Written 12 June 2006
24 May 2006 Roman Day Tripper
Our flight to London was scheduled to leave from Rome’s Ciampino airport at 21:05. We caught a mid morning train from Naples, planning to spend the day sightseeing. First, we needed to work out how to get to Ciampino airport, having previously only flown from the main airport, Leonardo da Vinci (commonly known as Fiumicino). My trusty Lonely Planet guide detailed that the public transport journey to Ciampino was a bit of a nightmare, but several firms, such as Ryan Air and Easy Jet, now chartered buses. The buses departed from the street adjacent to the Stazione Termini (central train station in Rome), and tickets cost €6, cheaper than the price quoted in Lonely Planet, and certainly not a wallet breaker if it meant getting there on time and stress free.
Having done our transport-to-Ciampino homework we wandered off down Via Cavour. Arriving at Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore, we circled the grand basilica, disappointed that it was closed. The square was surprisingly empty with only a few people perched around the base of an Egyptian obelisk, eating lunch. The pigeons outnumbered the people, not an uncommon situation in parts of Europe. A light sprinkle of rain began to fall as we veered off down Via Merulana.
Rome is a city where you would never be able to visit everything. Reputably containing some 900 churches there are also the countless museums, galleries, catacombs, gardens, historical villas, piazzas and monuments. Having done the major sights on a few occasions (mind you, it would take weeks alone to see the restricted public access areas at Vatican City) we wanted to see something a little off the usual tourist trail. It’s certainly not hard to do that in Rome.
The tree lined boulevard Via Merulana led us to Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano. The Basilica was the first Christian basilica constructed in Rome, during the 4th century. I was interested to go inside, knowing that it was Rome’s cathedral, and the pope’s seat as Bishop of Rome. Not being of Catholic upbringing, and generally ignorant of Catholicism’s history and hierarchy, I hadn’t realized that the Pope would have responsibilities outside of Vatican City. Though I guess he has to be Bishop of somewhere.
Lonely Planet tells me that the Basilica di San Giovanni has “been destroyed by fire twice and rebuilt several times”. I can never take in all of the historical dates, influential names and architectural features, but before stepping inside I was impressed with the beauty. Walking up the marble stairs, through the impressive iron gates, the porch is like no verandah you’ll find in Australia. Looking up, the curved ceilings are alive with frescoes depicting religious scenes of anxious cardinals, purposeful angels and beseeching disciples all wearing great sweeping robes, the colours muted and pastel from years of sun exposure. It’s like looking at an extraordinary art collection, which in fact it is.
Gi paused to study a mounted statue, perhaps made of bronze and dark with age. The statue depicts a man, confidently thrusting what looks like a symbol of power towards the sky. He’s dressed somewhat like Eric Bana’s character in the movie ‘Troy’, the leather skirt exposing his strong knees, abdominals revealed by the fall of his heavy cloak secured around his broad shoulders. It could be Brad Pitt as Achilles, except this statue has curly hair and a goatee. The bronze figure was striking an impressive pose, like he was royalty and supremely aware of his responsibilities. It was set in front of an ornately carved white wall, locked behind more black wrought iron gates. Gi stood there for a long while, taking in the detail, and I captured him on film, thinking that in his black jeans and white shirt the photo would almost be monochrome naturally.
Entering the basilica was like being thrown down Alice’s rabbit hole and finding yourself in a land of gold and glitter. It was cool inside, a welcome respite from the early warmth of spring. We spent the next hour wandering around, each step leading to another awesome object of beauty. The Gothic canopy over the papal altar contained relics, including the heads of Saints Peter and Paul. Of course other parts of St Peter are buried under St Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. Like most saints, there are bits and pieces of his remains all over the city, and spread throughout the Catholic Church across the globe. Poor buggers! The apse was inlaid with the most incredible mosaics, and even though they were copies of the originals I was struck by their magnificence.
