Rome Reunion Part III - E-Bike Elation on the Appian Way

To begin with, Dave and I were late. We were meeting the rest of the group at Top Bike Rentals on Via Labicana behind the Colosseum. We didn’t have WiFi, and by this time during our stay, I’d worn out several maps, and the creases and tears in the one I’d stuffed into my bag obscured the street we needed to locate. 

A few nights ago, we came upon the Colosseum at sunset, the dying sun’s light seeming an orange blaze within the heart of the edifice summoning spectators once again. We lingered to marvel at the artistry of the heavens as backdrop to this iconic ruin. On this day, however, the Colosseum was but a landmark encircled by a tangle of roads, and we couldn’t spot the sign for Via Labicana. 

 

We asked a server at a café, but he didn’t know. We asked a nice man at an intersection who kindly pulled up the GPS on his phone and pointed the way… only it was the wrong way. A short while later, we asked a policewoman who sent us back the way we’d come. Aimless wandering is a lovely part of travel, but this was not the moment. 

 

When we arrived at Top Bike, the rest of our friends were already there, bikes assigned and helmets tried, selected, and buckled on. This time, I couldn’t blame our tardiness on Dave, but no worries, no one seemed annoyed.

 

When Bart, reunion organizer extraordinaire, first mentioned the idea of an E-bike tour on the Appia Antica, the old Roman road, I was hesitant. I remembered our motorbike ride along the same route in 1973. We were cocky, youthful immortals, but I remember the terror of winding through traffic to get out of the city, the choking fumes of diesel exhaust, and Dave’s craziness in standing on one foot on his bike seat while driving. I never want to beg off an adventure because of my age, but I thought this might be the time.  

 

Dave, however, was all in. “It’ll be fun, but you don’t have to go.” Bart, ever mindful of others’ concerns, spoke to the people at Top Bike and assured me that we’d travel back roads to reach the Appia Antica. So, we signed up.

 

Our guide, Elena, reviewed the use of the gears and the levels of the electric “assists:” eco, tour, sport, and turbo. “Above all,” Elena said, her accented English clear and definitive, “Do NOT use the left-hand brake by itself! The pistons will go down; the bike will stop dead; and you could go over the handlebars.” 

 

Good grief. Between remembering the gear instructions and this weird compulsion now in my head to squeeze that left break by itself, I was nervous. She also demonstrated the hand signals she would use when we came to major roads and had to “execute a maneuver” and cross “en mass.”

 

“I’ll go ahead and stop the traffic. You must cross as a group, quick, quick, quick!” 

 

Oh dear. Maneuvers. This sounded tricky and dangerous. 

 

“Okay! We all ready?”

 

Maybe not…

 

 “Let’s go!”

 

Shouting instructions and encouragement over her shoulder, Elena forged ahead down narrow streets, under stone arches, and past the Colosseum, her troop of near septuagenarians peddling gamely behind. I, no doubt like every one of Elena’s ducklings, toyed with the gears and tested the varying speeds of the assists. I wanted no surprises when it was time to use them.  

 

She stopped us often to identify points of interest and enlighten us as to their history and significance. At major roads, her unyielding glare commanded compliance of impatient drivers who honked their horns as she waved us safely across, her upraised hand and tiny body the shield between us and a phalanx of cars.

 

On the first steep hill, Elena yelled, “Set your gears to 1 and the assist at Turbo!”

 

Agh! How fast would this be? I did as instructed and… zipped up the incline. 

 

Whoaaaaa! That was fun! What normally would have been a daunting bike walk was… exhilarating!

 

With Elena in the lead, and Bart as rear guard, ever solicitous, making sure no one was left behind, we merged with the Appia Antica. Increasingly confident, nay emboldened on our bikes, we bumped and swerved over ancient stones rutted by chariot wheels.  While we passed many ruins that, at home, would have been closed to the public or carefully guarded within a museum, Elena halted our column only at sites of special interest. We dismounted to explore ancient walls, towers, a mausoleum, and a stadium. 

 

At one point, we pulled aside for a herd of goats. “You’ll see the farms soon,” Elena told us as we reached the end of the ancient road, crossed a highway – brave Elena protecting us with her arm outstretched - peddled through the parking lot of a strip mall that might have been anywhere, USA, and rode onto a vast expanse of parched soil and dry, brown grass. 

Simple shacks, feed troughs, and trammeled earth encircled by wire fences marked the goats’ home as we continued on. The day seemed suffused with light, with lightness, beyond that of the sun. Friend Fa Poco whipped by, and I had to whoop, “Is this the BEST or what?!” I felt strong and young as twenty-year-old Lea as I goosed my assist to turbo and sped, euphoric, to catch up with the others. 

