Rome

Roaming Rome: Phalluses and fallacies

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One thing that struck me with Rome is the sheer number of phalluses on display. The Italians clearly like dicking around, as anything from pasta to limoncello bottles come in the shape of erect penises.

Interesting ancient dick fact #1: To Ancient Romans, “penis” was not the clinical term for the male appendix, but a dirty word.

Interesting ancient dick fact #2: Erections were seen as amulets of good fortune, and used to adorn buildings.

I’m not sure if this explains their prolific presence today, but there you go. Most popular of all is David’s member, which features on everything from buttons to aprons. If you’re not impressed by his size (the supposed correlation between big hands and other big things certainly doesn’t prove true in his case), there are surgically enhanced versions on offer, too. Strangely, David himself isn’t here – the actual statue is in Florence, much to the chagrin of my co-traveller.

My, what big… hands.

In the Vatican and elsewhere, most statues have had their willies chopped off and/or fig leaves added to them, as later Christians found the nakedness an effrontery. There are other, more symbolic phalluses on display however that were more difficult to do away with. Nothing is new under the sun; Much like latter-day developers, the Ancient Romans liked their erections… erect. They went to the trouble of bringing back obelisks from Egypt and put them in prominent places, for instance.

One of my favourite remnants of that time is Trajan’s Column. It gets feminist flak for falling in the same category, but nothing could be further from the truth: ingenious construction, propaganda and grave monument rolled into one, calling the pillar a cock-up would be a phallus-y fallacy.

It depicts emperor Trajan’s two wars against Dacia (present-day Rumania) in a long series of panels circling the pillar, and since it does so in chronological order it is arguably one of the first comic book stories in the world. The panels and lettering get slightly bigger towards the top, thus making it easier to follow the story all the way to the top of the behemoth (it’s nearly 30 meters high). What’s more, the story significantly downplays the bloodshed and violence of war, as it’s primary audience (the civilian citizens of Rome) were wary of the army – nothing new under the sun there, either.

But there’s even more! When Trajan died his ashes were laid to rest at the base of the spire, and at the top was a statue of him in his heyday, so its thought to have symbolised his leaving behind his mortal coil to ascend into heaven (deification being a matter of course for emperors back then), while his greatest achievement symbolically marks the way. Add to that that the circumambulatory movement that is required of the “reader” mimics that of Roman funeral rites, and you have a monument that is as thought through and interactive as any you care to mention.

Oh, and bonus interesting ancient dick fact no. 3: it looks like a giant schlong, if you’re that way inclined.

Roaming Rome: St Peter, poop and pop art

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Not content with having had a semi-personal audience with the Pope the previous day, my companion is hell-bent on seeing St Peter. So back to the Vatican we trek, and since we’re there bright and early we get in without having to face the massive queues that form later on.

The Basílica is erected on top of earlier churches, on top of the burial place of Peter, Jesus’s main man and preferred apostle, the first Pope, and gatekeeper to Heaven if you believe the marketing hype (hence the papal insignia is a pair of crossed keys – one main and one spare, presumably…). Interestingly, basilicas where court buildings in Ancient Rome, and all cities had one. I guess the reasoning is that when you’re visiting his grave you’re also being given a once-over ahead of Judgment Day. If people knew that they might not be as keen to get inside… but inside they go, and so do we, taking in mosaics and statuary and relics and gold filigree and marble and whatnot.

The Pope’s not home, but there’s no denying his work place is impressive. Especially if you climb the cupola, which we did. It’s some 500 steps of ever narrower, claustrophobia- and cardiac arrest-inducing stairs before you reach the viewing platform at the top (presumably unique in that you can really see the whole country from it). Once there it wasn’t the view that captured my imagination, however, but the candle holders on the outside of the curving roof. Whose job did it use to be to climb around on the outside of the dome to change and light candles, and how hard do you have to believe in God before you’re willing to take it?