I spent some time sitting in a baptistery, across from a group of nuns who had come in to sing hymns and pray. Their black habits contrasted starkly with the enormous white columns and ornate gold altar. There were six of them, two of Asian background, two African, and I couldn’t decide on the ethnic background of the other two. Of course Rome, as the centre of the Catholic Church, draws priests and nuns from around the world, and to pass a day in Rome without crossing paths with a sister or father/brother from outside of Italy is to be in bed asleep. I listened as the nuns sang and prayed in Latin, their hesitant foreign accents reminding me that I wasn’t the only one who had to concentrate with the language.
Gi and I had both recently read Dan Brown’s ‘Da Vinci Code’ and he was now more obsessed with symbols than ever. Walking around he spied countless signs and symbols, all of which had a myriad of meanings and historical significance. I stopped to study some art work and, as always, the longer I stood there the more I saw. It was a dizzying and impossible experience trying to take it all in, looking up at the domed ceilings high above, looking down at the mosaics and floor detailing, looking sideways at the carving, statues, marble work, paintings. The gold gilding, pink and grey of the marble, vivid reds and blues of the mosaics all made for a visual kaleidoscope.
We walked back out into the bright sunshine. I’ve found Italy is often about unexpected discoveries, the external facade not giving a hint of the splendor within. This basilica was one such discovery. Circling it we rested on a seat across from the basilica’s other entrance, even more majestic with bronze doors and immense statues. As we paused there, I watched a group of nuns dressed in white, their leather sandals, hair pins and rosary beads the only belongings they appeared to carry. They were being led down the road, striding out at a quick pace, as an orange bus drove by. They seemed to be oblivious to the traffic, as a passing truck belched out grey exhaust fumes. My attention was then taken by two gypsy women talking on the other side of the grassy square. Eventually one of them walked by, her grimy hand out begging for coins. The gypsies seemed to be increasing in number in Italy, their tell tale head scarves, darker skin and multi layered clothing making them relatively easy to spot.
Looking at the map, we debated about how to spend the next two hours before heading out to the airport. The Colosseum was just down the road. It is one of those famous grand structures that I could see every day and wonder at. I was excited as we walked down a side street and I spied it in the distance. In its day it could seat 80,000 spectators. It loomed up before us, my imagination running wild at the knowledge that it was the site of bloody gladiatorial combat, wild animal shows, mock sea battles and the gang raping of women. None of which I would want to witness, but having been at a Robbie Williams concert at the Sydney Cricket Ground with 50,000 fans I could only imagine the electricity and thrill for a Roman audience at such an event (and yes, of course it’s appropriate for me to compare Robbie to a gladiatorial spectactle).
Before wandering around the Colosseum we went in search of a coffee. Right in front of Rome’s best known monument we walked by a restaurant, its patrons dining on the footpath, but dismissed it. I expected finding a decent, reasonably priced, coffee in this part of Rome to be almost impossible due to the tourist trade. Gi was pulled up by a young man who enquired if he was a tattoo artist, having spied the tattoos on his lower right arm. A flurry of words later and we were inside. The young man was a waiter, standing on the street trying to entice hapless tourists in with the tourist menu and a friendly smile. Gi, putting on his best Neapolitan accent and ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ face asked him, “Where can we get a good coffee around here?”
“Right here, but wait, I’ll get so-and-so to make it. He makes the best coffee”
So-and-so turned out to be an even younger man, who we followed inside and they exchanged tattoo banter while he played barista. Our coffees arrived with a flourish and the bill only came to €1.40 for both. I was surprised, but held my tongue, having observed listed menu prices during our morning stroll for espressos at €1.40 each, and if you wanted to sit down €2.60. We had been charged the ‘local’ price and the coffee was excellent. It’s unfortunate, but Rome is a city that largely revolves around its tourist appeal and the businesses take advantage of that fact. Everything seemed to be twice what we would ordinarily pay in Naples, pizza, cold drinks, postcards etc. We promised ourselves to stock up at the supermarket in Naples before our next day trip to Rome.
Back out in the chaos that encircles the Colosseum we meandered around, marveling at the three levels of arches, majestic against the blue sky. It was a truly cosmopolitan moment in Rome. We watched an Indian family, the women in brightly coloured saris attending to their children, American retirees kitted out in shorts and sun visors, and European visitors posing for photographs. I could sit and people watch all day, but Gi is a slightly more jaded tourist and was keen to return to catch the bus.
