Walking through Rome the other day, I had two missions: get a pizza lunch at Roscioli, and try on some shoes from the list of brands my doctor gave me. It became an emotional journey, with it’s own motifs and atmosphere of ironic pathos that is captured so well in that Dylan song, (which I love in The Band’s rendition) “When I Paint My Masterpiece,” that came to mind when I walked past this scene.
Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble;
ancient footprints are everywhere.
You can almost think that you’re seeing double
on a cold dark night on the Spanish stairs.
This road repair was on the way to Campo di Fiori, where I stopped at the market stall that is the humanized, de-DIY-ified version of what we call “the bulk section.” The man who runs this stall is a virtuoso of Eur-Anglo languages and regional Italian sauces. Every time someone stepped up with a bag of herb-pepperoncini mix, he would ask “Inglese, Francais, Espanol, Deutsch?” I heard him explain in three languages what kind of sauce should be made, and when to add the herbs to the tomato base.
herb blends for sauces
other "bulk" items
From here, I took my prematurely ancient footprints the few blocks to Roscioli, where I saw its sign rising like a beacon on the horizon (and creating a great color juxtaposition with those shutters):
Most days, I eat at the Academy, because it’s right at home and the food is regularly extraordinary. But sometimes I just get the craving to carry out a sandwiched slice of Roscioli pizza.
My favorite kind is the sauteed, garlicky, salty spinach and mozzarella. It’s simple, and exquisite, folded in a piece of brown paper. Often, people stand around these cask & board tables to eat their quick bite. 12:30 was too early for the average Roman, though.
table outside Antico Forno Roscioli
I limped with my lunch toward the Corso, passing on my way the scaffolding-covered Pantheon. (Glad I saw it before those went up.)
And finally, I began my hunt for a better shoe, based on my doctor’s list of brands. Some of these are quite chi chi, with snooty salespeople to match. As soon as I was done in the Geox store, for example, having decided that they were all either too stiff for my feet or too flashy for my taste, I became a despicable object of scorn to the saleswoman. And her store is nothing special next to Hogans, where the staff is even more disdainful, the sequin-studded leather even more attitudinal. I tried on probably 12 pairs. Someday, I’ll make a decision.
Someday everything’s gonna be different,
when I paint that masterpiece…
When I finish that dissertation? No, I’m not that delusional. Speaking of that behemoth document, though, here’s my favorite recent piece of Byroniana (which might just be the unintentional irony of the shopkeeper’s name… but I don’t think so). Right next to the Keats-Shelley museum, in Piazza di Spagna, whose name looms larger than life? Lord B’s, of course.
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The Roving Locavore 