Claudia Exercise 1

I could find my way in the dark. I could find my way blindfolded. I find my way through memory. I have been to Rome countless times. From the age of fourteen when I first visited and fell in love with the city, to now, ten years later, Rome has fascinated me, drawing me back to her again and again. But it is not merely the awe of the ancient structures and the vibrancy of the modern culture permeating the city, but rather the smells, the tastes, the sounds that create a personalized Rome, a city of flavors mapped on to the ancient topography. I crave the city of Rome for its gelato.

From that first summer in Rome, the taste of Il Gelatone’s gelato has coated my tongue, colored my mind. Everyone has her favorite gelato store in Rome, from Giolitti to San Crispino to Della Palma. I have mine: Il Gelatone. Periodically, throughout the year, my cravings for the gelato at Il Gelatone, on via dei Serpenti, manifest themselves in my dreams: I’m at the airport about to leave but I haven’t had my last gelato fix; security is restraining me but I break free---I climb out to the roof of Fiumicino airport and run through the streets back to the Suburra, back to Il Gelatone. In my waking life, I start planning what flavors I will get for my first gelato of the season weeks before I get to Rome. My mind and my taste buds are ready.

In Rome, my movements become automated, guiding me helplessly towards via dei Serpenti. Everyday, sometimes twice a day (often twice a day), I weave my way through the cobble-stone, twisting streets of Rome, always leading to Il Gelatone. Via dei Serpenti, in the area of Suburra in Rome, runs from via Nazionale, stretching to the hill directly above the Coliseum metro stop. At first, I was able to find new routes from my rented apartment in Trastevere, from the residence of my study abroad program in Monte Verde, from my friend’s apartment in the Borgo. I would find myself on an unrecognizable street near via Nazionale or via Cavour and have to take out a map to find my way back to via dei Serpenti. But now the local neighborhood of Suburra has become fixed in my mind: I see the streets as I write these words; I know the short cuts, the dead ends, the more trafficked routes.

The monuments on a certain route, ancient and modern, guide and direct me towards my goal. Passing by the Largo Argentina on my left, I am guided into Piazza Venezia by the movement of the busses, the honking of the horns, and the increasing throngs of tourists gathering at the foot of the Capitoline. Haphazardly, paying little mind to the oncoming traffic, I cross Piazza Venezia, in front of the Victor Emanuel Monument. I pass by Trajan’s column (and the concession truck with its sign claiming authentic gelato) on my right. With Trajan’s tall column pointing me upwards, I climb the stairs that connect the piazza in front of Trajan’s column with via Nazionale, thinking all the while how easy it is to satisfy my primitive gelato needs by following this simple medieval pedestrian route rather than taking the winding modern route used by the stinking cars and buses . Agonizingly close, I shuffle past the entrance to Trajan’s markets on my right, and continue straight down via Panisperna, a street whose buildings are covered in vine and ivy. The sidewalks are narrow, the small street further constricted by parked cars. At the now-vacant bakery with its white mosaic sign, I make a right onto via dei Serpenti. I pass the empty travel shop and the bus stop for #117 and I am there. Frutti di Bosco, melone e banana.

Another day. Looking over the Forum from the steps connecting the Capitoline to the via Sacra, sitting on a ledge facing the Arch of Septimus Severus, with the temple of Vespasian and Titus on my right, and the Mamertine prison on my left, I join the general downward movement of the tourists, passing underneath the Arch of Septimus Severus, walking on the via Sacra, past the Senate house on my left, the Temple of Divus Julius on my right, the Temple of Divus Antoninus and Diva Faustina and the basilica of Maxentius on my left, and finally passing under the Arch of Titus at the upper via Sacra. The curve of the Coliseum pulls me around it, leading me to the entrance of the Domus Aurea on my right and a narrow inclined street on my left. Climbing up the street, I pass endless tourist-trap restaurants drawing in diners from their locations overlooking the Coliseum Valley. At the corner, I turn right onto a street that slopes down underneath a small arch and which is flanked by extremely tall, light-colored brick walls. For a moment, as I cross the busy via Cavour and continue onto via dei Serpenti I get distracted by the sudden stench of exhaust, the loud voices of tourists and the rush of traffic. Two more blocks, as I am climbing out of the tourist bustle and into the family neighborhood of Monti, passing the internet café, the tobacco store, the piazza with its fountain and time-worn benches, the beautiful 16th century della Porta church that nobody notices, the “ethnic” restaurant, the deli featuring Calabrese specialties and Agau, the independent, handmade jewelry store, I reach Il Gelatone. Nocciola e café.