Walking away from the amphitheatre we found ourselves back on Via Cavour. The bus ride to the airport was uneventful, pushing through the afternoon peak hour traffic until we emerged on wide tree-lined roads to the south of the city centre. Nurseries and landscaping businesses caught my eye before a villa, centuries old, and more ruins that looked like they’d been scattered by an itinerant giant appeared beside the highway.
The Ciampino airport itself was no playground, and had surprisingly few facilities for its growing numbers of international passengers. Again we cursed ourselves for not being better prepared, forking out valuable Euro for ordinary sandwiches and water. We passed the time before boarding chatting to a Canadian couple, recently retired, who had just finished a quick visit to Rome. Unlike their American counterparts they had only positive things to say about the food, the sights, the shopping and their experience. They were returning to London before connecting the following day for a flight home.
Boarding was an experience. We hadn’t previously flown with Ryan Air, an Irish airline that has enjoyed expansion across the continent. They don’t allocate seats when you check in, on the assumption that it will encourage people to check in earlier and board faster. It seems to work. However in Italy it gets mixed up with the cultural lack of queuing, and the queue jumping turns to pushing and complaining. Standing in the middle of a growing crowd of people at our nominated gate I overheard people whinging about their delayed 16:30 flight. Many of them were English and naturally they were upset. After a fabulous trip to Italy it seemed that a delayed flight completely ruined the holiday for many of them. The clock showed 20:35 and while I understood they’d been stuck here for six hours since check in time at 14:30 I didn’t see the point in being upset about it. Planes get delayed; it’s a reality of flying. I’d rather they delay the plane for two days as they did on one occasion when I was traveling to Bangkok and got stuck in Cairns while the airline flew in new brakes, instead of falling into the sea or crashing.
However, as though to rub salt into the ‘delayed due to operational reasons’ wound (what does that mean, can you be delayed due to ‘non operational reasons’?) the screen above flashed advising that our flight was boarding from the next gate. The crowd surged to the right and the scrambling for first place began. The passengers on the delayed flight went from furious to absolutely livid as yet another flight bound for London began to board. As we waited to be processed and board the shuttle bus, Gi entertained an American lady dressed in purple with his quirky sense of humour and misplaced chivalry. The shuttle bus quickly filled up, the older slower passengers occupying seats, while the young and fleet footed remained standing ready for the next race. As it pulled up beside the plane, parked on the tarmac like an empty taxi in New York, people were already scrambling towards the doors. The gas pistons hissed as the doors opened and passengers spewed out, some actually running, intent on securing their favoured seat onboard. In accordance with Gi’s preference, we headed for the backside of the plane and settled in.
Flying out of Rome at night is much like flying out of any large city. A collage of lights, white, yellow, orange and red, highlights the life that’s going on below. I always wonder if anyone looks up at the roar of our engine’s plane, and wonders back up at us, ‘Who are they, and where are they flying to tonight?’
My friend Tom picked us up at the airport sometime around midnight. It was raining in London and as we relaxed into the leather seats of his heated car we talked. Tom and I worked together at BNL, Banca Nazionale del Lavoro, an Italian bank based in London, conducting international money transfers. That was in 1994. He hadn’t changed much. Perhaps just a touch greyer but it suited him. We met his new girlfriend, Helen, at her flat. And to say she was welcoming, hospitable and gracious would be an understatement. They live in north London, within walking distance of the old Arsenal football stadium, the red paint peeling on the entrance gate. The new impressive stadium, alive with modern features and lighting, is being constructed nearby at a cost of £15 million, if I’m not mistaken.
It had been an enjoyable day in Rome, we always relish a chance to play tourist. Arriving in London was a shock, with the rain, significant drop in temperature (from 31° C down to 9° C) and prediction for more of the same. However, it was also like coming home. We were eager to catch up with other friends, and dip into the distinctly organized British culture and London vibe once more. The week ahead beckoned.
