Sorry for this Lousy Post

We’ve been entertained this week by Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina, a married man and a Republican, who got caught visiting his Argentine mistress while he was supposed to be hiking the Appalachian trail, while he was supposed to be governing the state. Then it came out that this wasn’t the first visit, that Mr. Sanford had managed a rendezvous last summer, while he was on a taxpayer-financed trade mission (that he set up). So he apologized. “I made a mistake while I was there,” he said, “in meeting with the woman who I was unfaithful to my wife with.” Well there’s another mistake—ending a sentence with a preposition—that one forgiveable, given the stress that comes with public knowledge of one’s private passions and indiscretions.

Since the revelations, Mr. Sanford has apologized to just about everyone: his wife, his staff (“I wanted generally to apologize to every one of you all, for letting you down”), two cabinet secretaries, the head of the State Law Enforcement Division, the people of South Carolina, his housekeeper. If, as the New York Times suggested, “Mr. Sanford’s many apologies did not seem to put the scandal behind him,” it may be partly because of the way he apologized, as in “I apologize,” rather than “I’m sorry,” the latter a form of the apology that he never, apparently, used, and one, we think, that suggests deeper regret, that carries with it the flavor of authenticity.

Still, Mr. Sanford’s apologies, however inadequately put, stand in stark contrast to the bombastic bluster of Italian Premier Silvio Berlusconi who--despite evidence that he hosted wild parties with naked women, brought in so many hot babes from Puglia he can’t remember them all (and slept with at least one), and has been cavorting around with a minor (or minors)--has failed to issue any sort of apology, to his wife or anyone else, preferring the “boys will be boys” defense.

We thought Stefano Bartezzaghi was on the mark when he opened a recent story in La Repubblica with the line “Italy means never having to say you’re sorry.” For evidence, Bartezzaghi offers the Fonz of Happy Days fame, whose last name is, of course, Fonzarelli; maybe the young man Silvio was watching. After playing soccer for 25 years with Italians, I have a similar impression: they just don't have it in them to acknowledge a mistake.

But there is better evidence, and it comes by way of the Catholic Church. Those lovely, wood-carved confession booths are nearly empty. Nobody confesses anymore. Of practicing Italian Catholics, 58% go to confession once a year, and 30% don’t engage in the ritual, ever. To say nothing of the 80% of those Italians who are not practicing Catholics. Almost nobody says they’re sorry.

What’s best: to apologize too much, and in the wrong circumstances, or not at all? In the aftermath of the recent elections to the European parliament, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown used the Mark Sanford approach, apologizing profusely for letting his party down. But as sorry as he said he felt, he didn’t resign (or even suggest any reasonable future path for his Labor Party) and neither did Mr. Sanford, who seems to believe that his apologies set the stage for absolution.

Mr. Sanford's wife is not so sure. And in our view, apology does nothing to resolve the contradiction that Mr. Sanford and so many other Republicans present: public piety, private immorality—to wit, hypocrisy. The Italian way—less hypocritical, to be sure, but rather mean-spirited and unattractive—doesn’t seem any better. Perhaps there’s another approach, one we haven’t thought of (oops! sorry for that preposition). Bill

Europe's largest mosque - in Rome

The principal mosque in Rome is a world apart from the rest of this very Catholic city. Its postmodern decor is reserved; it has wide open spaces—corridors in the open air--and repetitious designs; it’s set in a green space divorced from any other city structures. After all the baroque churches of Rome, even my favorites by Borromini (who also loved repetition built into the architecture of his churches - I think he would have loved this building complex), I find the mosque beautiful and serene, an almost ethereal structure. Bill says it borders on boring (maybe all that Renaissance architecture is getting in his blood).

We both recommend a visit – Wednesday and Saturday 9:30-11 a.m. only, and of course then it is devoid of worshippers, which gives it an eerily empty feeling. (Directions at the end of this post.)

Women: be sure to wear something that covers your arms, no shorts, and you’ll need a scarf to cover your head. I was alert enough to wear appropriate clothing, but had no idea about the scarf and was lucky enough to borrow one from another visitor. Only a few visitors – you can wander around the mosque’s many separate sections on your own, and a couple group tours (all in Italian) were in evidence on a recent Wednesday morning.

