COVID-19 messed up my summer vacation plans. I realize that I am hardly unique in this. I also realize that many many people would have been ecstatic to be stuck in the place where I live — Rome — during the summer. Still. I had more than enough work to keep me busy during the day but not many friends were in town nor did I have much energy to wander around in the devil’s fiery furnace that is Rome in August. A little depressed, a little bored, I needed a project.
I decided to build a dog museum. I can’t take credit for the idea, as much as I’d love to do so. Recently, I read about a bored artsy couple in London who created a fine arts museum for their gerbils, Pandoro and Tiramisu, while they were all in lockdown. The Gerbil Art Gallery featured gerbil-themed versions of famous artworks. It’s ridiculously adorable. Have a Google and you’ll see. I am far from being an artist but I thought I’d try my hand at some miniature paintings featuring Phryne and her pals. I emptied out a bookshelf and got to work. It was so much fun y’all.
Welcome to Il Museo di Phryne.
Here are the “artworks” in closeup.
The late lamented Morgan makes an appearance.
Reina with the pearl earring.
I knew that someday I’d end up in a museum. I couldn’t be this beautiful for nothing!
I’ve completely lost track of how long I’ve been stuck inside the apartment. March was around 7 000 days long and April, so they say, is the cruelest month. Fork you T.S. Eliot. The lockdown in Italy has been extended until the middle of the month, although we all know it will be longer. Easter, the biggest holiday of the Italian year, has effectively been cancelled. Meanwhile, the rate of new infections has slowed and the number of deaths remains pretty stable. That’s good news and an indication that self-isolation is working.
Obviously, we’re all still being super careful with the hand washing and mask wearing. Here’s how paranoid I have become. A few nights ago, I woke up around 3 am to have a pee. In a crucial aside, Phryne likes to carry things in her mouth (see Exhibits A and B below). When she is bored, she grabs whatever low hanging fruit she can find (books, toiletries, Tupperware from the bottom shelf in the pantry) and walks around with the thing for a few minutes giving me the side eye until she loses interest and drops it on the floor. On the night in question, she fished a used sterile glove out of the trash at some point and deposited it on my bedroom floor. Naturally, I stepped on it on my way to the bathroom. After I got back into bed I worried and fretted for way too long before getting up and washing my feet in the bidet for three go-throughs of Happy Birthday.
Exhibit A A slightly blurry Exhibit B
At this point, many of the people reading this blog are having the same experience as I am. Here in Rome, we’re just slogging along. No more singing on the balconies, no more applause sessions for hospital workers. Life is pretty boring. I’m reading and cooking (and eating and sleeping) a lot. My hands are super clean and they look like I’m a thousand years old from being washed 75 times per day. I’m having lots of Zoom coffee dates and cocktail hours. That’s great actually. I’ve started to clean out my junk room after ten years of talking about it. We’re not supposed to go far from the house and we need to carry a little document saying why we need to be out. The fines for scofflaws are huge. It’s super weird to think of Rome as being all but deserted. Imagine how cool it would be under different circs to have the Colosseum or the Vatican all to yourself. The dogs are moping around and even Reina (who usually hides when a walk is in the offing) races to the door when it is time to go outside. Phryne is desperate to play — she looks out the window a lot and cries when another dog walks by. Fortunately, we have a hilly little patch of ground in back of the building so they can run around a bit.
Listen, mopey whining aside, I know exactly how fortunate I am. I have plenty of work and, since I’ve worked at home for years, I’m already in the groove (much more distractible though; I look at the coronavirus statistics a million times a day). I’ve got a fantastic view right onto the park, although I can’t yet go inside.
There are worse views, I’ll grant you.
I’m safe and warm. There’s plenty of toilet paper and a handful of well-stocked shops in the neighbourhood. I’ve got the dogs and the UV here to keep me company and to tell me everything I am doing wrong housekeeping-wise. I think of all the people who are out of work, without a safety net, who have had to close down their shops and restaurants, maybe forever. This will not be an easy thing to bounce back from. Most of all I think of the amazing health workers who are risking so much to keep us safe. And the individuals, organizations and companies who are being so generous with their time and money, making and donating masks and other critical supplies. It seems clear to me that at the end of the day this crisis will be overcome, despite the governments, through the efforts of ordinary people coming together to make a difference. And that’s kinda great.
