Roman Daze. Brontè Dee Jackson
Although indicated on our map of Rome, the actual city and the culture it once represented has long since gone. Veio was an Etruscan city, founded by an ancient civilisation that inhabited much of the local area for centuries before Romulus and Remus arrived. Veio was once a thriving town and farming community, complete with complex irrigation systems and a cemetery, the only things which are now left standing for the twenty-first century eye.
The expansion of Rome from the seven hills surrounding the River Tiber in the middle of the third century BC, to all of the then-known and ‘civilised’ world by 1400, began with the Romans first annihilating Veio. It was the first town in their path to world domination. Countries such as China and Australia were not considered part of the ‘civilised’ world back then. This is in spite of the fact that at the height of Rome’s world domination, China had been making paper and printing on it for decades while the Romans were not even up to using it to wipe their behinds.
Nowadays, Veio is just outside a bustling modern suburb of outer Rome. It is indicated on the map as being a little way past the Grande Raccordo, the ring-road that circles modern-day Rome. It is also quite close to a surviving medieval hilltop town. I find it quite symbolic that modern-day Rome has just extended out and engulfed the area the city once lay in, as it did in 396 BC.
We drive through this outer Roman suburb, about an hour from the centre of Rome, and just at the end of it we see the sign to the extinct Etruscan city. We follow the small road down into a ravine and arrive at the National Park that now protects a great tract of land, cleared fields, ravines and an ancient waterway that is the remains of Veio. We make our way by foot to a huge open space full of calf-high green grass, a few trees sticking out against a sky swirling with puffy silver-grey clouds. It has recently been raining and the ground is soaking. The space is endless, the green is striking and I can finally see the horizon. There are no people within sight, no noise except the wind, and there is nothing left of Veio except this huge expanse of preserved hills and green pastures.
We take the path to the Necropolis, the ancient cemetery, to see the tombs of Veio. Our walk takes us past high trees and through bramble-coated paths. There is blossom everywhere, its delicate white petals holding the last drops of the shower. All is silent, quiet and green. The paths are muddy and the air is still and heavy with nature. There are no other humans near me except my husband and the remains of Veio’s dead.
It fills me with peace. It restores in me faith that nature is always here – growing, renewing, alive – in spite of what we do to stop it. The petty thoughts and fears of the work week fade away and in their place there is awe at the strength of the energy of nature that keeps everything growing.
We walk in silence and admire the tombs of a civilisation that existed over two-and-a-half thousand years ago. We come again to the wide expanse of nothing where the city once stood, and see in the distance the medieval town and the modern buildings that surround it. I think of the people, the children, the lives that were once lived in this spot and wonder if they could have imagined me. I wonder if, in two-and-a-half thousand years, another woman will walk on the spots that I once lived and think about me.
We walk back to the car, past the ruins of the Etruscan temple to Apollo and the ruins of a medieval grain processing plant, a mill. The waterways crafted to support the grinding of the wheat thousands of years ago still flow unabated over huge stone mills and into the ravine below. All is green, even the tree trunks, an eerie, glowing, mouldy green.
I have seen the horizon from an extinct civilisation’s dwelling spot. I have felt space around me. I have been immersed in the deep, energising green of nature and I am ready to live for another week within the complex, competitive, concrete monolith that is Rome.
Chapter 6
A day off in Rome
My heart is singing upon waking because of the knowledge that I am giving myself the day off to see the Renoir exhibition. It is that delicious feeling I used to get on Royal Melbourne Show day as a kid when I knew that even though it was a weekday I was going to use it to do a ‘weekend’ activity.
This particular day off is not an Italian public holiday, but a much needed day out to restore my mental health after too much study and work. In my view, there is nothing as frivolous or indulgent as going to see an exhibition of paintings. It won’t restore world peace, provide food for the hungry or help others, all of which I see as undoubtedly my responsibility. On a more practical note, how does it pay the rent, get my assignment finished, increase my marketability as a consultant? The point is that it doesn’t and I badly needed a day off from all of that.
Once outside, the day begins incredibly well with a lovely cappuccino at my local bar. It is such a nice day and I ponder whether I don’t just want to sit in the park on my day off and enjoy the sunshine rather than be inside. I comfort myself with the thought that I will have my cappuccino outside and read my book to get some sunshine. But for the first time in the two years since I have been going to my local bar, the barista is in a good mood and actually says hello to me, and then begins chatting to me. I desperately want to go outside and sip my cappuccino but do not want to miss the opportunity to befriend the barista, which is absolutely vital to your wellbeing here in Italy.
Any minute now I expect her to regroup and become her usual surly self, but she is talkative and smiley, and I keep the conversation going like a new juggler, amazed at how far it has gone and desperate to try to keep it going. We talk about Australia and how much she would love to go. I go through the paces. It seems everyone wants to live in Australia except me, and I have to answer the usual reasons about why I am not living there when everyone else wants to. If I had a euro for every Italian who said ‘it is my dream to go to Australia’ I would be rich.
I try to do it without sounding like a bad stereotype – I married an Italian man, I work for the United Nations and I am here for my job – or a bad advertisement for Australia, but some days I dismally fail and just draw blank looks. These are the same blank looks I draw from Australians when I tell them why I love living in Rome so much. I am overwhelmed by the fact the barista and I have chatted, however, which bodes well for my future wellbeing.
It is difficult when the absolute best coffee in your neighbourhood is served by someone who mostly tries to ignore you when you order, and then acts like you are a great inconvenience to her life when you do. Every now and then my husband and I get fed up. We have a few backup places when our weeks have been particularly bad and can’t handle feeling any more inadequate than we already do. However, we always come back here; the coffee is just too good.
‘Why is their coffee so damn good?’ I once asked my husband.
‘It’s because they take their time to make it,’ he said.
That certainly explains the long waits, the hundreds of people jostling and the mood of the barista as she tries to deal with many orders at the same time. It’s a catch-22 situation, though. They take their time, so their coffee is good, so they attract more customers, which annoys them, which makes them slow down, which makes their coffee good. Someone should tell them.
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Even the bus is on time today, and I bounce and jostle my way to the doorstep of the museum. I am not sure if it will be open, as Italian museums and exhibitions can be closed for no reason on any particular given day. Websites are few and far between, and even then are not always connected to the reality on the ground. ‘Oh, we forgot to update it’ or ‘I don’t know, I only work here, I don’t take care of what the internet says’ are two responses I have had when politely asking why something is not as advertised. Therefore, it is always best not to have too firm a plan when having a day off in Rome and to have at least two or three other alternatives.
Most Italians are adept at this; I as an Anglo-Saxon still rely a little too much on planning for living in The Eternal City. My husband never says, ‘We are going to do X on Saturday,’ even though we are, according to me. I know it is because he has been trained to think it’s bad luck to pre-empt things and that you can never really rely on your planning to be the whole answer. It is also the reason that baby