Even Bart had gone ahead as there was no danger of getting lost in these open fields, and our destination, a series of massive stone arches, the aqueducts, stretched before us. Suddenly, I heard a shout. I looked over my shoulder and saw Dave in the dust, his bike on the ground, the front tire askew. I wheeled around and yelled, “Are you okay?  What happened?” 

 

When I stopped beside him, Dave was on his feet, shaking his head and wiping off bloody, dirt-encrusted cuts on his hands, knees, and elbows. “So stupid,” he grunted. “I was taking a video, just had to capture this: the farm, our friends, the aqueducts ahead, and you flying in front of me … and I hit a rock. I’m bummed I turned off the camera before I fell. That would’ve been a great shot! I just want to clean these cuts, what with the goats and flies and shit and all.”

 

Since Covid, I carry alcohol wipes, so I tore open several packets and gingerly dabbed at his cuts. “I have some bandaids, too?” I offered.

 

“Nah. No. I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.” We checked to make sure the bike wasn’t damaged, and re-mounted to meet up with the group.

 

By now, our friends were used to waiting for Dave in his quest for one more picture and had paused in the shadow of the aqueducts to rest and swig water. The chorus of friendly taunts swung to concern when they saw blood. 

 

“Oh no! What happened? I have things… First Aid! We can clean you up!”  Elena hustled to open the saddlebag on her bike, and produced cleanser, antiseptic, and bandaids.  Again, I admired her courage in taking on our aging, mostly E-bike-inexperienced troop. 

 

Once Dave was swabbed and bandaged, we turned our attention to the engineering genius of the ancient Romans in building the aqueducts that towered above and beyond us, some of which still operate to serve the city. Rome offers many reminders of the evolution and demise of civilizations, and I wondered, in two thousand years, what might remain, much less function, as clues to life in 2022?  

 

Our three-hour tour had stretched gloriously to five due to an extended lunch break and two more tumbles, yet the three spills did little to dampen our spirits. When the last of us wheeled back into Top Bike’s garage, Elena crowed about the fun she’d had with us. Still, I pictured her collapsing in relief later having seen her ducklings safely home. 

 

And Dave and I are totally getting E-bikes for Christmas.  

 

Part II - Rome Campus Reunion: Layer Upon Layer

9:10 AM. Time to leave Hotel Pantheon for class. We close the shutters, buckle on fanny packs, and head downstairs past the marble reproduction of an armless, naked Venus. In the hall, Svetlana with her beautiful smile and heavy eyeliner pauses from folding linens to bid us Buon giorno. We say ciao to Roberto at the front desk and head out onto Via dei Pastini.  

The street is nearly empty but for the homeless man who slumps against the wall in his usual spot near our hotel. His face is gaunt, one eye sunken and scarred, and a strip of hair runs along the crest of his shaved scalp. Despite the warm day, he wears a red vest and burgundy parka over his tattered jeans. He barks and grunts at passers-by, but most walk on without a glance, even when he lunges at them and punches the air.  

 

For several days after our arrival, I was unnerved by his efforts to alarm and neglected my vow to let no one be invisible.  Like everyone else, I averted my gaze despite the man’s desperate efforts to be seen. Lately, however, I’ve made a point of greeting him, and instead of growling, he nods and touches his forehead in salute. I hope one day to earn a smile.  

 

In a few hours, the restaurants along the street will open with a clatter of glasses and china as tables are set.  Crowds of tourists on their way to the Pantheon will edge past the hosts standing in doorways striving to entice diners to pull up a seat. Strands of braided garlic and artful arrangements of eggplant and oranges add visual appeal to the alluring aroma of baking bread.

 

We pause briefly so I can check my well-creased map, something I do countless times a day during our wanderings in Rome. Throughout the week of our reunion, some of the professors have generously included us in their tours and classes, and today, once we are oriented, Dave and I meet Professor Livio Pestilli and some of our TCRC 1973 classmates at Chiesa di Santa Maria in Piazza di Campitelli. 

 

After a brief introduction, Professor Pestilli guides us from church to church, commenting on the significance of changes in architectural elements from one era to the next. Like the students we once were, we listen intently and lift our eyes as he points out the artistry of flowing draperies and trompe d’oeil shadows painted on ceilings arching high above us. 

While different styles and techniques emerged over the centuries, some things never change. As the group waits outside the Chiesa di Sant’ Ignazio di Loyola, Dave does not appear. Friend Pamela assures me, “No one is concerned or angry except you, so don’t worry.” Having lived with the man for 47 years, I am not concerned, angry, or surprised… well, maybe a little annoyed. Kindly, she says, “I’ll go look for him.” 

