Alessandro of Rome
We are standing outside the Circus Massimo Metro
station opposite the roman chariot raceway of Circus Maximus. Traffic roars
through the massive roundabout as if re-enacting the roman charioteers. A young
man of about thirty with a spring in his step, jeans hanging off his bum, runs
across the intersection followed by three girls with large bags. Two are
platinum blonde the other dark haired. Finns we later learn. A dark eyed
southern girl (Napoli it transpires) who has been standing beside us for the
past five minutes suddenly answers my thoughts. She says they’re taking their
bags to the shop on the far side of the Circus to store them while we do this
walk. A few minutes later they emerge and the young man shepherds the Finns
through the chariots towards our corner of the circle.
This is our introduction to Alessandro, a
young history nut from Rome who runs free walks twice a week to the places
tourists and other tour guides don’t go, the back streets the hidden sites. The
group has meanwhile grown to about twelve people – the three Finns, two
Belgians and a scattering from other nations including North America, Sweden,
Poland, Argentina, other Italians and we two Australians. We think we blend in
amongst the largely twenty something group but in reality we are the
grandparents of the cluster.
Alessandro beckons us to form a tight group
around him and begins. He apologizes for not being in good health. He has an
allergy of some sort and is on medication. He hopes he will survive the tour.
Before we leave the curb he tells us his three rules for crossing the roads of
Rome (he has not lost a guest yet and wishes none of us to be the first). Rule 1.
Make eye contact with the oncoming driver; check they are not texting. Rule 2.
While maintaining eye contact, confidently (as if you own the road) step into
the traffic walking steadily and allowing the traffic to flow around you if
necessary. Rule 3. Never run, never hesitate - any sign of fear will only encourage
drivers to revert to their instinctive wild state – programmed to kill and maim.
The exception to these rules involves buses and taxi drivers. He then leads us into the melee.
He is full of knowledge and apologies for
his health – though none of us can detect any sign of his malaise. If anything
it seems likely he might have had a big night out the previous evening. We
don’t care. He throws us questions, the answers to which we are rarely able to
answer which introduces his next gem of information. We leave the circus
Maximus and I am immediately lost. We are below the walls of the Paletine Hill
and Rome has no sky scrapers by which to navigate. A moment ago the Coliseum
was in sight and now a lane or two later, my sense of N, S, E and West have
abandoned me. In addition it is approaching late morning and the sun is
scorching down from high in the sky. I can’t even use my old boy scout’s trick
using my watch and the hour hand to get my bearings.
The group is largely quiet and attentive
except for the Finns who talk loudly to each other as we try to understand
Allesandro’s accented English. The other exception is a Belgian girl who begins
the tour (within the first 100 metres) accusing Alessandro (and all Italians)
of cheating in the recent World Cup. (Belgium was knocked out by Italy
apparently – I don’t care, I am Australian with an Australian flag flying
proudly from window in Malta). Thus begins an argument that continues for the
duration of the walk.
I’m sure we walk at least two kilometres by
which time we reach a farmer’s market full of local cheeses and olive oil,
meats, fish and homemade delicacies. I’d love to come back here so I ask
Alessandro where we are on my map and he points to a spot about 500 metres from
our beginning point.
Alessandro has a great sense of humour and reserves
his most mocking comments for the ugly white monolith which was built to honour
the first King of the newly united Italy (1861), King Victor Emmanuel II.
This monstrosity could have been designed by the Third Reich’s Albert Speer such
is its scale. It features oversized statues and overwhelming friezes and seems
to herald some terrible return of another Roman Empire and perhaps hints at the
emergence, in the 20th Century, of Mussolini and his grandiose
aspirations. Alessandro is passionate about his city.
He has his rhythm now and races ahead with
his commentary. His English is good with the occasional charming
mispronunciation. Ironically the tour is in English but only three of us are
native English speakers. Allesandro’s medications have kicked in and he shifts
a gear resulting in some of the others getting lost in his rapid fire comments.
The noisy Belgian girl is an exception. Her
English is excellent and she continues her battering of the Italian football
team at each pause in the tour. Alessandro
meanwhile is not short of an opinion. In pretty much everything Italian he
claims expertise. And yet he is not pretentious, just confident of his
knowledge and unable to resist a challenge.