24 May 2006 Roman Day Tripper
Our flight to London was scheduled to leave from Rome’s Ciampino airport at 21:05. We caught a mid morning train from Naples, planning to spend the day sightseeing. First, we needed to work out how to get to Ciampino airport, having previously only flown from the main airport, Leonardo da Vinci (commonly known as Fiumicino). My trusty Lonely Planet guide detailed that the public transport journey to Ciampino was a bit of a nightmare, but several firms, such as Ryan Air and Easy Jet, now chartered buses. The buses departed from the street adjacent to the Stazione Termini (central train station in Rome), and tickets cost €6, cheaper than the price quoted in Lonely Planet, and certainly not a wallet breaker if it meant getting there on time and stress free.
Having done our transport-to-Ciampino homework we wandered off down Via Cavour. Arriving at Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore, we circled the grand basilica, disappointed that it was closed. The square was surprisingly empty with only a few people perched around the base of an Egyptian obelisk, eating lunch. The pigeons outnumbered the people, not an uncommon situation in parts of Europe. A light sprinkle of rain began to fall as we veered off down Via Merulana.
Rome is a city where you would never be able to visit everything. Reputably containing some 900 churches there are also the countless museums, galleries, catacombs, gardens, historical villas, piazzas and monuments. Having done the major sights on a few occasions (mind you, it would take weeks alone to see the restricted public access areas at Vatican City) we wanted to see something a little off the usual tourist trail. It’s certainly not hard to do that in Rome.
The tree lined boulevard Via Merulana led us to Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano. The Basilica was the first Christian basilica constructed in Rome, during the 4th century. I was interested to go inside, knowing that it was Rome’s cathedral, and the pope’s seat as Bishop of Rome. Not being of Catholic upbringing, and generally ignorant of Catholicism’s history and hierarchy, I hadn’t realized that the Pope would have responsibilities outside of Vatican City. Though I guess he has to be Bishop of somewhere.
Lonely Planet tells me that the Basilica di San Giovanni has “been destroyed by fire twice and rebuilt several times”. I can never take in all of the historical dates, influential names and architectural features, but before stepping inside I was impressed with the beauty. Walking up the marble stairs, through the impressive iron gates, the porch is like no verandah you’ll find in Australia. Looking up, the curved ceilings are alive with frescoes depicting religious scenes of anxious cardinals, purposeful angels and beseeching disciples all wearing great sweeping robes, the colours muted and pastel from years of sun exposure. It’s like looking at an extraordinary art collection, which in fact it is.
Gi paused to study a mounted statue, perhaps made of bronze and dark with age. The statue depicts a man, confidently thrusting what looks like a symbol of power towards the sky. He’s dressed somewhat like Eric Bana’s character in the movie ‘Troy’, the leather skirt exposing his strong knees, abdominals revealed by the fall of his heavy cloak secured around his broad shoulders. It could be Brad Pitt as Achilles, except this statue has curly hair and a goatee. The bronze figure was striking an impressive pose, like he was royalty and supremely aware of his responsibilities. It was set in front of an ornately carved white wall, locked behind more black wrought iron gates. Gi stood there for a long while, taking in the detail, and I captured him on film, thinking that in his black jeans and white shirt the photo would almost be monochrome naturally.
Entering the basilica was like being thrown down Alice’s rabbit hole and finding yourself in a land of gold and glitter. It was cool inside, a welcome respite from the early warmth of spring. We spent the next hour wandering around, each step leading to another awesome object of beauty. The Gothic canopy over the papal altar contained relics, including the heads of Saints Peter and Paul. Of course other parts of St Peter are buried under St Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. Like most saints, there are bits and pieces of his remains all over the city, and spread throughout the Catholic Church across the globe. Poor buggers! The apse was inlaid with the most incredible mosaics, and even though they were copies of the originals I was struck by their magnificence.