 

She returns alone. Minutes tick by. I try texting my husband, but no response. I apologize to all and suggest we continue on. Dave is resourceful and this is familiar territory; I’m confident he’ll meet up with us eventually. Ours is a caring, forgiving crew however, and everyone insists we wait, but I know Professor Pestilli has an appointment at 1:00, and I’m starting to feel guilty about the delay.  

 

Sigh. “I’ll try to find him,” I mutter. Honestly Dave! But I have no more luck than Pamela as I dash across marble floors and dart between massive columns beneath extraordinary paintings of ecstatic encounters with the divine, ignoring all in my search for wild gray hair and a black polo shirt. I return to the group and convince them to move on.   

 

At our final stop, Dave appears, abashed and apologetic. “I just went back for one more picture, and lost sight of time. Without WiFi, I couldn’t reach you.” As I said, familiar territory; Dave and Time have a fluid relationship. 

 

The next day, we accompany Professor Cristiana Filippini and her students to the Basilica di Santa Sabina all’Aventino and her particular passion, San Clemente al Laterano.

 

As Professor Filippini leads us through the 12^th century basilica down steep, rough-hewn stairs through a 4^th century basilica, and then, to an even deeper level, her mounting excitement is contagious. At her direction, we peer through arches at vestiges of a 1^st century house with running water, something only the very wealthy could afford. 

Water continues to flow through troughs along the side, brought to the city by ancient aqueducts. Technology two thousand years old is still in operation, planned obsolescence a shameful invention of the future. I have been guilty of condescension in thinking my, those Romans were advanced, as if theirs was a primitive civilization that managed to exceed contemporary expectations. It is unnerving to consider the modernity of ancient Rome and the factors, increasingly frequent in today’s news, that led to its demise. 

Three levels below the street, the world of the present hushed above, walking a narrow passage in muted light, I feel the elation of exploration and discovery that so captivated me in my youth. I love this about ruins, about Rome. Almost every construction project stalls when excavation reveals the residue of long-ago lives. 

 

“This is the lasagna that is Rome,” says Professor Filippini.  “Layer upon layer upon layer…”

 

  

Part I - Home to the Convent

In my teens, I envisioned a career as an archaeologist. I was intrigued by the remnants of civilizations and their revelations about the rise and fall of ancient cultures and beliefs. Tucked in a library cubicle, absorbed in a book illustrated with photographs of faded frescoes and marble monuments, I would lose myself in the past, where all lives had been resolved. In a way, it made me feel safe: history held harsh lessons, but naively, I thought we’d learned them. 

 

In the fall of 1973, I left behind the ruins pictured in books and flew to Rome to explore them.  With Dave and 44 other students, in the midst of a cholera outbreak and with terrorist violence on the horizon, I arrived in Italy to attend Trinity College Rome Campus (TCRC). 

 

The program was housed in the convent of the Suore Camaldolesi, a walled enclosure on the Aventine Hill. The nuns were cloistered, unseen, but their faith was evident in crucifixes above the beds in every sparely furnished room; an admonishment, no doubt, to discourage anything but sleep in those beds. The crucifix was disconcerting, and so were the sopping towels and wads of wet paper that had once been toilet tissue: bathrooms in the dorm offered sinks, toilets without seats, and shower heads, but no stall. Important to remember: remove dry items before spraying water.  

 

My second-floor room overlooked a courtyard bordered in a U-configuration by the dorm, a classroom, and a wall, the dividing line between the school and the grounds of the convent. Palm tree fronds, rose-tinted stucco, and the red-tiled roof of the nuns’ living quarters were visible, but, for the most part, the land beyond the wall was as mysterious as the lives of the women who had chosen that seclusion. 

 

We were given some cautions early on. While it was hoped the crucifixes would keep the American boys in line, we girls were drilled in saying Lasciami stare, or “Leave me be,” to deter aggressive Italian men. And, while we’d been required to have a battery of vaccinations before departure, we were warned not to eat seafood due to cholera concerns. 

 

Ah, the food. I was raised on basic ‘50’s American fare – hamburgers, meat loaf, Minute rice, potatoes, canned Le Sueur vegetables, and Cheerios or Captain Crunch for breakfast. My mother’s recipe for spaghetti sauce was browned ground beef with a can of tomato paste stirred into the drippings. It was yummy, but the meals at the convent were… what? How to adequately describe the leap in my gustatory experience from meat loaf to the divinely-inspired bacon and cheese blend in pasta carbonara? The fresh smell of summer in basil pesto? The richness of risotto infused with the earthy flavor of mushrooms? And at breakfast, a crusty roll laden with chocolate Nutella scooped from a great vat. I figured, who knows when I’ll get food like this again? I consumed seconds and thirds… and gained ten pounds. 