On the second of July I broke my back. Here’s how it happened. I was in the park with The Morgster (henceforth known as ‘The Assailant’). It was about 10 am and I hadn’t had my coffee. I add these two details because, as anyone who knows me can attest, I am pretty useless before noon and quadruply so without coffee coursing through my veins. And by the way, I was looking at my phone, not paying attention to what might be transpiring around me (Kids! Let this be a lesson to you: Don’t text and walk!). What was transpiring was that Morgan spied a dog with whom he did not see eye to eye. He lunged and because he was on the leash and I wasn’t paying attention, I lost my balance and somehow ended up flying through the air and landing flat on my back in a ditch. At which point Morgan abandoned the argument with other dog and trotted over to sit down next to me like a little gentleman.
Who me? I wouldn’t hurt a fly!
Morgan — sorry, The Assailant — is not a large dog and this was highly embarrassing. Or it would have been if I had been able to form one coherent thought beyond OWWWWWWWW!!!!! There was a guy hanging out nearby with his own dog and he came over right away to see if I was okay. I quite literally could not speak since the breath was completely knocked out of me. I waved my hands around a bit in an attempt to indicate that I needed a minute. Once I got my breath back I knew that there was no way that I was going to be able to get up on my own. But the nice man stayed with me for the 30 minutes and two false starts it took him to get me to my feet. He asked if I wanted him to call an ambulance but because I am an idiot and had forgotten the first law of back trauma, which anyone who has ever seen even one episode of Emergency knows by heart: don’t get up and don’t move, I insisted on walking myself home. Fortunately, home was just across the street. I’m not sure how I made it: my ears were ringing to beat the band and I could barely see for all of the stars flashing in front of my eyes. Naturally, The Assailant took this moment to have a poop. I’ll go back and pick it up later guys.
Once I got home I flopped down on the couch and passed out or fell asleep because the next thing I knew it was several hours later. The pain was almost unbearable and there was no way I was getting off that couch. I called the Upstairs Vegetarian at work and she came home right away. Then came the ambulance.
That was amusing. In walked a couple of burly fellow, not unpleasing to the eye. They tied me to a plank and then argued a bit as to how to get me downstairs (I’m on the first floor — second if you’re used to American floor counting). They decided not to risk taking the 10 stairs to the lobby and propped me up in the tiny elevator, plank and all, like a flatpack Ikea bookcase.
We went to Salvator Mundi, a private clinic which is nearby, well-known to me and air-conditioned, a key consideration given the extreme heat that we’re experiencing this summer.Also, a friend of a friend works for an orthopedic surgeon there. I was a bit disappointed that they didn’t put on the siren, a very familiar sound in the streets of Rome so how come my injury didn’t make the grade? Once I got there, everything happened pretty quickly (another reason I chose the private clinic): X-ray, diagnosis, bill paying. I had broken two vertebrae: the L2 and D12 for those of you who take an interest in such things. I was to spend three weeks completely immobile in bed, after which I could be up a few hours a day as long as I sported a horrifyingly uncomfortable metal brace. If I was lucky and did as I was told, I’d be good as new in 3-4 months.
The UV buggered off to Canada for hols almost immediately but fortunately my cleaner and dog walker (who are married to each other) were able to move into her place upstairs so that they were on hand to take care of the two dogs (The Assailant and his gun moll, the UV’s dog Reina) and me. In fairness to the UV, her buggering off was planned before my fall occurred, she was only gone two weeks and she has been looking after me ever since her return.
When one faces a prolonged period of invalidism, it is only natural to fantasize about all of the things that can be accomplished once the drugs kick in and it no longer feels like you are going to die from pain every time you take a breath or move a muscle. Or at least that’s what I reckoned. Here’s what I hoped to accomplish: write at least 100 pages of my novel (didn’t Marcel Proust and Frida Kahlo get started this way?); work out my finances; figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Here’s what I actually got accomplished: watched the first two seasons of Orange is the New Black; watched all seven seasons of Parks and Recreation (Please and Thank You); read a 700 page book on Gabriele D’Annunzio; had many naps. I also got pretty good at the bed pan and managed to — sort of — keep my sense of humor. I was even able to do a bit of work by propping the computer against my knees and using an external keyboard balanced on a couple of pillows at my side. I’d claim patent pending but the setup gave me carpal tunnel so there are clearly a few kinks yet to work out.