See the candle-holders? No rest for the wick-ed…

Leaving the lofty heights behind, we venture on to the Vatican museum, which houses two millennia’s worth of art. This one time only we give in to temptation and buy tickets that allow us to jump the queue that snakes around the wall of the Papal state (Note to Trump: when your wall is built, headhunt the Indian gentlemen who offer these golden tickets outside Pope’s Place – they will earn you (another) fortune!).

Inside it’s equally crowded, but here the orderly lines are abandoned in favour of tour groups that move like solid masses of flesh, their guides herding them like human-sized ducklings trained to follow a brightly-coloured piece of cloth on a stick. It’s tiresome, but the art is fabulous, there’s no denying that.

When we finally reach the Sixtine Chapel, the guards and signposts have the audacity to claim it’s a holy place and that photos aren’t allowed. I figure they lost the right to claim that when they started charging approximately a gazillion visitors per day close to 40€ per pop to see the place, so I took plenty – more than I would have done otherwise.

I’m going to assume you knew Michelangelo painted the ceiling, but what you possibly didn’t know (and they still don’t tell you there now) is that he painted the shroud that God is flying around on when he imbues Adam with life (see centre of the pic above) so that its outline is precisely that of a human brain! This fact was only brought to light by a neurosurgeon relatively recently, when he noticed its undeniable similarities. Imagine that! What a gutsy move: 400 years ago, in the very heart of Christendom, this man dared defy dogma and pointed out (albeit very subtly) that the brain, rather than any deity, is what make humans unique! It’s like The Da Vinci Code, only real, and better.

Damning evidence?

Once we’d dreamed of Heaven, we land in the gutter. Or at least we try. More specifically, I want to see the Cloaca Maxima, the sewage system created by the Romans and still in use today. The Atlas Obscura mentions it, but glosses over two things: it’s damned difficult to find (we try in several places, and the only thing to come of it is a very specific joke (Why did the chicken cross the road? There might be a cloaca!)) and when we finally do find it we discover it is very decidedly closed to the public. Shit.

One room apt. Airy. Large bath.

At least we got to see even more of the town this way. Interestingly, the tradition of painting walls and ceilings lives on today. There are stencils hidden here and there – some funny, some vulgar, many surprising. Apparently youngsters make them and/or collect them – something I thought was a useless fact picked up in the latest Spider-man movie; and yet here I am, Marvel-ling at them.

There’s street art of other kinds, too. Not graffiti, thankfully, but more talented offerings. Any city that has thousand-year old statues in Renaissance settings is doing something right; my favourite is the statue of Marcus Aurelius a-horse in a square designed by our old friend Michelangelo, but there is other stuff on display, as well.

But that’s a story for another day.

Roaming Rome: Palazzi, popes and pasta

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I came to Rome to celebrate New Year. We didn’t coordinate it, but by pure coincidence, so did lots of other people. And here I was thinking winter would be off-season. Silly me…

Having spent the strike of midnight on the field of Circus Maximus (together with 30,000 others) and bought a bottle of spomante from an enterprising vendor at Colosseum after that, my travel companion and I slept in on January 1st, but then vended our way slowly towards the Vatican.

The best thing about Rome is that it is shock-full of beauty. Roaming its streets is a delight. Every corner you turn, every alleyway you head down on a whim, there is more architectural grandeur and dizzying history on display than you can find anywhere else. Villas, palazzi, churches and roman ruins are everywhere. The Jewish quarter and Trastevere stand out, but it really doesn’t matter where you go, it’s all a feast for your eyes.

One of my absolute favourites was Palazzo Spada – sumptuous home of a cardinal who clearly was a man of the world, as the house is decorated with friezes depicting lusty fauns and nymphs. Not content with a giant house with adjoining gardens, the good cardinal also used mathematics and other tricks to create optical illusions to further improve the grandeur of his home. The distance from the woman to the statue at the other end of this colonnade?