 

Eventually, a group of us pried ourselves away from the convent to try dinner at a restaurant. Few spoke Italian, and while most menus in 2022 include English translations, that was not the case in ’73. We’d learned the phrase for “what is this?” and when Dave pointed to an item, fegatini di pollo, and asked, “Cos’é questo,” the server thumped his chest with both hands and clucked. Okay. Chicken breast. Sounds good. Frank, Dave’s roommate at Trinity, took a chance and ordered “Fritto Misto di Mare.” I played it safe and ordered lasagna.   

 

Such a good choice. My dish was set before me, a vision of delicate pasta layered with creamy pink tomato sauce and just the right amount of cheese. Dave looked suspiciously at his plate. Hm. Apparently “fegatini” meant livers, with a few hearts and kidneys thrown in. And Frank’s? A generous portion of fried seafood. There was momentary silence at the table and then a burst of laughter as, Cholera be damned, Frank shrugged and took a bite. Well, if he was going down, we all would, and each of us reached over and speared a forkful. 

 

The first weeks of the program were a giddy blur of exhaustion and excitement as we explored our surroundings. The Colosseum and Forum were within walking distance, and just down the hill, where chariots once raced, the boys played football in the Circus Maximus. We sampled billowy gelato, plenty of wine, and decided American pizza didn’t come close to the original.  We visited catacombs, museums, and the Capuchin chapels decorated with the bones of 4000 monks. We stood in awe before Michelangelo’s Pieta in Saint Peter’s. Together, we experienced art, the sacred, the ancient, and the new: the wonder of a world opened through travel.   

 

This September, almost 50 years later, 17 of us, some accompanied by spouses and adult kids, returned to Rome and the convent. 

 

                                *                                  *                                  *

 

In 1973, Umberto Todini, introduced us to the work of directors Frederico Fellini, Luchino Visconti, and Roberto Rosellini and the brooding power of Italian Neo-Realismo films. In 2019, our former professor traveled from Rome to Rhode Island to join us for a reunion among friend Lise’s artful gardens, fountains, and driftwood sculptures. It was there he insisted, “Next time, you must come to Rome!”

 

Everyone agreed it was a great idea, but really, what were the odds? Yet, in 2020, initial plans were made, and then, Covid changed everything. So, there was a sense of the surreal as we gathered last month at La Panella, Umberto’s favorite restaurant, in Rome. 

 

Allowing for changes in hair color and a few lines about the face, we all looked the same… didn’t we? Some had remained close, but for others, half a century had passed since we’d scrambled the dark corridors of the Mithraeum, marveled at the Monks’ bones of the Capuchin Monastery, harvested grapes, and dodged persistent Italian boys together. All those twenty-year old kids united again in Rome. 

 

As Umberto voiced in his welcome, “The fact that we are here means something by itself: memories, connections, fidelity to the experience, and the desire for knowledge… and for Rome.” He used the word “revival” rather than reunion, and as conversation buzzed around the table over beautiful bread baskets, wine, and canapés, indeed, the word applied. Nicknames from ‘73 resurfaced: Romala, FaPoco, Donovano, Francobolli, Bartolemeo, and Davido, and in the days that followed, we revived, as well, our roles as students and co-adventurers.

The following evening, at the invitation of Stephen Marth, the program’s director, we returned to the convent to join current students and staff for a panel, reception, and tour. “That will be quick,” I thought as I recalled our small campus. But in the years intervening, by papal decree, the religious orders had been required to increase their accessibility, and the terrain beyond the convent wall, formerly forbidden, was ours to meander. 

As we strolled past gardens and gnarled trees beneath a trellis laden with vines heavy with fruit, we learned that one of the former nuns had been a student at Yale before choosing forty years here in solitude. What had happened to drive her into hiding?  

 

What a contrast to the convent’s role in opening the world to us, the students of 1973. And how different had been our limited life experiences from the kids studying here now. Dave had never been on a plane before our trip to Rome, and most of us had never been overseas. Our communications with home were sporadic, written on wispy blue aerograms – in pen, by hand! - and sent by Vatican mail, facts old-fashioned and alien to the students of ‘22, with their cell phones and prior travels.

 

It was a jolt to realize that youthful as we felt ourselves to be, we could be these kids’ grandparents. So much for thinking we hadn’t changed! And as we have, so has the world. Dave mused about the course of a hundred years: in the half century before 1973, our parents and grandparents lived through the Great Depression and a world tragically well-versed in war and dictatorship. In the fifty years since, technology has transformed life, and with the warning voices of a generation traumatized by WW II waning, the danger of Fascism has risen again. What will be the reminiscences of the students of TCRC 2022 when they return to Rome for a reunion in 2072?  

 

To be continued…