The memory of the pain has started to fade a bit and I’m back on my feet for at least part of the day. I’m pleased it wasn’t worse, which it might have been given the fact that I am super clumsy and have the bones of a sparrow. I’m sad that I missed most of the summer but, as people have told me, no one has been going out and having fun because it’s about a million degrees outside. I haven’t noticed much remorse on the part of the dog.
Here’s a yarn with a nice backstory so I’ll start with that. Many years ago, not long after I moved to Rome, I got a call from a couple of new friends asking if I wanted to go for a drive in the country, maybe grab some lunch. It was Sunday, I agreed and off we went. We drove about 40 minutes in some direction or other (southwest as I later learned) and happened upon a little restaurant hidden in a valley surrounded by woods and agriculture. There was some sort of medieval castle next door and a load of old men playing bocce in the square. (There’s also, as it turns out, a cantina downwind selling eponymous wine, honey and pasta made from farro). Aside: I hoped to impress the non-bocce enthusiasts amongst you with some skinny on how the game is played — to me it just looks like a bunch of beardies throwing balls at another ball — but I couldn’t be bothered to read all of the millions of pages that the Interwebs devote to the subject. Suffice it to say that bocce dates back to the Ancient Romans, who played with coconuts brought back from Africa, and — this tidbit alone is worth the price of admission — according to legend, Sir Frances Drake refused to defend England against the Spanish Armada until he finished his bocce game. He proclaimed, “First we finish the game, then we’ll deal with the Armada.” Hee.
Getting back to the backstory: as I remember it, the day was perfect; dogs and cats snaked their way around the outdoor tables, searching for handouts; the food was simple and delicious; lunch lasted for hours. It was — as a colleague was to remark much later — like being in an olive oil commercial. Afterwards, I drove back to Rome with my friends and fell into my normal routine, which, believe me was nothing like being in an olive oil commercial. I thought about the restaurant often, but since none of us had paid any attention to how we got there, we had no idea how to get back.
Some years later, I was sitting in my office when a colleague rushed in, overwrought. By that time my office had moved from central Rome to Maccarese, an agricultural estate on the sea. “I have just found the most amazing restaurant,” he cried. “It’s in the middle of nowhere and it is everything you imagined Italy could be.” Another expatriate craving the perfect Italian experience, needless to say. We went there the next day and, you can probably guess what I found. Yup. It was my olive oil commercial. It hadn’t changed a bit.
This is what Trattoria da Maurizio looks like if you get there early or stay late.
The restaurant is called Trattoria da Maurizio. It’s located in a tiny town called Torrimpietra. The aforementioned castle — as I learned during subsequent visits — dates to the 13th Century. Apparently there was also once a fortress there that was built in ye olde Roman times. Not sure why that was — the sea is close by, but not that close. Back then, my office was only a few minutes away and we went there whenever we could afford to take a nice long lunch — not an everyday thing in Italy I assure you. Usually a nice long lunch coincided with a birthday or some other occasion that was particularly worthy of note, e.g., summer.
Aside #2: In September 1943, the Germans having occupied Rome and the towns to the south, some SS forces were camping out near Palidoro — the next town over from Torrimpietra — in an old Italian military installation. I also heard a story that those guys were staying in the castle at Torrimpietra and they used to get drunk and ride their motorcycles up and down the stairs and shoot at the birds painted on the frescoed ceilings. Anyway, on 22 September, these knuckleheads were poking around in a box of abandoned munitions, which blew up in their faces, killing one German and wounding another two. They immediately rounded up 22 random locals and got ready to carry out the reprisals of which the Germans were so fond. They demanded the cooperation of the local branch of the military police or carabinieri, which was located at Torrimpietra and under the temporary command of 22-year old Naples-born Salvo d’Aquisito. That’s him below.
