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.  

 

Supportive Strangers and Purple Lights

The night is warm. The press and bustle of the daytime throng has thinned. The massive, majestic hulk of the Pantheon presides over the piazza, its presence a surreal remnant of ancient Rome. At Ristorante Ritorno al Passato – Return to the Past - Alo has welcomed us to the table we have adopted as our own. 

 

Dave and I have been in Rome for a week, drawn by a reunion with college friends and our love of this city. On our first night here, we ate dinner at this restaurant, one of the open-air establishments that circle the piazza.  Attracted by the friendliness of the owner, Andrea, and the two servers, Camelia and Alo, we have returned for a meal or glass of limoncello every night before heading back to our hotel. 

Andrea kindly indulges my flawed Italian and speaks slowly, articulating each word so I can understand him. To our amazement, we learned he is a doctor, the director of an assisted living facility as well as part owner of this restaurant. He tells us he and his servers make more money at the restaurant than he does in his day job. It seems the issue of skewed values as reflected in salaries is not unique to the U.S. 

 

Camelia hails from Romania, but like so many servers here, speaks several languages, and her English is perfect. On slow nights, she has told us of her mother’s grace as she fought cancer before passing a year ago. Having not seen her sister since Christmas, Camelia is giddy because Corinna arrives in a few days. “We are all that’s left now. We have only each other.” And soon, they are going to Mykonos for a week.

 

Camelia has brought us small, stemmed glasses of icy limoncello. I glance at Dave as he leans back in his chair and gazes at the Pantheon, a serene baby-sloth smile on his face. It is an expression I cherish, especially when beamed my way. This evening, it encompasses everything within and around us. The ancient city, re-connection with old friends, the joy of new friends, and the fact that we are here together. The years and months preceding this trip held anxiety and obstacles – travel complications, Covid, creaky knees, world events – and yet, we are here.   

 

A stocky, swarthy man appears at our table and says, “You buy?” With a hopeful grin, he places a stuffed green cactus with bulging eyes on the table. He flips a switch and it begins gyrating to a tinny tune. The perfect souvenir of a trip to Rome! What would Emperor Hadrian, the Pantheon’s builder, make of this absurd creature? 

We shake our heads no, not interested. But perhaps we’d like a wiggling cat? A stuffed bull? The vendor makes another pitch and sends the bull hopping across our table. Who would want these weird items? Apparently, the man seated at an adjacent restaurant. We note he has purchased both a bull and a cactus. 

 

Since our sabbatical in 2005, it has been our mantra to let no one be invisible. So, on this occasion, as he always does, Dave asks the vendor where he’s from. Like Alo, the vendor is from Bangladesh, and we ask about his family’s well-being having heard of the floods devastating his country. He shakes his head sorrowfully, says, “Is very bad,” and moves on in search of those who might want a dancing cactus. 

 

Dave and I are wearing brightly beaded bracelets from another vendor, Ibrahim from Senegal. We’ve encountered him several times, and by now, greet him by name. We have purchased some wooden bowls, crafted, he claims, by his family, and in thanks, he gave us the bracelets. I wonder if they broadcast to all that we are suckers, possible buyers, but no matter, we like the bracelets and the bowls. 

 

The piazza also hosts vendors who sell roses, glittery balloons, and neon UFO’s that sail into the sky, high as the Pantheon’s peaked pediment. What a bizarre, marvelous juxtaposition of the modern against the ancient, and as we follow their path into the darkness, we know Lexi, Paul, and Eleanor, our grandchildren, would love them.

 

Having seen a graying matron about my age purchase and successfully launch a UFO, I approach the vendor and ask the price. “5 euros,” he says. 

 

Hmm. No. Cool as they are, the UFOs are cheap plastic and won’t last long. “3,” I offer.

 

He says, “4.”

 

I stand firm, and for 3 euros, I own a UFO.

 

The matron is sitting with her family at a table nearby, and she gives me a thumbs up. “You inspired me,” I say. “It looked like your launch went higher than those of the rest of your family.” She nods modestly, and those around the table laugh and agree. Their wine glasses are half full, their plates empty. Life is good.  

 

“Try it!” she said.

 

“No, I feel self-conscious.”

 

“You can do it!” a friendly chorus rings out. 

 

“What’s your name?” asks a handsome young man at the table, and I tell him.

 

Water splashes in the fountain as a marble dolphin sprays a cascade. Utensils clatter as diners at the restaurants enjoy their pasta, aromatic with fresh basil and garlic. Lights cast a shining path across the cobblestones as the matron’s family members call out, “We’re here for you! Go Lea! Go Lea!”  

 

How can I not? I thread the rubber band around a small hook and adjust the wings of the fragile toy. In the shadow of the Pantheon, to the cheers of strangers, I pull back on a rubber band and launch a tiny, purple, pinpoint of light into the sky. 

