Roman Holiday Realized

I'm a old movie lover - plain and simple. On many occasions if you sneak into my home on a rainy Saturday afternoon, you'll find me watching Cary Grant, Kate Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Bogey and Bacall. But it isn't often that you get to experience one up close.

As previously mentioned, one of my favorite movies has always been Roman Holiday – Audrey Hepburn at her most charming, Gregory Peck completely gorgeous. The sights, the dialogue, the romance. Ah! I wonder how many people have been to Rome specifically because they saw that movie -- searching for a little lost Hollywood, circa-1950s bliss. To a soul in need of a little bliss those streets and sights could be the salve that saves you.

But here’s the huge difference when you get there…. Rome is in color. Fantastic color, spelled colour because it deserves an extra consonant. It’s startling to walk the streets by the Trevi Fountain or Spanish Steps where the Hepburn/Peck romance blossomed and have it be that vivid.

I was only in Rome for a couple of days, which is a complete crime, but I put a lot of mileage on my sneakers while I was there. I had heard that Rome was dirty, loud and crowded. I found none of this. The city is ancient but wears its years beautifully. If it was pristine you would feel like you were at Universal or Disney instead of Rome. It needs to be worn – for God’s sake you’re walking on streets that are thousands of years old. The major sites were crowded and the area around the Trevi Fountain is especially small but go a half block from any of it and you can be on your own with one or two fellow Romans.

A word about the Romans, or is it Romani? Oh I can’t remember the conjugations anymore – sorry Mr. Lehr. Three years of Latin and all I remember is “Brittania est insula.” Yes, truly England is still an island. NO breaking news there.

Anyway, back to the inhabitants of Rome. The women are willowy and chic and completely put together either at 7:00 a.m. going out or at 4:00 a.m. coming home. It’s annoying unless you embrace it. You do your hair when you go out. You make sure you at least have lipstick on. If you could find a big hat or long silk scarf you’d wear it. But to quote Marisa Tomei, “Like you blend?” The fact is we’ll always be Americans because there’s one thing that sets Italian women apart from American ones regardless of the clothes and attitude. They are part cat. They have to be in order to show that agility walking on 4-inch heels on cobblestones. I, who was not raised to walk on my tiptoes, who had a hard enough time not turning my ankle in sneakers, did not EVEN venture into the big time with heels on those streets. However I do know some drag queens in Provincetown who could give them a run for their money. Ciao bella!

The Roman men, basically Italian men in general, were a surprise. They are just as elegant and stylish as we are led to believe but the majority are tiny. Jeez, I don’t know where someone came up with the notion that Italian men are tall and I have no idea where men’s Vogue finds these guys. Just isn’t the case in reality, kids. They are stylin, but they are piccolo. Guys with smaller waist sizes than me - which is startling since I wear a size 2. Also, they were not nearly as aggressive as I had been led to believe. This is actually a relief if traveling alone… after you get over the initial self doubt of “hey aren’t they supposed to be flirting with me?” Then you realize, well I didn’t really want them to in the first place. The most forward one asked for a kiss before delivering me to my hotel in his cab. The 10 EU pay-off seemed to work just as well and he drove off smiling.

It was my first cab driver who advised seeing the sights of Rome by night, and he was right. It’s beautiful during the day but it’s from another planet at night – even when you’re jet lagged and really just want to find a bed and pillow, it’s impossible to pull yourself from it. The night I was there, there was the White Nights festival featuring Italy’s biggest pop stars for free. Everyone was out and the news helicopters covering the event flew until 4:00 a.m. It was magical.

Even given that beauty the perfect moment had already been had by the time I saw the coliseum lit up. When I was planning my trip I had found a list of hotels with great views. Walking past the Parthenon on that first night I ran into the Hotel Minerva and headed to the rooftop bar/restaurant I had read about. This was my first view of Rome from within and up high, not to mention at sunset. It was completely breathtaking. There was one more couple up there with me… Americans from New York, go figure! So the waiter brought a lovely glass of golden wine and assorted snackies and I settled in to look around in awe (how the hell Roman women stay so willowy when every drink comes with crunchy things I’ll never know. Yes ladies, they do eat them as well. Rotten cat women!).



It was perfect. Completely silent – no sounds of traffic, airplanes, or even people talking – like a belljar had been put over the roof. The only thing moving was the fingers of the shadows as they grew longer against the paving stones of the patio. When the sun hit them right they glowed golden and orange. Then the silence was split in two. No loud tourists or the honking of the horn did it, as would be the case in New York. It was the bells of the surrounding churches - ten churches in all -when they went off on the hour. It shook your chest it was so loud – filling the ears with an ancient calling to vespers. Minutes went by surrounded by that cacophony of sound and then it stopped as quickly as it began.

When I could hear again I looked over at the couple across the patio from me and asked out loud, “So you think they do that for the tourists?”
The truth was it didn’t matter. Go ahead and give me a movie moment. I’ll take it any day of the week. When I look at my pictures of that moment I can close my eyes and in the deep recesses of my memory I can still hear the last ringing of those bells. Multo Bene!