fall ramblings
September has always been my favourite month. partially because my birthday falls right in the middle of the month, and partially because September is just so lovely. near Seattle, where i grew up, September feels far more summery than June. the days are long and warm, with just a hint of freshness to the air. and glory of glories, September in Rome is just as delightful. the early mornings and evenings cool down to a comfortable 65 degrees (18 degrees Celsius) and even though the high temperatures still climb into the mid-eighties, the heat seems a little more gentle rather than oppressive.
as we settle into more of a routine here, i find myself noticing new things walking along routes i've traveled dozens of times. my mind swings between the yin and yang of dopamine and oxytocin ... the exhilaration of spotting something new and unexpected, tempered with the sweetness of relaxing into auto-pilot for a few minutes. how have i never seen that inscription before? i wonder what it signifies ... and then the next minute, turning down a side street without having to consult the map or even looking for the street name carved into the wall, because i recognize the awning on the corner.
i had just such a moment walking down the street to the grocery store on Thursday. i had just passed the Chiesa di Santo Spirito when i looked up and saw a huge orange building looming to the left, with a sign clearly stating Scuola Pontificia Pio IX -- the very school i've been researching for Greta. sure enough, in addition to the secondary and primary schools, the sign read "Scuola dell'infanzia" (the program for 3- to 5-year-olds). i've walked past this school at least three times a week since we've been here and never connected the dots. as i write this nearly a week later, i've just had a phone conversation with the lovely English teacher there (to translate for the Italian-speaking secretary, also on the line) and am waiting for them to send me more information about tuition and bureaucratic requirements (i.e. does she need to see an Italian pediatrician here for a medical certification of health prior to starting school? in a perfect world, they would just need to see her US vaccine records, but my gut tells me we're in for some hoop-jumping). but if we can get all the details worked out, it seems like a wonderful place for her. there are 18 kids to a class and the teacher told me there are several other English-speaking expat students in the program. they meet five days a week from 9 AM to 1 PM with various extracurricular activities in the afternoon.
the girls are settling into more of a routine at home as well (minus one night when Cecilia was up, singing loudly to herself until 10 p.m. when she then started wailing, which then set Greta off). but most of the time, they're happy to play various imaginary games, or "watch T.B." as Cecilia calls it (favourites include Masha e Orso - Masha and the Bear in Italian), or color.
on the cooking front, i managed to make a pretty decent carbonara if i do say so myself. the Italian version is made with guanciale (pork jowl) rather than bacon, and certainly no peas or mushrooms. the version i used to make instructed you to mix the egg yolks into the warm pasta first, followed by the cheese. the sauce is much creamier, however, when you mix the egg and cheese together first, as in this traditional recipe.
Friday night, we decided to take la passeggiata up the Janiculum Hill for gelato. it's amazing how much shorter the walk seems the second time around -- i guess because your neurons don't have to process every little piece of sensory input they come across, or at least we're not conscious of the processing. the gelato from the little food truck in the Piazzale Garabaldi is overpriced and somewhat grainy, but even "bad" ice cream is better than no ice cream. Greta ordered her new favorite, fragola (strawberry), Cecilia had vaniglia (cream with a lemon zest), and i had stracciatella (chocolate chip). after finishing our ice cream, we continued along the hill for a minute to find the little merry-go-round we'd been told exists.
well, we were in for a surprise. calling this a merry-go-round is like calling St. Peter's Basilica a chapel. it's a neon arcade + mini amusement park + ball pit that looks like Chuck E Cheese if Chuck E Cheese put hallucinogenic mushrooms on its pizza. and it's called Bimbo Time, just to put the icing on the cake. (bimbo is the completely innocent Italian word for baby, but still.)
throwing caution to the wind, we let Greta play in the ball pit (€3 for 10 minutes) and the girls rode the carousel several times. Greta's favourite ride was a little space ship that followed a slow, elliptical orbit while playing Peppa Pig on a screen inside.