Salvo d’Aquisito
BTW, has anyone noticed how many 22s there are in this story? 22 September; 22 locals; Salvo was 22. Coincidence? Anyway, Salvo stood up to the Germans, insisting that the explosion had been an accident and trying to persuade them to let the prisoners go. The Germans roughed him up and tore his uniform, which is pretty much the worst thing you can do to a carabiniere. Especially these days when the carabinieri uniforms are designed by Valentino — true story. Next the Germans made the prisoners dig a big mass grave for themselves. Just in the nick of time, Salvo ‘confessed’ to the crime. He was executed and the prisoners were set free. Today, Salvo is celebrated as a big carabinieri icon. The young hero was posthumously awarded the Golden Medal of Military Valour. He was buried in the church of Santa Chiara in Naples, alongside the odd Neapolitan king and the brains of St. Louis of Toulouse. There have been movies, stamps and apparently Salvo just lacks a few miracles before he is named the first World War II soldier saint.
Salvo’s stamp – 1975.
A few weeks ago the Upstairs Vegetarian suggested a day out in the country and off to Da Maurizio we went. I’d not been there in about four years. We had a lovely lunch.
What looks good?Bruschetta, three ways.Spaghetti with porcini mushrooms for the U.V. Maurizio’s wife is Cuban and makes this delicious bean dish with pancetta.Scamorza, alias melted cheese, for the U.V. I ordered a hunk o’meat for myself but apparently I was distracted from taking a photo by what came next…
So, you ask, what did come next? That would be Ms. Reina Jaymes (alt spelling, Rayna). I should preface all of this by saying that the Upstairs Vegetarian has been angsting and kvetching about getting a dog for ages. I have been in favor of the plan, mindful as I am that the Morgster could use a bit more canine company to help overcome his conviction that, much like Pinocchio, he is a real boy. Yes, I know that he spends endless hours in the dog park but most of that is spent preening around the grown ups, looking for strokes and treats. I have sent her dozens of photos and adoptions pleas over the past year culled from the many many dog shelter sites that I somehow subscribe to but she’s never paid much attention. She insisted that she was looking for a Dog of Destiny who would appear at just the right time, in just the right way, ringing the doorbell and crying “Mama.” I don’t really believe in that sort of nonsense. But then, just as our lunch was drawing to a close, we looked over at the next table and there she was. The world’s cutest tiny puppy. And she was looking for a home. Destiny Dog.
The Morgster meets his new BFF.
Five minutes later, the U.V. had a new puppy and Morgan had a new best friend. Finding the right name took a bit of doing. But the U.V. finally settled on Rayna Jaymes, named after the main character on her favourite TV show, Nashville. Only it’s spelled Reina, which means ‘queen’ in Spanish, so as to be maximally confusing. Rayna Jaymes, in case you don’t know, is played by the magical Ms. Connie Britton, who played Tami Taylor on Friday Night Lights and whose hair has its own blog. So there you go. Stay tuned for many doggy adventures to come.
Yesterday was a bright bright sunshiny day, which inspired me to make an exception to my normal Saturday morning practice of lying on the couch and napping while watching the news. Instead, I headed across the street to the park rather earlier than usual. It was lunchtime and the place was packed to the gills with picnickers.
This is my favorite tree in Villa Pamphili. I can see it from my window.
I don’t know if I have mentioned this before but there is somewhat of a design flaw in the area cani in Villa Pamphili: it is only place in the park where there are picnic tables. So naturally the picnickers all flock there. But it is also one of the few places that dogs can be off-leash. You may be able to imagine the rest. Here’s the scenario that I have seen play out about 100 million times: picnickers organize a nice spread in the area cani at one of the tables or perhaps on a blanket on the ground. They may not even know it’s the dog zone because the signs denoting it as such are only up for a few days about every three months since they get knocked down by vandals almost immediately. Idiots. So, the picnickers are happily eating their pasta and whatever and all of the dogs in the zone (and because it’s a nice day for picnicking, there are plenty of dogs) come over and start nosing around. It’s more of an issue for the on-the-ground picnics than for the ones on the table although there is one dog who shall be nameless (his name rhymes with Gorgan) who believes that the picnic tables are his own personal domain — he likes to jump on them the better to observe his kingdom — and he has no qualms about jumping onto a picnic table full of food (and once, smack dab in the middle of a birthday cake). Then the picnickers yell at the dog owners, “Get your dog out of here!!!” and the dog owners yell at the picnickers, “This is the dog area. If you don’t want to deal with dogs, go somewhere else!” And they continue to yell at each other until everyone’s day is ruined. Ball-throwers and kite-flyers face the same degree of canine interest in the dog zone and the results are usually the same.
