Roma
The walls of buildings near the Forum in Rome are covered in graffiti and bills, posted on top of one another, decrying the Iraq war and President Bush, advertising sales at luxury Italian designer stores, pointing the direction to good places to eat at reasonable prices. The painted and papered walls represent an archeological project all their own. I suspect that you could peel your way back to 400 B.C. to an advertisement for chariot races at the Circus Maximus.
So when I first saw a poster announcing a Simon and Garfunkel concert in Rome, I figured it dated back at least to the early 1970s. Closer inspection revealed that the free concert would take place three days henceforth, in front of the Coliseum no less. We inquired around and discovered that Paul McCartney played a free concert in front of the Coliseum last summer. The event attracted over a half million people.
There was a time in my life when I would be drawn to big public spectacles like this one, but no more. Nowadays, hundreds of thousands of people packed in tight together without room to move, without clearly defined exits or bathrooms, is more of a nightmare than a night out for me. Still, I thought it would be fun to see Simon and Garfunkel. This was to be the last concert of their current tour. And to see them on a stage with the Roman Coliseum as a backdrop, well, how can you do better than that?
Unfortunately, we were scheduled to move on from Rome on the Saturday of the concert. The hotel where we were staying was perfectly situated across the street from the Forum and just 300 meters from the Coliseum itself. If we didn’t want to brave the crowds, we could go up to the rooftop bar, with its magnificent view, and enjoy the concert from up there. Still, there were logistical problems. We were scheduled to pick up a rental car on that Saturday morning. Where would we park it? We had reserved a farm house in Tuscany and were to meet the caretaker early Saturday afternoon with the keys and a lecture on operating the utilities, opening the shutters, drawing wine from the vat in the basement. It seemed best that we just stick with the plan.
On the day that we actually toured the Coliseum, the concert stage had already gone up out front. Inside the Coliseum, I was taken back more than two millennia to a time when this place was packed with tens of thousands of frenzied Roman spectators who watched gladiators fight to the death against hungry lions. I had this funny thought. What if Simon and Garfunkel were to go inside the Coliseum and fight a lion for the encore (I’m guessing “Bridge over Troubled Water”) of their show? It’s just the kind of thing that feeds the egos of rock stars. Perhaps, Paul Simon would rig it so that Art Garfunkel gets eaten by the lion. The two have had their feuds over the years. Simon: “Finally, I’m rid of him – no more of these god-awful reunion tours!”
Via Dei Fori Imperiali is the main boulevard that runs into the Coliseum plaza. The concert stage was at the end of the road in front of the Coliseum. As we walked along the Via back to our hotel we could see the speaker stands and video screens erected on either side of the street, spaced every 50 meters or so. I started imagining this street blocked off of traffic and people filing in from all directions on Saturday. Then I started imagining the three of us, in a rental car, trying to navigate our way out of the city.
People had warned us not to drive in Rome. But driving in the Washington, D.C. area is no picnic either, and I do that every day. Plus I have driven in other cities all over Europe and the UK, including London – on the wrong side of the road!
We had two choices when we reserved our rental car. We could go back out to the airport (an hour or more away) or we could pick it up at Rome’s central rail station (ten minutes on the subway). We opted for the downtown pick up. Besides, we would rent the car on a Saturday morning and get straight out of town. How bad could it be?
Famous last words.
We got the car at 10 a.m. and maneuvered our way back to the hotel to check-out and load up our bags (no sense dragging our luggage onto the subway where we wouldn’t last a minute with the gypsy thieves). On the drive back, we had to circumnavigate several streets that were already closed for the concert. Still, we made it without a hitch, which provided a much-needed boost to my confidence level.
It should be pointed out that the normal rules of the road do not hold for the city of Rome, which has only one rule: “You are less important than me, so get out of my way, you tourist maggot.” As a general rule of thumb, a four lane road in Rome, two lanes in either direction, turns out to be ten lanes: the four lanes clearly marked by lines on the road, the two lanes held by cars straddling the middle, and the four lanes occupied by insane, suicidal motorbike drivers. On a particularly bad traffic day, the road will swell to twelve lanes, counting the sidewalks.
Not that you will find many roads that wide in Rome. Most of the roads in Rome are the quaint cobblestone variety, unchanged by thousands of years, and barely wide enough for two people to walk past one other without bumping shoulders. As such, they will carry no more than six lanes of automotive traffic.
Despite a good city map, an experienced driver (me) and trustworthy navigator (Cynde), I would estimate that we were officially lost within thirty seconds of setting off from our hotel. We were arguing within five minutes, not speaking to each other after ten. Driving in Rome is not good for a marriage. At one point, I saw my son in the rear-view mirror. His looks said, “Who are you people and what have you done with my parents?”
The narrow Roman roads jammed with traffic are bad enough, but navigating them as a tourist is next to impossible. Cynde, who speaks passable Italian was attempting to read the map and direct me. I speak negative Italian, which means that I can’t even hear the words that she is telling me. A typical exchange:
Cynde: Turn right on Via Corso Vittorio Emanuele II.
Me: What?
Cynde: Turn right on the road you just passed.
Me: Oh.
(For a realistic sense of the emotional energy exchanged between us, try sticking your finger in an electrical socket as you read this.)
You would think that even blind luck would lead you out of a city given enough time. You would be wrong if you were in Rome. After an hour, we found ourselves back where we started in the neighborhood of our hotel. I decided to stop and ask directions. “I’m going to stop at this information kiosk,” I said, entirely to myself, as no one else in the car was listening to me at the moment. I parked in a taxi lane and went inside. Taxi drivers in Rome are part of a Government program designed to employ individuals missing the frontal lobe of their brains. As such they drive around the city with their eyes closed, their fist on the horn, and their foot pressing the accelerator to the floor. Also, they do not like it when people temporarily park in their coveted taxi lanes, even when these people are hopelessly lost. As I was listening to directions from the tourist information guy in the kiosk, a taxi driver came inside to try and convince me to move my car. I told him (in English) to be patient and that I would only be a moment, but he just became more insistent. Finally, I reasoned with him using the only Italian that I know. “Fuck you,” I said. Okay, so maybe that’s not Italian, but I included some highly suggestive hand gestures, which are Italian, and he seemed to understand. After that, he left me alone.
Ninety minutes after we set off to leave Rome, we found ourselves at the city limits and on the highway to Tuscany. The farther we got from Rome the better the mood in the car. We were talking again. Our teeth were unclenched. We were – dare I say it – happy.
I had a great time in Rome. I really did. I hope to go back there many times. But I will never, under any circumstances, drive in Rome again. I’d sooner fight the lion in the Coliseum. Speaking of which, I still haven’t heard. How is Art Garfunkel?
11:00:49 PM  Stories
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