Roman Daze. Brontè Dee Jackson
turn to leave the exhibition I stop and ask another museum attendant, one of the ones who has been keeping an eye on me for his friend, for directions to make sure I am heading out of the building. He answers me in newly-learnt English and in a last-ditch effort, on behalf of the museum guards that have been watching me all afternoon, says, ‘Yes it is that way, and you are a very nice and beautiful girl!’
‘Thank you,’ I reply and scurry away, amazed and abashed all at the same time. Since when do retirement age museum guards speak English? There was a time not so long ago when even the English teachers in Italian schools didn’t speak English. A revolution has occurred since I first arrived in Italy, an acknowledgement that billions of visitors each year speak English and need to know where the exits, toilets, bank and stations are. On the other hand, some things never change, and I laugh to myself at the audacity of a museum attendant using his new-found skill, plus his position, to engage in picking up women.
My day has been a complete success. My mind is off the unimportant stuff and back into wondering about human capacity, beautiful images of the female body, and how surprising and unpredictable life continually is.
Chapter 7
Escape to the hills
It is Sunday again and still spring. It is imperative to leave the house, in fact to leave Rome, for the day. So we join the throng of Romans who leave the city each spring Sunday for the lake, hills and countryside to touch the earth and hear the birds, something that doesn’t happen the other six days of the week. I am usually so used to looking at concrete that my eyes hurt if I am thrust into forest too quickly on a Sunday. But this Sunday I need to be deep in quiet, green, wet and lusty nature. So we head to Lago Albano (Lake Albano). It is about forty minutes’ drive south-east of Rome and is a part of the area flocked to, ever since Roman times, by those wishing for some respite from the city.
As it has started to pour with rain just as we leave Rome, we decide to take the scenic route rather than head straight to the lake for a walk. Just past the Ciampino Airport you start coming across little towns, one after the other, some with medieval hilltop centres, some existing only because they were papal getaways where the Pope came to rest and relax, and some are newer and cheaper locations to live while enabling a worker to commute to Rome.
Lago Albano is a volcanic lake. After erupting, the crater filled with water. It still has underground connections to other volcanic lakes in the area and is very, very deep. It is also very, very beautiful to look at. It is nestled low in a deep crater, so there are many gorgeous vistas from its perimeter. About half of it is covered with forest that overhangs into it, with no banks, just gently rolling earth covered with shrubbery and then clear lake water. The sides of the perimeter are also covered in vegetation. It takes about an hour and fifteen minutes to walk around the whole lake, two hours if you want to stroll.
The half that is covered with forest has a path, like a green tunnel, that hugs the shore of the lake. The other half consists of a variety of restaurants and outdoor cafés that sit on its green banks, culminating in the main ‘beach’, which has a flat entry into the water via black dirt. This beach has umbrellas in the summer, and all year round a plethora of cafés and restaurants sit on the road overlooking the lake.
Today is not warm enough to swim and I am just looking for a long, quiet walk through the forest by the side of a lake. We drive around the lake from above, admiring the view. White mist is working its way up the sides of the volcanic crater quite quickly and rolling over its top. We dive in and out of it, catching glimpses of the main town of Albano with its beautiful cupola and palace, directly across the crater from us.
We arrive at the entrance to the walking path, but are unable to walk along the forest track as there has been a landslide. A path has been cleared through it but it is still a thin track in what looks like a river of mud. We brave the track for a while, but every aeroplane going overhead fills me with terror as I imagine another river of mud starting above us. So my husband promises me lasagne instead.
We drive through more little towns in the hills, winding around roads that are canopied with dripping green trees until we get to Genzano, just around the corner from Arricia. My husband has promised me that there is a great fornaio (a bakery) there where we can get lunch. Every fornaio in Italy produces bread or biscuits. If you are lucky they make pizza and if you are luckier you will get tea, coffee and other drinks. This one has it all, plus homemade mushroom and truffle lasagne. This is a real neighbourhood affair; the radio is blaring, the seating is plastic and you get your drinks from the fridge next to the cash register. One of the servers wears a traditional baker’s costume from Genzano over a tracksuit and runners.
The pasta is delicious and costs ten euro, with a bottle of water, for the both of us. I constantly marvel at such out-of-the-way places, that place no importance on the comfort of the diner, yet have the most remarkable standard of food. There is almost no attention to service or presentation and I never would have chosen to eat here it unless my husband had heard it was great. Yet this is so typical in most of Italy.
A few years ago, as a result of not being a backpacker any longer and therefore being able to choose a restaurant based on anything other than its price, I set about sampling the haute cuisine of Rome. I tried about half of the restaurants commonly found in all guidebooks and presented as the top of Roman dining. After three extremely disappointing meals that cost over 200 euro (around AUD$370 at the time) for two, I felt I had done enough investigative research. It wasn’t just that they were bad meals, it was that they were stunningly and embarrassingly bad. These same kinds of dishes you could literally get around the corner for a tenth of the price and which were infinitely better. Also, the service was utterly snobby and unwelcoming. Your seating allocation depended on how expensive you looked, and the ambience was tired and touristy.
In Italy the best food is served with the least fanfare, far away from famous piazzas and landmarks. In fact, I find the less obtrusive the establishment, the brighter the fluorescent lighting, the more plastic the chairs and the louder the television or radio, the better the food will be. This is because it is catering to the local, discerning population of Italians who know how the food should taste and who will only eat out if the food is as good as they can get at home. They also usually want to watch the football match and talk to each other, so the ambience is not fundamental. Entertaining at home is much less common than for other nationalities and is reserved for family and formal occasions, such as baptisms or small children’s birthdays.
There are, of course, exceptions to every experience and I have not eaten in every restaurant in Italy. I have even once been coerced into eating close to a monument, due to the power small children have when they whine nonstop, and was pleasantly surprised. Also, some foreigners have been working in restaurants in Italy so long that they are very good Italian cooks. But if you are here for the real deal or for a short time, then I recommend sticking to those Italian restaurants run by locals and eaten in by locals, otherwise you might as well be eating Italian in your own country.
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After snuffling down our truffle and mushroom lasagne, my husband having wisely put a stop to me ordering the crumbed veal and vegetables until after we had finished our primo, we reluctantly decide that we have to go straight to dessert. We both choose a sponge roll, one filled and coated with chocolate and one with white chocolate and cherries.
I am not a big fan of Italian desserts. Italy comes a poor second to my own country and many other European countries in the dessert category. I like to think it is because everything that comes before it is just so damn good that no-one notices what dessert is like, or no-one has room for it.
The traditional use of flours made from almonds, chestnuts, walnuts and grains other than wheat, as well as a lack of raising agents, means that there are no light fluffy cakes here, or butter-soaked puff pastry. Icing is nowhere to be found and cream is only used in January, sparingly. So desserts have a tendency to be ice-creamy and, frankly, why would you bother being good at anything else when you have the world ice-cream market cornered?
Whenever I spy something a bit different I always like to try it and it is usually at my peril. Like today, I realise, after my first bite into my white chocolate and cherry