During a break at the half way point he
shepherds us into his favourite ice cream shop (there are many ‘best’ ice cream shops in Rome depending
on the “private arrangement” guides make I suspect) and over macadamia and
vanilla bean ice cream he discusses (most vigorously with our friend from
Belgium) the authentic Roman recipe for spaghetti carbonara and the important
place of offal in traditional cuisine.
Alessandro lays his trap by inviting Miss
Belgium (as if she needs any encouragement) to describe her carbonara and then
begins his dissection. Mushrooms – NEVER! Bacon – OUTRAGEOUS! And NO cream. Miss
Belgium is baffled. What about the creamy consistency? It should come from the
pecorino and parmigiana cheeses cooked, not in oil or butter (well, perhaps a
little olive oil) but in the juices from the pork cheek (remember, never bacon)
and then the egg. Miss Belgium argues strongly and objects frequently - pepper
and salt for seasoning? Pepper yes, salt NEVER! Alessandro is unshakable and wins this round. Simple food with quality
ingredients. It’s peasant food he reminds us - Alessandro scores a simple goal.
It’s beginning to look like the Netherlands v Brazil game.
At the half way mark it is Italy – 3,
Belgium - 0. The topic has broadened to encompass all World Cups and European
Cups. Miss Belgium cites a game played in 1910 as evidence of something which
none of understand or have any knowledge or interest in. Alessandro responds with
the information that the game was actually played in 1912. Miss B is silent. She
has scored an own goal. Italy – 4, Belgium
– 0.
On the walk Allesandro’s hyperactivity
continues. He checks his mobile constantly. In the middle of his comic
exposition on Roman statues (he has found an example of an ancient ‘selfie”)
his phone buzzes. He checks it and mid-sentence breaks off to take the call. We
all sense that something important must have caused him to do this. ‘Mama, no…….. not now ……….. Yes I’m okay.
Yes, I’m taking the medication. No I’m not going to die. …” The call between Alessandro
and his mum continues for three or four minutes while he prowls the square,
waving his hands, bending double as if in pain, embarrassed at his mother’s
attention. When he returns he regales us with the story. He sneezes and his
mother wants to call an ambulance. He doesn’t call her and she thinks he is
dead. The girls in the group are in fits. Italian boys and their mothers. They
think it’s hilarious.
Alessandro leads us into secret courtyards
and up alleyways behind the crowds of tourists, at each point allowing the
story of Rome to unfold. The most remarkable thing I learn is the amazing
amount of Roman buildings, foundations, walls, remnant buildings which have
survived and been incorporated into subsequent buildings. At one point we are
looking at a building which incorporates four different eras of construction
into its fabric. We avoid the long queue of tourists waiting to kiss the feet
of Jesus at a church built on a Norman structure, follow a narrow winding lane
full of hat makers and end the tour in the courtyard of a small square. A tiny
space entered through the ubiquitous arch surrounded on all sides by ochre walls.
Hidden marble steps lead to the 2nd and 3rd levels where
washing hangs from balconies and garden ferns drape from the windows. The
square is lush with greenery. We all want to live here. It is romantic Rome at
its simplest and best.
The football argument continues in this
small space. Miss B for belligerent is determined to score a goal. Alessandro is
unwilling to concede. Eventually I suggest a truce with as much tact as
possible and there is a moment of quiet as Alessandro brings his story to a
close and bids us farewell.
I score him a perfect 10 for his knowledge
and entertainment value and Andrea and I offer him a generous tip for his
services. The others offer nothing except their adoration. They are all
students and are not as cashed up as we are (in fact the three Finnish girls and
their bags – remember their bags? - are sleeping on his floor tonight. Couch
surfing). Alessandro does not even ask for money or a donation.
His passion has been sated for another
week. His audience has been enthralled. That has been his reward. We have been
with him for four hours.
Eight of us then join Alessandro at a small pizzeria nearby for lunch. The Argentine boy invites
Andrea and I to join him at the Argentine Embassy for the final of the World
Cup later in the evening; the Polish girl who is about to begin the final year of her medical studies offers
to assess Allesandro’s allergy symptoms;
the Finnish girls eat like horses and we have a beer. Notably absent is Miss
Belgium who has retired to the change rooms to lick her wounds.
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