I spent some time sitting in a baptistery, across from a group of nuns who had come in to sing hymns and pray. Their black habits contrasted starkly with the enormous white columns and ornate gold altar. There were six of them, two of Asian background, two African, and I couldn’t decide on the ethnic background of the other two. Of course Rome, as the centre of the Catholic Church, draws priests and nuns from around the world, and to pass a day in Rome without crossing paths with a sister or father/brother from outside of Italy is to be in bed asleep. I listened as the nuns sang and prayed in Latin, their hesitant foreign accents reminding me that I wasn’t the only one who had to concentrate with the language.
Gi and I had both recently read Dan Brown’s ‘Da Vinci Code’ and he was now more obsessed with symbols than ever. Walking around he spied countless signs and symbols, all of which had a myriad of meanings and historical significance. I stopped to study some art work and, as always, the longer I stood there the more I saw. It was a dizzying and impossible experience trying to take it all in, looking up at the domed ceilings high above, looking down at the mosaics and floor detailing, looking sideways at the carving, statues, marble work, paintings. The gold gilding, pink and grey of the marble, vivid reds and blues of the mosaics all made for a visual kaleidoscope.
We walked back out into the bright sunshine. I’ve found Italy is often about unexpected discoveries, the external facade not giving a hint of the splendor within. This basilica was one such discovery. Circling it we rested on a seat across from the basilica’s other entrance, even more majestic with bronze doors and immense statues. As we paused there, I watched a group of nuns dressed in white, their leather sandals, hair pins and rosary beads the only belongings they appeared to carry. They were being led down the road, striding out at a quick pace, as an orange bus drove by. They seemed to be oblivious to the traffic, as a passing truck belched out grey exhaust fumes. My attention was then taken by two gypsy women talking on the other side of the grassy square. Eventually one of them walked by, her grimy hand out begging for coins. The gypsies seemed to be increasing in number in Italy, their tell tale head scarves, darker skin and multi layered clothing making them relatively easy to spot.
Looking at the map, we debated about how to spend the next two hours before heading out to the airport. The Colosseum was just down the road. It is one of those famous grand structures that I could see every day and wonder at. I was excited as we walked down a side street and I spied it in the distance. In its day it could seat 80,000 spectators. It loomed up before us, my imagination running wild at the knowledge that it was the site of bloody gladiatorial combat, wild animal shows, mock sea battles and the gang raping of women. None of which I would want to witness, but having been at a Robbie Williams concert at the Sydney Cricket Ground with 50,000 fans I could only imagine the electricity and thrill for a Roman audience at such an event (and yes, of course it’s appropriate for me to compare Robbie to a gladiatorial spectactle).
Before wandering around the Colosseum we went in search of a coffee. Right in front of Rome’s best known monument we walked by a restaurant, its patrons dining on the footpath, but dismissed it. I expected finding a decent, reasonably priced, coffee in this part of Rome to be almost impossible due to the tourist trade. Gi was pulled up by a young man who enquired if he was a tattoo artist, having spied the tattoos on his lower right arm. A flurry of words later and we were inside. The young man was a waiter, standing on the street trying to entice hapless tourists in with the tourist menu and a friendly smile. Gi, putting on his best Neapolitan accent and ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ face asked him, “Where can we get a good coffee around here?”
“Right here, but wait, I’ll get so-and-so to make it. He makes the best coffee”
So-and-so turned out to be an even younger man, who we followed inside and they exchanged tattoo banter while he played barista. Our coffees arrived with a flourish and the bill only came to €1.40 for both. I was surprised, but held my tongue, having observed listed menu prices during our morning stroll for espressos at €1.40 each, and if you wanted to sit down €2.60. We had been charged the ‘local’ price and the coffee was excellent. It’s unfortunate, but Rome is a city that largely revolves around its tourist appeal and the businesses take advantage of that fact. Everything seemed to be twice what we would ordinarily pay in Naples, pizza, cold drinks, postcards etc. We promised ourselves to stock up at the supermarket in Naples before our next day trip to Rome.
Back out in the chaos that encircles the Colosseum we meandered around, marveling at the three levels of arches, majestic against the blue sky. It was a truly cosmopolitan moment in Rome. We watched an Indian family, the women in brightly coloured saris attending to their children, American retirees kitted out in shorts and sun visors, and European visitors posing for photographs. I could sit and people watch all day, but Gi is a slightly more jaded tourist and was keen to return to catch the bus.