in closing, i've been binge-listening to The Bittersweet Life podcast about the expat life in Rome, produced by two Seattle natives (one has lived here for 10+ years, one lived here for a year and returns to visit often). it's full of practical tips and relatable discussions about adjusting to life here. in a super crazy small-world twist, they actually interviewed the wife of the previous musician here in a few of their earliest episodes! but i say all this to share that on the episode i listened to today, they read this passage from Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Marble Faun. Rome is captivating, frustrating, beautiful, unkempt, irresistible and maddening. Hawthorne says it better than i ever could:
"When we have once known Rome, and left her where she lies, like a long-decaying corpse, retaining a trace of the noble shape it was, but with accumulated dust and a fungous growth overspreading all its more admirable features--left her, in utter weariness, no doubt, of her narrow, crooked, intricate streets, so uncomfortably paved with little squares of lava that to tread over them is a penitential pilgrimage; so indescribably ugly, moreover so cold, so alley-like, into which the sun never falls, and where a chill wind forces its deadly breath into our lungs--left her, tired of the sight of those immense seven-storied, yellow-washed hovels, or call them palaces, where all that is dreary in domestic life seems magnified and multiplied, and weary of climbing those staircases, which ascend from a ground floor of cook-shops, cobblers' stalls, stables and regiments of cavalry, to a middle region of princes, cardinals, and ambassadors, and an upper tier of artists, just beneath the unattainable sky--left her, worn out with shivering at the cheerless and smoky fireside by day, and feasting with our own substance the ravenous population of a Roman bed at night--left her, sick at heart of Italian trickery, which has uprooted whatever faith in man's integrity had endured till now, and sick at stomach of sour bread, sour wine, rancid butter and bad cookery, needlessly bestowed on evil meats--left her, disgusted with the pretense of holiness and the reality of nastiness, each equally omnipresent--left her, half lifeless from the languid atmosphere, the vital principle of which has been used up long ago or corrupted by myriads of slaughters--left her, crushed down in spirit by the desolation of her ruin, and the hopelessness of her future--left herein short, hating her with all our might, and adding our individual curse to the infinite anathema which her old crimes have unmistakably brought down--when we have left Rome in such a mood as this we are astonished by the discovery, by and by, that our heartstrings have mysteriously attached themselves to the Eternal City, and are drawing us thitherward again, as if it were more familiar, more intimately our home, than even the spot where we were born."
as we settle into more of a routine here, i find myself noticing new things walking along routes i've traveled dozens of times. my mind swings between the yin and yang of dopamine and oxytocin ... the exhilaration of spotting something new and unexpected, tempered with the sweetness of relaxing into auto-pilot for a few minutes. how have i never seen that inscription before? i wonder what it signifies ... and then the next minute, turning down a side street without having to consult the map or even looking for the street name carved into the wall, because i recognize the awning on the corner.
 |
| crest of Pope Pius IV (born Giovanni Medici), date 1564, on the wall next to what is now the pedestrian ramp down to the Borgo district adjacent to the Vatican. i've walked past it literally 25 times without seeing it. |
i had just such a moment walking down the street to the grocery store on Thursday. i had just passed the Chiesa di Santo Spirito when i looked up and saw a huge orange building looming to the left, with a sign clearly stating Scuola Pontificia Pio IX -- the very school i've been researching for Greta. sure enough, in addition to the secondary and primary schools, the sign read "Scuola dell'infanzia" (the program for 3- to 5-year-olds). i've walked past this school at least three times a week since we've been here and never connected the dots. as i write this nearly a week later, i've just had a phone conversation with the lovely English teacher there (to translate for the Italian-speaking secretary, also on the line) and am waiting for them to send me more information about tuition and bureaucratic requirements (i.e. does she need to see an Italian pediatrician here for a medical certification of health prior to starting school? in a perfect world, they would just need to see her US vaccine records, but my gut tells me we're in for some hoop-jumping). but if we can get all the details worked out, it seems like a wonderful place for her. there are 18 kids to a class and the teacher told me there are several other English-speaking expat students in the program. they meet five days a week from 9 AM to 1 PM with various extracurricular activities in the afternoon.
 |
| ten-year-old me would have killed to go to school in a building like this. actually, i want to go to school there now. |
the girls are settling into more of a routine at home as well (minus one night when Cecilia was up, singing loudly to herself until 10 p.m. when she then started wailing, which then set Greta off). but most of the time, they're happy to play various imaginary games, or "watch T.B." as Cecilia calls it (favourites include Masha e Orso - Masha and the Bear in Italian), or color.
