A group of us went out on Thursday night to a discoteca-ish place called Coyote. It's a little alarming how accustomed I've come to pregaming a night out with a bottle of wine to myself. It's only a euro here, and hilariously, it comes in juice box form, which I have taken quite a liking to. When I have my first wine seminar next week, it will be a hard adjustment to go from rating chugabillity to potency and age. Anyway, if I've noticed anything about the nightlife here it's that Americans make their presence known and the men who frequent these discotecas are always in their late twenties. I met a friendly fellow named Allesandro who invited me on a motorcycle ride to his flat where we could "do hashish or something else you like". While I always like a good date with a drug lord, I politely declined in favor of passing out on my couch with Nutella smeared on my face.
On Saturday morning, my roommate and I walked to the fresh market in Testacchio, one of the "few Roman neighborhoods not overrun with tourists". Under a huge spanning tent, we walked amidst stands full of fruits, vegetables, AS Roma (soccer team) paraphernalia and kooky trinkets. Among the highlights were slabs of equina, or horse meat, that we are planning on finding recipes for and finding cookware suitable for simmering the thigh of a stallion. Then, we stopped at a fish stand and began talking to the 77 year old man who had woken up at 1 am that day to haul in fish from his boat. We told him we were from Canada, as that usually reaps a more positive response, and upon noticing that we were English speaking, said hold on and went to the back of the shop. We were afraid he was going to come out with some type of hideous sea creature or ancient Toronto maple leaf, but instead he showed us an international newspaper upon which he graced the front cover. The article was about how the fresh markets are still relatively unspoiled by foreigners and that Lucciano, our new friend, had worked at the same stand since 1941 during WWII. He had never gone to school, but loved his work and never wanted to change it. We plan on revisiting this place every weekend to load up on some goodies.
On Sunday, everyone in my program went to the AS Roma futbol game at Stadio Olimpico. We played against AS Siena and beat them silly. The crowd was crazy- everytime we scored a goal they would cheer and hug and push each other like mad and a few of the guys on our trip took a tumble down the bleacher rows. There was one tiny section of Siena fans who all sat in one section with Roma polizia officers at the end of every row. Two years ago, a West Side Story-ish struggle broke out after a particularly heated match and someone got stabbed, so there is ultra high security around the opposing team's fans. The fans spent more time heckling Senia and singing offensive songs than actually watching the game, but seeing as we were ranked much higher than Senia, their passion could be directed elsewhere.
Some other highlights:
Went to a bank to exchange some leftover francs from Switzerland into Euros. To get inside, you have to press a button that opens a clear glass door. Then you walk inside and the door shuts behind you. A very pleasant woman says some rubbish in Italian and a thumbpad glowed down next to my hip. After scanning your thumbprint, another door opens to let you inside. Doesn't matter though, because it was 1:30 pm and thus it was lunch time for all of the employees.
Old Italian ladies rule this place. They shove past you with no mercy on the trams, they yell at you when you are in front of them to get in line on the bus, and they walk whenever and wherever on the street, letting vespas and smartcars pile up behind their sashaying mink coats and Italian loafers.
On the way home from the AS Roma game, my friend and I got on a bus that was supposed to go to Termini, the train station where we catch a bus to go home. This bus, however, went down some long and winding roads into a giant Italian cemetary. At this point, it was nighttime and we were the only ones on the bus. The area was what I can only describe as ethereal. There were long cement building type things that were like graves stacked on top of each other, a light shining in front of every person's name. Through the window, it looked like big fireflies floating over fields. The whole graveyard was probably the size of Champaign-Urbana, and the bus driver had to get out to ask directions twice. This was about the fifth or sixth brush with death I've had since coming here, and I really need to settle down on my urges to wander and test my navigational skills.
Okay, time for some studying for Italian and beddy-bye. Buona notte!
Yes about the nonas. Although I've been at the other end of their stinkeyes, I do admire their don't give a shit, get out of my way attitude.
ReplyDeleteI was surprised to read that you told the nice guy in the market your were Canadian..... I always chuckle when I see Canadian flags pinned on their backpacks, or their maple leaf tags. I don't know why they just don't wear Tshirts saying I"m NOT American. You don't see other English speakers walking around with their flags so prominently displayed.--Australians, Brits, Scots. I've always thought it was kind of pathetic....like collective low national esteem. And now you are trading on all their imagined superiority. Don't tell your Canadian friends you do this:)
Aunt T