Four days in. We’re still kind of getting our bearings in
the face of jet lag (thanks for the Ambien, Mom!) and attempts to strike a tone
– free from the usual touristical imperatives of hitting the high points in a
short amount of time, we find that our biggest problem is sorting out a
routine. Some problem! I do have help in that I have signed up for an Italian
class at a school recommended by our Dartmouth Italian-professor friend, the same
one that teaches the students on their term abroad. I’ve had one class so far –
it meets twice a week – and it was fun! I appear to be in some sort of
intermediate group – we all have enough Italian to communicate more or less,
but are missing out on a larger ease with grammar and vocabulary. As in life,
the listening exercises are the most difficult – tough to catch that stream
when it’s rushing right at you, though I’m hoping to slip into the flow sooner
rather than later. Likely, it will happen at the end of the month, just as
we’re leaving.
As always,
though, I have found that making an effort helps, and the people we’ve met have
mostly been warm and friendly. We decided to spend our first night dining at
the place where we ate the first night of our last trip to Rome, famous Pizza
Baffetto (“mustached pizza”). By the time we left, the waiter was making jokes
(in Italian), charging us far less for dinner than what we should have paid,
and plying us with way too much free limoncello -- arrivaderci Dry January!
Which leads me to another potential problem – gaining back the weight I’ve
lost. I’ve said it before: Rome is no Tuscany when it comes to food, but eating
out is an art here and we have already had some fine dinners. Our hearty yet
also improbably delicate pizzas at Baffetto, where George had Napoletana
(anchovies) and I had mushroom and onion; some nice scallopine and a Roman
artichoke (slow-cooked in olive oil) at a neighborhood joint last night; and,
our favorite so far, Ai Trei Scaline, just down the street. There we had a
drink at the bar first, a decent lager for George (they appear to be hopping onto
the artisanal beer train – get it? hopping?) and a lovely Lazio white for me,
before moving to a table and a shared primi of gnocchi pomodoro e basilica. For
secondi, George had a mashed potato pie covered in cheese and prosciutto, which
he loved, natch, and for me, porchetta, about three long, thin slices of roast
pork with rosemary, garlic and, I believe, fennel pollen. I took my first bite
and did the full eyes-rolling-back-head-goes-limp deal, it was that good. In
America, pork just doesn’t have that unctuous funk anymore, and it is a crime
because there is something intensely delicious about it. I looked up from
that first bite and discovered a lady had been watching me. Our eyes met and we
both just smiled.
The
apartment is great. Small, yes, but definitely big enough, a little larger even
that I’d anticipated, with a mostly comfortable bed and a teeny but decent
kitchen that has yet to be used for cooking. It’s good looking and quiet
(except for the monstrous noise that comes from the tankless water heater) and
we love the Monti neighborhood, which is far enough removed from the mosh as to
be peaceful, and close enough to everything as to be convenient.
We
now face our first weekend and already I am trying not to think oftime slipping
away.