 |
| using hairbows as earrings |
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| her penchant for taking off her clothes has us constantly trying to persuade her to pose like a cherub |
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| ballet on the garden bench at the college |
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| i call this the "giant pineapple tree" and will be very sad if that doesn't turn out to be its real name. |
on the cooking front, i managed to make a pretty decent carbonara if i do say so myself. the Italian version is made with guanciale (pork jowl) rather than bacon, and certainly no peas or mushrooms. the version i used to make instructed you to mix the egg yolks into the warm pasta first, followed by the cheese. the sauce is much creamier, however, when you mix the egg and cheese together first, as in this traditional recipe.
 |
| dinner al fresco, with a glass of wine from a bottle that cost €2 but tastes like it cost €20 = winning |
Friday night, we decided to take la passeggiata up the Janiculum Hill for gelato. it's amazing how much shorter the walk seems the second time around -- i guess because your neurons don't have to process every little piece of sensory input they come across, or at least we're not conscious of the processing. the gelato from the little food truck in the Piazzale Garabaldi is overpriced and somewhat grainy, but even "bad" ice cream is better than no ice cream. Greta ordered her new favorite, fragola (strawberry), Cecilia had vaniglia (cream with a lemon zest), and i had stracciatella (chocolate chip). after finishing our ice cream, we continued along the hill for a minute to find the little merry-go-round we'd been told exists.
well, we were in for a surprise. calling this a merry-go-round is like calling St. Peter's Basilica a chapel. it's a neon arcade + mini amusement park + ball pit that looks like Chuck E Cheese if Chuck E Cheese put hallucinogenic mushrooms on its pizza. and it's called Bimbo Time, just to put the icing on the cake. (bimbo is the completely innocent Italian word for baby, but still.)
 |
| nightmare or dream come true? just looking at this gives me the munchies |
 |
| this will never stop being funny to us |
 |
| definitely no seatbelts or buckles. and i think that little chain is more of a tripping hazard than a safety feature |
throwing caution to the wind, we let Greta play in the ball pit (€3 for 10 minutes) and the girls rode the carousel several times. Greta's favourite ride was a little space ship that followed a slow, elliptical orbit while playing Peppa Pig on a screen inside.
 |
| building the microbiome, building the microbiome, building the microbiome |
in closing, i've been binge-listening to The Bittersweet Life podcast about the expat life in Rome, produced by two Seattle natives (one has lived here for 10+ years, one lived here for a year and returns to visit often). it's full of practical tips and relatable discussions about adjusting to life here. in a super crazy small-world twist, they actually interviewed the wife of the previous musician here in a few of their earliest episodes! but i say all this to share that on the episode i listened to today, they read this passage from Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Marble Faun. Rome is captivating, frustrating, beautiful, unkempt, irresistible and maddening. Hawthorne says it better than i ever could:
"When we have once known Rome, and left her where she lies, like a long-decaying corpse, retaining a trace of the noble shape it was, but with accumulated dust and a fungous growth overspreading all its more admirable features--left her, in utter weariness, no doubt, of her narrow, crooked, intricate streets, so uncomfortably paved with little squares of lava that to tread over them is a penitential pilgrimage; so indescribably ugly, moreover so cold, so alley-like, into which the sun never falls, and where a chill wind forces its deadly breath into our lungs--left her, tired of the sight of those immense seven-storied, yellow-washed hovels, or call them palaces, where all that is dreary in domestic life seems magnified and multiplied, and weary of climbing those staircases, which ascend from a ground floor of cook-shops, cobblers' stalls, stables and regiments of cavalry, to a middle region of princes, cardinals, and ambassadors, and an upper tier of artists, just beneath the unattainable sky--left her, worn out with shivering at the cheerless and smoky fireside by day, and feasting with our own substance the ravenous population of a Roman bed at night--left her, sick at heart of Italian trickery, which has uprooted whatever faith in man's integrity had endured till now, and sick at stomach of sour bread, sour wine, rancid butter and bad cookery, needlessly bestowed on evil meats--left her, disgusted with the pretense of holiness and the reality of nastiness, each equally omnipresent--left her, half lifeless from the languid atmosphere, the vital principle of which has been used up long ago or corrupted by myriads of slaughters--left her, crushed down in spirit by the desolation of her ruin, and the hopelessness of her future--left herein short, hating her with all our might, and adding our individual curse to the infinite anathema which her old crimes have unmistakably brought down--when we have left Rome in such a mood as this we are astonished by the discovery, by and by, that our heartstrings have mysteriously attached themselves to the Eternal City, and are drawing us thitherward again, as if it were more familiar, more intimately our home, than even the spot where we were born."
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