I went to visit my friends Roddy and Francesca in Rome a few weeks ago, and wanted to share with some of the fine people who didn't get to come with me.
Here are a few pictures:
That's Roddy. I moved back to Edinburgh to be closer to a number of people - and Roddy was one of them. He's a great guy; we were flatmates for a while and had a good time while he was here. Now he lives in Valletri, just south of Rome.
These gardens were actually Francesca's parent's next door neighbour's. She is about eighty years old and permanently hunched over; it's possible to grow everything you need to eat for a year on about an acre of land in this part of Italy. I've never seen anything like it, even in places I'm used to thinking of as being rich and fertile. Of course, they have 2000 years worth of topsoil built up - and it was about 20 degrees.
This is one of Roddy and Francesca's olive trees. They'll probably get 15 or 20 litres of olive oil off of their trees - and they'll probably use it all in a year. This is all the more amazing because they are both in pretty good shape; 20 litres of olive oil is about 162,000 calories, or enough to put 50 pounds of fat on you if you have it in excess of your requirements. They haven't had a chance to try the oil from these trees yet, but we had some from their parent's trees, and I was grateful for having lived long enough to have tasted such a thing. It was nearly clear, with a slight green tint and a pungent olive aroma. My tongue sang as the oil swam past it; I put it on everything - bread, pasta, salad, tomatoes, steak, bruschetta. I wanted to drink it straight, but that seemed a bit much.
They had a two persimmon trees in the back yard; they had told me over the phone that they had fruit trees, and kept saying they had a particular kind of tree that I hadn't heard of before. They new the name in Italian but not in English. They were persimmon trees. The persimmons were ripe globes succulent flesh, dangling from each branch begging to be tasted. So sweet, so sensuous - I couldn't resist taking frequent breaks to wander down to the larger of the two trees and gently coax a bundle of bright orange snack from its branches. They were so ripe that the skins were splitting, so full of juice that my face got covered in it, the sweet sticky nectar caught in my beard.
Persimmons were Grampa's favourite fruit. He would have loved these.
They had an apple tree, and lemons, too - and a hazelnut bush and oranges and grapes and artichokes. Roddy brought fresh artichokes over from Italy once and he and Ingriida and I steamed them and ate them with Hollendaise. It was a moment of bliss.
They had date palms as well, heavy with fruit not yet ripe.
It very rarely freezes, so citrus fruits fare well; this tree was so heavy with fruit that it's branches were starting to sag.
The forum, where the senate met. This was the one night we went out drinking. Well, eating and drinking. We weren't able to get a hotel and the trains stop running at midnight (ridiculous, isn't it?) so we took a taxi back to Valletri. Roddy and Francesca made me sit in the front seat, next to the driver. Their logic was that I was comparatively huge, so the guy would be initimidated into taking us on the journey. As it turned out, their logic was impeccable. He didn't want to drive us that far (it's about forty minutes) and tried to chuck us out. I gave him a glowering stare - and he drove us home.
This was one of the twin churches built right next to each other. They were majestic and solemn and the photo doesn't do them justice.
Rome was gorgeous, a sensuous treat, the echoes of a decadent empire and still audible on the streets. I'd say that it was a sad place, but the truth is that it was only me who was sad, so the beauty of it was haunting rather than joyful.