It’s something of a miracle that the mosque, the largest in Europe, stands in Rome at all. It took the blessing of Pope John Paul II for it to be built. Controversy resulted in a minaret slightly less tall than St. Peter’s dome (39 meters (128 feet) vs. St. Peter’s 40 (130 feet), but the mosque is built in a very low area of Rome, so the minaret and main building are hardly visible from any distance, and no real threat to the imposing St. Peter’s dome, not too far away. The architectural competition was won by Paolo Portoghesi (with his then partner Vittorio Gigliotti and Iraqi architect Sami Mousawi) in 1976 and the building opened in 1995, funded mainly by Saudi money.

The mosque complex is nestled in a park-like area at the base of the ritzy Parioli district and very near a vast expanse of sports complexes along Acqua Acetosa (literally "vinegary water," but to the Italians that means very good water, a place Goethe liked to visit as well). And speaking of water, there wasn't much in evidence at the mosque. Like many other Rome monuments, the water supposed to be coursing down the main steps was not, and appeared not to have been running for some time.

A bonus: outside the mosque a large food stand was set up with a Muslim man and woman selling all types of prepared food. Of course, we went away with a large box of pistachio and honey-based desserts. A large market operates outside the mosque on Friday mornings, but you can’t visit on Fridays.

There is surprisingly little written on the mosque. See the following site for detailed architectural information: http://www.archnet.org/library/sites/one-site.jsp?site_id=1074 or, if you're lucky, find Frederika Randall's 1995 Wall Street Journal article. The city of Rome has some information in a badly - even humorously - translated website (the architects aren't Portuguese; one of the last names is Portoghese) at http://en.turismoroma.it/scoprire_roma/roma_religiosa/la_moschea Ingrid Rowland, writing about Palladio describes the elegance of the mosque in her New York Review of Books piece, covered by Bill in a later post.

Directions: from the Rome center: take the train just outside Piazza del Popolo (Metro A from Termini to Flaminio/Popolo) to the Campo Sportivi stop (you can use your same metro ticket – but this is the train, not the metro; the station is outside, north of Piazza del Popolo, on the side of Villa Borghese), and head back towards the city, towards the minaret, which you can see from there.

Dianne - and see our RST Top 40 piece on this signature mosque. For a bit more on Rome's ethnic presence, see a couple posts on Romanians (the gladiator controversy and a newsstand , the Pigneto neighborhood, Chinese (and other) stores near Piazza Vittorio, and some immigration controversy.  Oh, yes, and do eat a kebab.

Roma Sogna: 4-6 a.m.

The alarm goes off at 3:50, but it’s sticky humid, and by the time we shower and get our act together, it’s 4:15, and we’re coasting down the deliciously curving via Falconieri, seemingly motionless, Nanni Moretti style, toward via di Donna Olimpia. Unlike our early April 4 a.m. venture, the main streets, especially, have some vehicles, many of them white delivery trucks making their rounds. Night buses (n-plus the # - the ones that never come when you wait for them) are on the streets. Vans, buses, the few cars, scooters: whatever is out there is going fast; drivers seem to enjoy not just the possibilities of speed, but the thrill of blasting through the flashing yellow lights that replace the stop lights operating during the day

An all-night flower stand is the only enterprise we see open – near Porta San Pancrazio.

Past the porta, we drop down to Acqua Paola: a couple embracing at the fountain’s rim; four young people talking, in Italian, across from the fountain, where we are; two people barely visible around the corner. And that’s it.

A quick turn and up in the darkness—a sliver of a moon tonight and here, no street lights—to the top of the Gianicolo: where there would have been couples a few hours ago, there are now mostly men, talking and sipping beer, the spectacular view of the city, with the Colli Albani towns sparkling up in the distance, no longer relevant. A food truck, concentrated fluorescent energy, provides all the light we need.

Snaking down the north end of the Giancolo, coasting again in virtual silence, we cross the Tevere, turn left up the east bank, cruising sweetly, comfortably, in cool morning freedom. A food van, selling shaved ice and other delectables, is open, shining its neon on the pavement (photo, below).

