The cafe where we breakfasted featured Oswaldo, a massive elegant beagle, if such a thing could exist, accompanied by his dressed to the nines bow-tie wearing master every morning for a quick cortado. Later, I thought I struck gold with the lunch joint that was tucked away in a corner of a residential area. The made to order spelt and tuna salad which I can still recall fondly and repeatedly fail to replicate at home despite its simplicity. Though they are all salty cheap snacks, you’re served half a dozen or more of them with your spritz, apertivo they call it, and when you have that a stone's throw away from the Tiber, if you’re an outsider like me, you think this is what the Eternal City is all about. Quarter Tor di Quinto, chosen on the basis of being a safe distance from the brouhaha of the touristic center, and equally because it was jogging distance to the Stadio dei Marmi where surrounded by statues with the physique of gods above, and below on the track, real Romans who could give the statues a run for their money, I trained as the sun set as if I was a gladiator myself.
Fantasy. Everything.
There was the lady I airbnb’d a room from, I didn’t take notice at first but then realized later while talking to her that she had an affliction of the eye, one that caused her iris to look like a hologram; a character straight out of a Ferrante book. And there were an inordinately large number of elderly out on the street being cared for by people of colour. Aside from that, I cannot recall another oddity. We were in a nice neighborhood, and to me, I imagined that the rest of Rome outside the center was equally beautiful, each with their own eccentric characters sipping espressos, trattorias serving MOF MOF (minimum of fuss, maximum of flavor) delights, and Campari’s served on a sunny terrace with free food to make you feel like a king.
That the real Rome is among the biggest shitholes on earth struck me by surprise, no, it struck me to the core, and if you know me, I’m not one to be taken for a ride. Yes, there was a hint from la Grande Bellaza, I feel I understand the film better, with those beautiful people living the good life surrounded by beauty past its prime, but it doesn’t cover the extent of this shitholed-ness revealed in this book of essays.
Roma. If it is not a sacred place anymore, where else do I fantasize myself being?
For some reason, twenty years ago I had read, of all things, an article from Vanity Fair, which interviewed the then governor Arnold Schwarezenegger while cycling around L.A. He could not stop talking about himself, while the city was crumbling, water shortages and any public institution on the verge of disaster and bankruptcy due to greedy public officials. The rationale, I recall, being that we still have at the core a reptilian brain, meaning that we seek all the sex and safety we can get our hands on, without a switch to indicate we are sated.
L.A., America, fine - but Rome? All these years I have been deriding my girlfriend for wanting to go to Disneyland, and boy, do I feel like an ass now. Swap mickey mouse for a roman gladiator and the magic castle for the colosseum. At lease she knew it was all make believe.
I learned that outside of the historic center, which is but a mere fraction - 92 percent is ‘modern’, and generally in a state of disaster. Buses spontaneously combust (the most out of any place in the world) , train lines are never built, unscrupulous property developers go through every loophole to profit, colossal garbage dumps, poverty, the migrant crisis, corruption, mafias. A veritable shithole. Just google Corviale - this abomination is in Rome. No less than a ONE KILOMETER long building full of squalor. Areas such like these are apparently circled around by fascists right wing parties, like vultures waiting for a disturbance to pounce and proclaim their anti-migrant rhetoric, while Berlesconi bunga bungas. But hell, the left is implicated as well. The city is completely lost, highlighted by one essay describing the meaningless death of a lower class Italian by some coked up members of high society.
Remus and Romulus, my ass. Now that my bubble is burst, what do I aim for?
Are they being too harsh - I wonder if this is not limited to Rome. In fact, from what I’ve seen it’s endemic. Lima with its entrenched class system, no public services to be seen, social clubs for the elite who fly to Miami for medical treatments, and the well to do sending their offspring away abroad for education. Is that not the same? Sans pantheon to keep the dumb ass tourists coming in so something keeps the place afloat?
Now I am left second guessing my disdain for where I grew up. Oakville’s waterfront boasts multi-million mansions with tennis courts, helicopter pads, faux Baroque fountains, well, they could actually be real. These monstrosities cover the entire stretch of lakefront. I admit they did give us that one hundred meter stretch to enjoy, and last time out I noticed they had the courtesy to put but one picnic bench. Some small condolences that their industries polluted this shit out of the lake, making it unusable, but who are we kidding, they’re only a hop skip, jump and private plane away to reach their fresh-water lake 8 bedroom ‘cottage’. Growing up, we were tourists in our own right, when the suburban boredom reached maddening levels, those that didn’t opt for drugs would joyride the rich neighborhoods down by the lake to ogle the vastness of the compounds and the latest line of Hummers in the driveways. Anyways,fine, fine, - but at least our garbage was taken away. At least the sprawl that is being developed is actually inhabited, and not just a front to launder money or speculate. We could obtain loans to pay extortionate rates for something that could pass off as post-secondary education. Suck on that, Rome. Our coffee was from a billion dollar chain, served on plastic tables, or worse through a drive-through, but those roads, they were pristine! When it snowed, they’d be cleared by dawn, so we could drive to enjoy our diluted coffee.
It all makes me appreciate the Netherlands, where I live now, all the more, possibly the last bastion of common sense when it comes to organizing a society and making a place livable for most, if not all. Indeed, one of my strongest memories in my first years here was going to see a member of royalty come out and wave to the crowds to commemorate a university. When it was finished, I remember my girlfriend's father tapping me on the shoulder to point out they don’t get any preferential treatment when exiting the building, it’s as if he’s just a regular member of the crowd. Fine, fine, the wealth, the obscene old money stained with the blood of the colonial past is there but rather hidden away, colossal estates on par with Oakville, but the way I perceive it is that all the best places are still highly accessible to and for the general public. If I may borrow the term from Persepolis, they give breadcrumbs for the proletariat, and there is bread, lots of it, of which they’re willing to part with some delectable morsels. Social security, affordable education, everything works, life here is all one big organized party. For any and all. Though, it saddened me to read that during carnival, indisputably a socialist utopia gathering if there ever was any - classless, raceless, ageless, an organization wanted to charge an entrance fee, claiming the cost of living crisis.
The intellectuals who authored these pieces claim Rome is a catastrophe, and I believe them. Where does that leave me? I’m not quite sure. This collection of essays could be seminal, tilting the domino that will eventually lead me to end up back to the place that I’ve always dreaded and wanted to escape from, the North American suburbs. If anything it certainly will soften the blow. I’m disgusted with Rome. I’m disgusted with myself. I’ve been had.
If all roads lead to Rome, meaning the greed eventually turns any city into a shell, I’m seriously contemplating to go back, to make my life goals oriented around property speculation, wealth accumulation, maybe make a porn empire like the boys in Montreal - take what I learn from here and apply it over there, to make sure I end up on top at all costs.
Shit, this book necessitated all the above to come pouring out. That says a lot. It’s a wonderful collection of contemporary long form journalism, ranging from more serious intellectual ones, to a few playful entries about football and music. The next Passenger installment, Japan is in the mail. Sushi, peaceful prefectures, aesthetics everywhere - right? Right?...