And another day. I leave the Baptistery and the Lateran and the downhill slope of via Merulana, on the right side of the church, guides me. The tree-shaded street gently leads down and then up again with the cupola of Santa Maria Maggiore coming into site. The pigeons littering the statue in the piazza in front the church seem to block the rectangular staired entrance from me that day. I gravitate towards the left of the building, the exterior protrudance of the apse gently guiding me. On my left, Zito’s photo shop signals my turn on to via Panisperna. Walking down the hill past countless alimentari and apartment buildings, the proximity to Il Gelatone is announced by the small mannequin shop on my left. The arms of the discarded plastic models point me two more blocks down via Panisperna until I see that familiar large stone building on my right directly in front of me. Turning on to via dei Serpenti, I pass the vacant bakery which once sold delicious pesto pizza and the always empty Indian restaurant and I have arrived. Pompelmo, arancia rosso e fico.

The monuments and traffic throughout Rome may physically guide me to Il Gelatone but the taste of the gelato itself has attached itself to my palate, summoning me with its freshness, its creaminess, its delightfulness. I taste the frutti di bosco (a personal favorite) and I remember the excitement of being in Rome for the first time, my first taste ever of ice cream in Italy (a cone of frutti di bosco from a street-facing kiosk in a mall on via del Corso, a place I would now pass and, with disgust, mutter “che schiffo” under my breath). I taste the fragola and I am immediately taken to the fresh market on via Cola di Rienzo where I often buy kilos of fresh little strawberries, promising myself each time that I won’t eat them all before I wash them, and each time embarrassed by the red-stained fingers that bear witness to my indulgence. I taste the café and I am in the neighborhood coffee shop, Saccetti (sadly now closed), sandwiched between two old men who are drinking campari, as I drink my morning macchiato in Piazza di San Cosimoto in Trastevere.

The monuments and the tastes intertwined with Il Gelatone connect me to the local Romans. Each time I return to Il Gelatone, Agnese happily greets me, remembering me as the American girl who will eat gelato in any temperature (I believe that gelato can protect you from the extremities of any weather), every day of the week. I frequent via dei Serpenti so often for gelato that the shopkeepers have come to know me: the Calabrese owners of the specialty shop two stores down wave to me as I pass by, enticing me into their store with fresh cheese and olives and cured meats; the young jewelry makers in Agau smile at me as they take their cigarette breaks outside. As I take my gelato and sit by the fountain, I feel as if I am part of the neighborhood now. I sit, I eat, I watch, I listen. Young boys, having just finished school for the day, splash in the soiled fountain and toss soccer balls; old women enter the local church in the afternoon hours; restaurant owners wash their fruit and vegetables in the running water; a young girl, sitting next to me, smiles happily, her face bearing the evidence of the chocolate gelato cone she just ate. Il Gelatone has introduced me to a local, authentically Roman neighborhood; Il Gelatone has made me an insider to Suburra.

Now I want gelato.

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Claudia, one question that was provoked by your reflection, is what makes us remember what we remember? In this case your memories were activated by taste. I keep on thinking that our memories are so multifaceted, there are so many layers to them. In a way they can also be deceptive-Carissa

Posted at Mar 04/2008 02:22PM:
elisa: Claudia, I found it intriguing that the path which you took could have easily been followed by a tourist in Rome; however their experiences and modes of looking at the landscape would likely have been much different. Here, Jonathan Smith's ideas regarding ritual seem especially pertinent - ritual directs attention. Both tourists and locals alike engage in ritual paths towards self-imposed or culturally-imposed rituals, yet it is the end result of these ritual actions that determines the meaning of these experiences.