Right at Piazza del Popolo, through the marble barriers, onto via del Corso.
Nobody around but many of the stores are lit up (more than in April), cars parked here and there--perhaps the vehicles of the workers dismantling the ACEA light show in the Piazza from the night before. Again, we’re enjoying driving on a street that’s reserved for pedestrians, though not in these wee hours, when there are delightfully none.

Left on via del Tritone, past a POLIZIA car on the right, I’m wondering if this is the moment we’ll get pulled over, however unlikely it seems. A brief pause for a red light at the corner where the blue "Il Messaggero" (one of the main daily papers) sign dominates above; we realize it’s the strong blue light we’ve observed before—though not tonight—from the Gianicolo.

Up via Veneto--we’re grateful there’s not much going on—and out the porta (gotta go right to go left here), and back through it, down the hill (you gotta go down to go up here) so we can get up above the Spanish steps. Some taxis at the top of the hill, waiting for morning fares at the expensive hotels. We pull over. The steps, and the street that runs into them, are completely deserted (photo above top). Sounds of singing and guitar playing from below, in that assertive Italian style (I think about going down and finding out who’s singing and where). A bicyclist comes into view, picks up his bike, puts it on his shoulder and starts up the steps, stopping about 1/3 of the way up, satisfied with his view.

Back on the bike, cruising past Villa Medici, around the hairpin turns above Piazza del Popolo, yellow no-parking tape everywhere, stopping above the piazza to watch 40 workmen take down the ACEA stuff.

Around the piazza, back on via del Corso, a right into Piazza Augusto Imperatore, the heart of Fascist monumental architecture. Ahead we see that a clothing store where we’d once seen Totti doing publicity has been closed. A right, then a left just before the Lungotevere . Another left (I hope you’re following on your maps) takes us into the end of Piazza Navona, curving around it to via Vittorio Emanuele II, during the day a bustling thoroughfare known for its traffic and palaces. We head for Campo dei Fiori, but turning right realize we’ve gone too far and retreat with a U-turn one couldn't make during the day, find where it’s tucked in, drive into the Campo—no other vehicles are moving there--and park. It’s getting light.

What looks like a family, with Mama in charge, is just starting to set up their fruit and vegetable stand; they’ve got the fruit and the stand’s coming together. But right now they’re the only ones, with the statue of the heretic Giordano Bruno glowering over them. At the northwest corner of the piazza we watch two bakers putting loaves of bread on metal sheets into an oven (photo below). A man emerges from a side street pulling a sled of frames for a fruit stand, as if he were a mule. We can’t quite believe that Palazzo Farnese is Palazzo Farnese, because there are no people around and the palace seems to lack the familiar reference points, but that’s what it is. The huge tub fountains (stolen from Roman baths), and the Palazzo, are flanked by metal barricades—maybe to keep the drunks out. A man—the only one in the Farnese piazza—yawns and stretches at a café table – where the tables and chairs have been left out, unchained, even though the café closed hours ago.

We head out on the scooter, along via Vittorio Emanuelle II, past the taxi stand at Piazza di Torre Argentina, to Piazza Venezia, where we stop at the only open cafe we’ve seen so far, on the west side of the monument. (We had expected all-night coffee bars, but this is the first bar we’ve seen open; a few others start to open as it approaches 6 a.m.) We order due caffe'Americani and due cornetti (Euro 4.20—an inflated “centro” price) and are amazed that there are other people around at 5:40: 3 Italian girls who haven’t yet slept, at least not in their own beds, in short shorts one rarely sees on Italians or Capri pants and clever shoes; several men, workers probably, including a skinny guy in a tight red shirt whose trim body I envy, enjoying his cornetto. Sometimes, Dianne observes, you can’t tell the people going to work from the people who’ve been up all night--until they order either a coffee or a beer. Outside, an American young man who’s been drinking the night away asks us where the Hotel Palatine is, and while we’re thinking (and guessing where it might be, and trying to figure out if he has any idea where the Coliseum is –he’s not exactly close), he breaks off the conversation: “I’ve got to catch up with my friends. Thanks.” A pink early morning sky.