Walking away from the amphitheatre we found ourselves back on Via Cavour. The bus ride to the airport was uneventful, pushing through the afternoon peak hour traffic until we emerged on wide tree-lined roads to the south of the city centre. Nurseries and landscaping businesses caught my eye before a villa, centuries old, and more ruins that looked like they’d been scattered by an itinerant giant appeared beside the highway.
The Ciampino airport itself was no playground, and had surprisingly few facilities for its growing numbers of international passengers. Again we cursed ourselves for not being better prepared, forking out valuable Euro for ordinary sandwiches and water. We passed the time before boarding chatting to a Canadian couple, recently retired, who had just finished a quick visit to Rome. Unlike their American counterparts they had only positive things to say about the food, the sights, the shopping and their experience. They were returning to London before connecting the following day for a flight home.
Boarding was an experience. We hadn’t previously flown with Ryan Air, an Irish airline that has enjoyed expansion across the continent. They don’t allocate seats when you check in, on the assumption that it will encourage people to check in earlier and board faster. It seems to work. However in Italy it gets mixed up with the cultural lack of queuing, and the queue jumping turns to pushing and complaining. Standing in the middle of a growing crowd of people at our nominated gate I overheard people whinging about their delayed 16:30 flight. Many of them were English and naturally they were upset. After a fabulous trip to Italy it seemed that a delayed flight completely ruined the holiday for many of them. The clock showed 20:35 and while I understood they’d been stuck here for six hours since check in time at 14:30 I didn’t see the point in being upset about it. Planes get delayed; it’s a reality of flying. I’d rather they delay the plane for two days as they did on one occasion when I was traveling to Bangkok and got stuck in Cairns while the airline flew in new brakes, instead of falling into the sea or crashing.
However, as though to rub salt into the ‘delayed due to operational reasons’ wound (what does that mean, can you be delayed due to ‘non operational reasons’?) the screen above flashed advising that our flight was boarding from the next gate. The crowd surged to the right and the scrambling for first place began. The passengers on the delayed flight went from furious to absolutely livid as yet another flight bound for London began to board. As we waited to be processed and board the shuttle bus, Gi entertained an American lady dressed in purple with his quirky sense of humour and misplaced chivalry. The shuttle bus quickly filled up, the older slower passengers occupying seats, while the young and fleet footed remained standing ready for the next race. As it pulled up beside the plane, parked on the tarmac like an empty taxi in New York, people were already scrambling towards the doors. The gas pistons hissed as the doors opened and passengers spewed out, some actually running, intent on securing their favoured seat onboard. In accordance with Gi’s preference, we headed for the backside of the plane and settled in.
Flying out of Rome at night is much like flying out of any large city. A collage of lights, white, yellow, orange and red, highlights the life that’s going on below. I always wonder if anyone looks up at the roar of our engine’s plane, and wonders back up at us, ‘Who are they, and where are they flying to tonight?’
My friend Tom picked us up at the airport sometime around midnight. It was raining in London and as we relaxed into the leather seats of his heated car we talked. Tom and I worked together at BNL, Banca Nazionale del Lavoro, an Italian bank based in London, conducting international money transfers. That was in 1994. He hadn’t changed much. Perhaps just a touch greyer but it suited him. We met his new girlfriend, Helen, at her flat. And to say she was welcoming, hospitable and gracious would be an understatement. They live in north London, within walking distance of the old Arsenal football stadium, the red paint peeling on the entrance gate. The new impressive stadium, alive with modern features and lighting, is being constructed nearby at a cost of £15 million, if I’m not mistaken.
It had been an enjoyable day in Rome, we always relish a chance to play tourist. Arriving in London was a shock, with the rain, significant drop in temperature (from 31° C down to 9° C) and prediction for more of the same. However, it was also like coming home. We were eager to catch up with other friends, and dip into the distinctly organized British culture and London vibe once more. The week ahead beckoned.
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