This is MY table!
Lately I’ve noticed that Morgan has a new routine. He runs over to a blanket where a picnic is occurring and sticks his head directly into the first purse, backpack or bag he can find. If the purse or backpack is zipped, he starts pulling on the zipper with his teeth. He’s not succeeded with that yet but it’s just a matter of time.
Let’s just see what they have brought for me, shall we?
The picnickers — for the most part teenagers — are usually distracted by how awesome and cool they are (and are frequently, shall we say, entwined) so they don’t see him at first. When they do, he immediately launches a major charm offensive, rolling on his back with his legs up in the air, rubbing against them like a cat and just generally being adorable (which he is).
They’re hooked. Now what’s in it for me?
After a few minutes of this, the picnickers are oohing and ahhing at Morgan’s cuteness and he generally scores a bit of pizza crust out of the deal. And then he immediately runs to the next picnic blanket and starts all over again. Genius. He hit six picnics yesterday and got a little snack at every one of them! BTW, there is a subset of the Italian teen — female persuasion — who thinks she’ll be more attractive to boys if she’s afraid of dogs so when Morgan approaches this idiot she’ll go, “Oooh help! I am so afraid! Protect me!” I’m like, “Moron. This dog is the size of your average kitty cat. Get a life.”
This weekend, Eataly held its second annual street food festival and my friend Daniela and I went along to check it out. It was splendid.
Eataly — which occupies a beautifully redesigned train station — is a combination farmer’s market, supermarket, food court and learning centre.
The deal was that you bought chips (known as gettone, which are also the name of the things you used to use to make phone calls back in ye olde days of phone booths) and exchanged them for different street foods available around the food court. In addition to Italian street food (think pizza, focaccia and gelato), there were plates dedicated to Germany (currywurst), China (porky dumplings), Greece (gyros), Morocco (cous-cous), Vietnam (bahn mi), Thailand (pad thai), Mexico (chicken tacos), Spain (paella), Argentine (empanadas) and the USA (cupcakes — snore). As usual, my eyes were way bigger than my stomach and I bought four gettone. But after a chicken taco and a trapizzino filled with picchiapò, (peek-ee-ya-poe), which is a spiced boiled beef stew and one of my favorite words ever (it means ‘a little beat up’), I was done. That may have also had something to do with all of the free cheese on offer, of which I partook heavily. I used my leftover chips on take-home dumplings from the Chinese vender. Dinner!
Yesterday was lovely — sunny and breezy — so the Upstairs Vegetarian and I took ourselves to the beach. But not just any beach. Bau Beach is a beach for dogs, so named because Italian dogs say bau-bau instead of bow-wow. And that’s not all: Italian roosters say chicchirichí instead of cocka-doodle-doo; sheep say beee instead of baaa; frogs say cra-cra instead of croak-croak; donkeys say i-oo, i-oo rather than heehaw; and mice don’t squeak, they go squitt squitt. Interesting eh?
It was the Morgster’s first trip to the seaside, although he’s been to the dog beach at Lago di Martignano several times. He loved it. There were tons of dogs on the beach, all racing around, digging holes in the ground and surfing the waves. Very chaotic but great fun. Bau Beach is in Maccarese, a short drive from Rome. An annual pass costs 10 Euros.
Welcome to Bau Beach!
Each pup gets a water bowl and a dog-sized umbrella.
This is what Trattoria da Maurizio looks like if you get there early or stay late.
What looks good?
Bruschetta, three ways.
Spaghetti with porcini mushrooms for the U.V.
Maurizio’s wife is Cuban and makes this delicious bean dish with pancetta.
Scamorza, alias melted cheese, for the U.V. I ordered a hunk o’meat for myself but apparently I was distracted from taking a photo by what came next…
The Morgster meets his new BFF.
Introducing Ms Rayna (spelled Reina) Jaymes!
This is my favorite tree in Villa Pamphili. I can see it from my window.
This is MY table!
Let’s just see what they have brought for me, shall we?
Eataly — which occupies a beautifully redesigned train station — is a combination farmer’s market, supermarket, food court and learning centre.
My Life: Part Two 