Rome VII

Afternoon. Homs Hotel, din of the Via Frattina below my window. What I said about the recovery of my foot was premature, and I returned here literally faint with pain, so every now and then I had to touch a wall for support. Before scurrying back, I went to Castle San Angelo and to the Vatican, where there were such colossal lines I am content this time to see everything from the outside. Clergy of all sorts fluttered en masse around Saint Peter’s. Chairs for something gobbled up the Piazza. It was good to be in the neighborhoods I knew the first time I came. It was almost familiar. Was drinking and eating my salad when two girls from Glasgow sat down. We had a lively talk, and they were the first ones who ever pointed out to me definitively the location of the Jewish Quarter. Will go there soon if my foot wills, if not, tomorrow.

Evening. Strolled Via del Corso for as long as I could before pain sent me staggering back. Would still be there, just watching, watching. . . “and we fain would stay out long and late.” Attended a service in one of the twin churches on the Piazza del Populo, the one nearest the river. The organist chanted and a choir of men, whom I couldn’t see, responded sweetly, angelically. Outside gathered the youth of Rome, mostly in black, Gothed-out and high on one another, boys chasing girls, girls chasing boys, a little violent and desperate. I couldn’t read the signals being sent by the black clothes and the make-up and the decorations, but, then, I wasn’t meant to. Such strutting and posing!  Most of it was simulated rapine, engaged in heartily by both sides. The same could probably be seen in the same place four hundred years ago, with a slight alteration of dress. I don’t think these were the A list of Roman youth, but a mixture of middle class rebels and aspiring street kids. They were too unsure of their identities to have very firm ones. No Pamphili or Colonna among them.

The African panhandler/vendors fold up their leather goods and sunglasses and cheap crafts into sheets and run down the alleys when they see the carbonnieri approach. Then when the danger is past, they haul everything out again and begin arranging the goods in the same meticulous rows. Seems a terrible way to run a business, nor have I ever seen anyone actually buy from them. The carbonnieri wear faintly ridiculous hats, I assume so that they may be seen coming and everyone avoids actual contact.  My attitudes toward poverty and begging have been challenged by this journey. I’ve sat at a café table and been approach eleven times (I counted) by different hawkers selling the same rejected item. One time I bought a carving, and was approached the next night at the same place by the same man, certain that if I’d been a mark once I would be again. On one hand, this should not have to be endured. On the other hand, one should always be reminded of the poor and needy. On another hand, these are generally NOT the poor and needy, but parasites who count on irking or shaming a few euros out of their victims, whom one has seen parking their cars and getting out, perfectly healthy, and adopting a limp or a miserable look on the way to the hunting grounds. Will says the gypsies are liars and thieves and the African or Bangladeshi immigrants are frightened and without resources. If true, this cleans things up a little. Why shouldn’t one be punished for pretending to be needy as one is punished for pretending to be a doctor or a PhD.? Real harm is done by all.

On the Piazza di Cavour I played a tiny game of soccer with a tiny boy.

Sounds from the street in my window. It is almost enough.