It’s just 100 meters to Michelango’s gently-sloping stairs (the other set, to the left, is much older) to the Campidoglio, which we have to ourselves. It’s lovely up here. Dianne points out THE “She Wolf”—the most famous one in Rome, and I wish I had my own bit of knowledge to contribute. We note the place where, a few years ago, we saw the three-wheeled scooter introduced to much fanfare; a standard Italian metal sound stage from a concert the night before; huge piles of stacked chairs. Around back left to catch a look at the Forum, cool and, in its emptiness, fascinating. A car pulls up, a man dropping off his wife for work in the back building. We notice one wall of huge tufo blocks, another of stones cemented together, both ancient, marveling at what’s here, and how visible and compelling it is when there’s no human competition.

Below, in Piazza Venezia, the day buses are running their motors at the head of their lines, in anticipation of their 5:30 a.m. start. On the bike again, we pass Bocca della Verita' (a Roman-era sewer cover that’s now one of city’s major attractions) on the left, then right and upriver to cross the Tevere into the heart of Trastevere, pulling over and parking in the first piazza.

We walk north on via della Lungaretta, past a mumbling woman on the steps of a church, a nun walking quickly, broken bottles. Some garbage maintenance has been done here—full plastic bags line the streets--but there’s still much to do. At Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere, a newsstand prepares to open, the fountain in the center is poignant with beer bottles and plastic cups; two homeless men sleep in their not-so-private corners. On the trek back to the moto we pass a deeply tanned, extremely thin, fragile older woman, probably a drug addict, taking tiny steps in an effort to stay on her feet. At vicolo Del Cinque, pigeons pull apart a piece of doughy pizza. A very black black man stops at a nasone to wash up. He has a full backpack, but I’m not sure whether he’s going or coming, or from where. Dianne sees the words FORNO carved in stone above what is now a bar (they’re all bars, and beer is the drink they serve; a once-distinguished wine bar is now a birreria). At Piazza Trilussa, a blue plastic tote bag has been left behind.

Back to the bike for the home stretch: up viale Trastevere, chased by a bus, right on viale Quattro Venti, left at the fork onto via di Donna Olimpia, left on via Revoltella, and up the long, curved street between rows of sleeping cars, to home. As we take our things from the scooter--it’s about 6:30--we see a familiar small dog, then our always-cheerful newspaperwoman (the dog's owner); they're headed for her place of business directly below our apartment. She says "buon giorno." Her working day will end at 8:00 in the evening. We stop and buy a paper. Bill (with Dianne)

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

Capital Days

In a few days stretch recently, Rome hosted a G-8 meeting, was the scene of the world soccer championship finals, had a big national holiday (Republic Day, June 2), and was the last stage of the classic Italian bicycle tour (Giro d'Italia - photo at right near the beginning in front of the Vittoriano, in Piazza Venezia, with the rain just starting), celebrating its 100th year. Being visitors, and not having to get to and from work or figure out what to do with our kids on a holiday, we enjoy the hubbub (tho' it did upset my plans that Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi was in town today, closing down the Capitolini museums). Rome usually overreacts (in our HO) to all these events, closing more streets, businesses, and venues than it seems to us they need to, becoming an "armed city," as the papers say, and frustrating everyone.

Rome surprised us for the Giro d'Italia by being organized and yet not overly protective. In fact, we were shocked at how close we - and everyone else - could get to the riders, how easily anyone could cross the route, how friendly some of the police guarding the route were, and how fun it all was. The last stage was a time trial - so the riders went off at 1 and then 2 minute intervals. (Photo at right - police motorcycle escorts pulling out of the pool to run in advance of a rider; bottom of Trajan's column across the street.) For people who weren't that interested, we spent almost 3 hours watching the riders at various places, including turns and wet cobblestones (the winner, Russian Menchov, fell near the end - just out of our sight). It's a lovely sight to see Rome as the backdrop (and ground) for an exciting race; it shows off the city at its best (photo at left, rider coming off the Pincio - and several hairpin curves) into Piazza del Popolo).

The few photos here give some semblance of that feeling. (Photo below left, rider on via del Corso; below 2nd left, merchandise van - the winner of each stage wears a pink shirt (and, no, Mom didn't buy her the stuffed animal with Giro logo); last photo, bottom right, nearing the home stretch.) Dianne