Considerably less than ten meters. Really. It is. Tricky bugger.

When we finally got to the Catholic centre of the universe it seemed most of the city was gathered in the piazza. We had planned to see St Peter, but instead we got to hang with his present replacement, Franciscus, who spoke to the crowds from his balcony.

I have no idea what he was on about (bad sound and Italian conspiring against me), but the devout roared its approval, and he insisted on being in a selfie with me, so I guess he is a likable guy.

Second window from the right, top level: Pope.

The various other popes have certainly left their mark on the rest of the city as well over the centuries: every other edifice seems to have been adorned with their names, more often than not combined with the medieval equivalent of a papal graffiti tag – who knew their collective rap name was P-Max?!

The only institution that is possibly more venerable in Rome than the Pope (at least according to foodies) is Alfredo, the birthplace of fettuccine Alfredo, so that’s where we headed next. The walls are filled with portraits of famous patrons, and the atmosphere of religious raptness that falls over the dining room whenever the head waiter rolls out his little trolley to perform the mixing of the fettuccine and the Parmesan is no less magical (sorry, wonderous) than the miracle priests perform when turning bread and wine into the body of Christ.

Is it good? Yes. Undoubtedly. The pasta is done to perfection, the Parmesan (aged two years) is powerful yet subtle, and since carbs don’t count when on holiday we have a large portion each. And yet I can’t help but feel that it is really nothing more than really fancy mac ‘n’ cheese.

Be that as it may, others have noted before me that the strength of the Italian kitchen lies not in the complexity of its dishes, but the superior quality of its ingredients and the masterful way in which they are combined; that is certainly true at Alfredo’s, but also in virtually every other eatery we encounter. We have delicious melanzane parmigiana in modest neighbourhoods, we find the best tiramisu in the world in a hole-in-the-wall called Pompi (the queue runs into the street at all times during the day) – if it hadn’t been for one evening when we had what can only be described as a Fawlty Towers experience (where the serving staff would appear at random intervals with orders that no one recognized as theirs, thus putting the wait in waiter), it would have been a perfect score. As it was, we hiked over 20 kilometers per day and I’m still convinced we racked up a calorific surplus…!

Sober October

So I decided to quit coffee and alcohol for October. From a habit of five to ten espressos per day and the equivalent of a bottle of wine per week, I would go cold turkey on both. The results? Well…

First of all, actually doing it was surprisingly easy. I taped my Nespresso maker shut just in case I would need an extra second to reconsider in moments of weakness, but those moments never really materialised. People around me were generally supportive, even though they often couldn’t – wouldn’t? – understand why I was doing it. I was worried about becoming a social pariah, but I spent pleasant evenings out in wine bars and cocktail bars without feeling awqward or any need to sample their wares (the Latvian creationist/lesbian porn star/children’s book author I encountered may have been a figment of delirium-induced imagination, I guess, but I doubt it.). I will admit visiting Rome and not having neither cappuccino nor limoncello was difficult, but apart from that I was fine. 

And how did it feel? I had light headaches for a week, and wasn’t able to concentrate too well during those first days – something which my chess partner took good advantage of. But apart from that I was unaffected, really. And I experienced less heart burn, muscle soreness and pain in the liver (although I might have imagined that last one in the first place), plus felt better rested and energetic overall, so that was a big bonus. 

Add to that the pecuniary aspect of easily saving 10€ per week on coffee and twice that on alcohol, and you’re looking at savings to the tune of 1500€ per year, or three roundtrips to the US annually. Not bad as exchange rates go. 

So what now? Should I continue my abstemious lifestyle? I honestly don’t know. I still yearn for that first shot of espresso in the morning, and a glass of Rioja with my entrecôte, and a cold lager after a good, long run in the sun… My problem is I don’t do things half-heartedly, so there’s a risk that one coffee doesn’t remain one coffee very long, and the same goes for drink. So for now, like a good goalie, I think I will just keep the zero for as long as possible.