We thought we had done everything possible: our big public trash bins--the "casonette"--are too few and too seldom emptied, guaranteeing that each will be surrounded by, and buried in, mounds of garbage most of the time. The skeletal remains of scooters, their bodies still chained to sign posts or trees, line the curbs. Because most cars once parked never have to move, a layer of unreachable debris accumulates underneath.


Rome's citizens have been doing their part, too. Last year the voters elected a right-wing mayor, whom they trusted to be appropriately disengaged from such mundane matters as "sporcizia" (filthiness), and they haven't been disappointed at his non-efforts. They have also cultivated and defended the right--it is close to a duty here--to throw all manner of stuff--cigarette butts, gum, candy wrappers, advertising circulars, plastic bags (a local favorite), unpaid bills, love notes, bits of food--on the ground, where they belong. The city's dogs have been trained to avoid public parks and use the neighborhood sidewalks, knowing that their owners will leave their doings where they fall. Bravi!


Our public authorities and workers are also to be congratulated, especially for ignoring mounds of trash on Metro stairs and along rail lines at stations, where litter contributes notes of sparkle and color to an otherwise drab view from the platform.


We're aware that in other countries, and other cities, volunteers (we're not aware of any Italian equivalent of this word) will now and then organize to clean up a neighborhood, a street, or a stream bed; or merchants or condominum owners will take action to insure that the sidewalks where they work and live are washed and swept. Fortunately, no such bizarre ideas have taken root in the Roman mind. Borrowing from the thoughtful, socially advanced, residents of the state of New Hampshire, we can only add, "Live Free or Die!"

Yes, despite our best efforts, we've failed. To be sure, Rome has easily defeated such priggish cities as London and Genoa, where they use machines to sweep the streets and--you won't believe this--lawnmowers in the parks. Beneath contempt. And we have overcome the odds to finish ahead of Palermo and Naples, where the garbage is never picked up, as well as New Delhi, Mexico City, and Chernobyl. But second to Athens? Humiliating!

Cosa c'e' da fare? What's to be done? How can we get over the hump, or "over the dump" (ha, ha). It's a tough order, because Athens is no slouch at filth, and we can imagine our Greek counterparts hard at work hatching new ways to make their city dirtier.

Still, we have one suggestion that can't help but intrigue our readers, and that may just do the trick: bring back public urination. The great advantage, need we say, would be to add a new level of odor to the city--a pungent reminder, for the history buffs, of Rome's medieval period. Yes, this solution might result in the elimination of restrooms, public and private, and with them, no doubt, would go some of the "points" the city earned in the recent competition for "most disgusting and nauseating toilets"--a strong point in our application. But the city's 20 million tourists would be grateful that they could now pee anywhere; they'd be sure to come back, again and again, just to experience the return of this delightful custom.
Bill

NIMBY, Italian version

We were surprised to learn in this morning's La Repubblica that the American anagram NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) is in use in Italy, where NIMBY refers to efforts by local groups to keep refuse facilities, electrical centers, and other, similarly unattractive, projects out of their communities and neighborhoods. Indeed, the strength of such efforts has the government considering an "anti-NIMBY" law.

The use of NIMBY is a curious one, because Italians, being mostly apartment dwellers, don't really have back yards. What they do have, especially in big cities such as Rome, is interior courtyards--know as "cortili"--for their apartment houses. Hence the Italian translation for "not in my back yard" is "non nel mio cortile"--not in my courtyard.

Bill