 

    

 

  

Remembering Rome

Rome is not a foliage destination like New England, but the sycamores along the Tiber River turn yellow in the fall, and a walk along the banks has the same rustling crispness.  The chestnut vendors return to street corners to roast their wares, and the scent of smoke and sweet mingles with the city-hint of diesel.  The vendors split the nuts’ burnished brown shells with a swift knife stroke and slide them into a horn of rolled paper.  Heaven. 

In the fall of 1973, I was appreciably rounder than I’d been when I boarded the plane for Rome at the end of August.  With some effort, I could still button my Dentyne pink corduroy blazer, but the strain on the fabric was evident.  Who knew when I would return to Italy?  Who knew when I’d again eat pasta so incredibly good?  Of course, I had to take advantage at meal-time!  I knew my mother would be horrified, but when the nuns came round with refills, I was ready for them.

Nuns?  Yes.  Having never before left the shores of the U.S., I was in Italy for Trinity College Rome Campus with close to forty other students, all housed in a convent, just up the Aventine Hill from the Circus Maximus. There was a crucifix on the wall of every cell-like room, and in the bathrooms, the shower nozzle thrust from the wall without benefit of curtain or stall. Unfortunately, it took more than one sodden towel to remember to remove linens and toilet paper to avoid the water sprayed on every surface within reach.  A new world. 

I was twenty years old, in Rome for four months with some of my best friends and my boyfriend.  My career goal at the time was to be an Egyptologist:  yes, I know, wrong country, but I loved ancient history in general, and the ruins I’d studied since seventh grade were within walking distance of the convent. From my current vantage point at age sixty-one, I could weep with envy at the good fortune of that young girl.  Thank you, Mom and Dad.

When first we arrived, the city was in the midst of a cholera epidemic; our parents must have loved sending us off into that.  We’d been vaccinated, and were cautioned to avoid seafood when eating out, but what did we know of the words on the menus?  Not enough, and our sign language must have been poor, for Frank’s first restaurant dinner was a heaping platter of fried fish.  Perfect.  We worked hard at improving our restaurant-Italian after that.     

This was a school semester, let’s not forget, and I was in Italy to study, so in addition to eating as many bowls of pasta as I could comfortably consume (really, I’m not exaggerating), I joined my friends on motorbike excursions along the Appian Way: in explorations of Hadrian’s Villa, Pompeii, and Ostia Antica; and in scrabbling the slopes of Monte Testaccio in search of sizable pottery shards.  While watching black and white films in Italian Cinema class, we pondered the craft and dark themes of “neorealismo.”  In art class, we took to the streets of Trastevere with paints, canvases, and easels, and wandered the Forum and Colosseum for “Topography and Monuments of Ancient Rome.”

On one memorable weekend, we went to work on a vineyard in Tuscany.  As we clambered from the bus, all so young, strong, and eager, the vineyard owner probably thought he’d gotten a great deal in free labor.  Mm, maybe not so much, as it turned out.

Warm, yellow sunlight bathed an expanse of gently rolling land neatly striped with rows of vines. Clippers were distributed, and we were released to the harvest.  Throughout the morning, we bent beneath curling vines heavy and fragrant with purple grapes, plucking some to snack on as we cut bunch after bunch to load into rustic wooden carts.  

After hours of snipping and wiping sweaty brows, we were invited to feast on sausages, cheese, bread, and wine.   With that, the industry of the morning fled.  A grape fight erupted while Bons, Ozzie, and FaPoco did yeoman duty, volunteering to shed their shoes, leap into the cart, and stomp grapes.

Recently, some of my fellow Romans decided it was time to get together.  Last year Bart arranged a lunch in Boston’s North End.  This September, Donovan scoured the Internet and enlisted Trinity’s alumni department in an effort to locate as many of us as possible, and invited us to gather at his place.

It is the way of long-awaited reunions that one enters a room filled with strangers, strangers with expectant faces, hesitant smiles, and eyebrows politely raised.  And then, there’s a shift, a dissolve, just like we learned in cinema class.  Something about that person’s smile, or the sparkle in the eye… and there they are!  Despite hair longer, grayer, shorter, or absent.  Despite weight added or taken away.  Despite those glasses, nearly ubiquitous, there were our fellow grape-tossers and ruin-scrabblers.  And as our day in Donovan’s backyard unfolded, our collective memory helped restore the magic of that semester together, a semester immersed in antiquity, art, opera, cinema, wine, and plenty of pasta.

We recalled the scratchy, screechy hall intercom.  Menzies in his blanket.  Fried artichokes at “Vecchia Roma.” Breakfast rolls with Nutella.  Primavera.  Lucchesi’s portrait of Bonnie.  Prostitutes luring customers (none of our group, mind you, at least not to my knowledge…) to the brass bed hidden in the shrubbery along the Circus Maximus while the boys played football… And beyond specific incidents and experiences, a new sense of a world to be explored and our own desire and ability to do so.

Thank you, Donovano, so very much, for bringing us all together.  Thanks to Pam for flying in from California, Jonny from Cincinnati, and Vicki from Cleveland. It was a joy, beyond words, to laugh, reminisce, and re-connect.

For me, fall will always smell a little like Rome.