A Terrible, Horrible No-Good Day at Porta Portese

Lest anyone think that our life abroad consists solely of forays to the countryside to stuff ourselves on gourmet vittles while taking in unparalleled vistas or speeding off to private villas for cena when in town, I experienced a decidedly unfortunate incident Sunday morning at the Porta Portese market that rebalanced the scales. Yes, I was robbed.

It just proves that drawing attention to oneself when things are going well (or even better than average) is ill-advised. Especially in a country where streetside shrines to the Madonna fall under the category of “public works”. (See example pictured at left for one in my neighborhood I’ve dubbed “Our Lady of Burgeoning Energy Consciousness”.) Fact is, the mere act of complimenting a baby on its good looks is considered reason enough to tempt fate here, so the practice isn’t encouraged. To wit, summarizing our extravagant dining experience at the Villa Aurora a few weeks ago for friends and family in this blog would not go unpunished.

It all happened in the customary manner. I was negotiating with the proprietor of a stand after trying on various reading glasses (sadly, my long-running 20/20 spec has come to an end) and when I reached for my wallet at the bottom of my purse to pay for a pair of rhinestone-encrusted frames, my beat-up Chococat® wallet was nowhere to be found among the wads of extra napkins I carry as carta igenica (Italian public bagnos are notorious for lacking such amenities). While continuing to rifle futilely through my borsa, Giulia interrupted me mid-panic to explain that “a man just put his hand in your purse, took the wallet and ran off with it.” I asked her why she didn’t say anything and she responded, “because I don’t speak Italian.” I laughed and said that next time she sees someone with his/her hand in my bag, she should just scream “Mamma!” as loudly as possible (and not worry about verb conjugation).

My friend Tamzen says that “once you feel the bump, it’s already over.” In my case, I never had a chance to distinguish the ladro's bump from the incessant crush of bargain hunters. All I could think to do at that moment was to calmly ask Giulia what the thief looked like (she said she didn’t know as she only saw a hand) and then find a Carabinieri to let off steam. Once I located a suitably uniformed official and informed him of our misfortune, he wrote down a phone number and instructed me to call the district police office on Tuesday to see if my empty wallet (and driver’s license) turns up. Apparently the weekly harvest of discarded portofolios is significant.

So there you are. We headed to Rome’s biggest and longest-running Sunday flea market to secure a camouflage shirt for Giorgio’s 5th birthday, extra forks for the house and perhaps a few sundries and all we ended up with was a cheap pair of reading glasses (the proprietor was nice enough to hand them to me upon realizing my plight) and a sad story. Che sara', sara'. Somewhere in this ancient city there's a disembodied hand with 150 Euros in cash, some baby pics, my driver's license and a cancelled credit card, but if that's the price for putting the universe is back in alignment, I think we got off easy.

Giulia said she felt so bad about what happened that she had a tummy ache and I assured her that it wasn’t her fault and that she was far more important than the stuff I lost. We rode the #8 tram home by processing our terrible mishap - as many others before us no doubt have - and learned an important lesson (to keep our purses zipped at all times and/or our money in our underpants). We also had a very good conversation on the way back up the hill ranging from divine jurisprudence to Oliver Twist. Here's an excerpt:

Giulia: “Mommy, not all robbers wear masks you know.”
Me: “Yes, I know sweetie.”
Giulia: “I think Santa’s gonna bring that robber some coal.”
Me: “Without a doubt. Now let’s get home and cancel my credit card before Fagan orders everyone in his crew a bistecca Fiorentina and pays with my credit card.”
Giulia: “What's a credit card and who’s Fagan?”

Once home, I immediately went online to cancel my card and Giulia got to work creating this picture of the incident for the police report.

If the karmic wheel spins again and we somehow end up at Berlusconi’s table in the next few months, I’ll at least have the good sense to keep my head down and the details to ourselves (that is, of course, assuming there isn’t an inquest and we aren’t forced to give testimony).

An Unanticipated Evening at the Villa Aurora

Giovanni and I are still digesting the fact that we ate dinner at the Villa Aurora last Saturday night. We began our day without any particular plan in mind besides soccer practice (me) and preparing lunch for the fellows (Gio) and ended it by joining the Prince and Princess Ludovisi for an extremely formal repast complete with hovering staff, French service, candelabras, a miniature white poodle circling the table and bottomless glasses of wine followed by a private viewing of the only known Caravaggio fresco in existence before strolling down the Via Veneto to hail a cab home. It was surreal -- and could have been an outtake from La Dolce Vita.

Why were we asked you might ask? Because our dear friend and neighbor Corey Brennan, the Mellon Professor in charge of the Humanities here at the Academy, was invited to the historic Villa that night with his wife Antonia and a group he’d been entertaining all week from the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Unbeknownst to the hosts, the total head count for dinner was 13. Once the Principessa realized this sfortunata she actually refused to serve dinner until at least one other person was found to join the table and defuse the bad omen. Luckily, Corey knew Gio and I were enjoying a round of negronis back home on the communal terrace of 5b with friends and called us as likely first responders to aid them in their "social emergency" (as he deemed it).

We informed our eight trattoria-bound amici of our once-in-a-lifetime opportunita’ and they cheered us on while we doubled up on Corey & Antonia’s baby sitter, kissed the kids goodnight, threw on our most formal attire and jumped in a cab. Ten minutes later we arrived at our destination and were met by a footman in red jacket and lace-aproned maid at the base of a long candlelit promenade near the Villa Borghese. The priceless moment of the evening for me was when they both nodded to us as we crossed the street and gestured courteously inside as we approached the cherub-topped columns flanking the main gate. I’m not kidding. It was one of those rare moments when I could suspend and savor disbelief to the point where I forgot all about being yelled at for the majority of the afternoon by my four-year-old son (inconsolable apparently because he couldn’t find the right poster of a tank at an Italian military show held at the Circus Maximus hours earlier) and bask in the overwhelming sense of anticipation.


Following our long, magically illuminated stroll up to the imposing 16th-century edifice, we were met by more sartorially impressive staff and greeted beyond the threshold by our much-relieved and simpatico hosts Rita and Nicolo Boncompagni Ludovisi. Naturally, the eleven others waiting in the sitting room were elated to see us.

Soon after exchanging salutations and pleasantries we were interrupted by another red-jacketed staffer proffering a tray of cordials and caviar which we were all too happy to sample before proceeding to the dining room lined with sombre paintings of the Prince's bejoweled ancestors, including Pope Gregory XIII -- the guy responsible for the calendar. I repeat, I am not making any of this up.

The subsequent conversation flowed like the Gewurtztraminer from Alto Adige and the setting was worthy of a Merchant-Ivory production what with all the plaster-cast putti spilling out of the ceiling overhead and four different glasses and eight pieces of flatware assigned to each of us. Thankfully, I didn’t spill my prosecco or mention Napoleon Bonaparte. Turns out, as I would reread the following morning in a Times article written just this past summer about the Villa, “The Little Corporal” had abolished the Ludovisi family’s state holdings in 1801. That seems like only yesterday in Rome time.

Following a round of espressos and more chitchat back in the sumptuous sitting room, the elegant Principessa gave Gio and me a condensed tour as late comers, indulged us all in some group photos in front of the family coat of arms in the foyer and insisted that we come back “any time” as she bid us buona notte. I intend to keep her offer in mind – after all, we did do everyone a huge favor by derailing all that bad juju that was heading their way.

In retrospect, my only missteps were not indulging in seconds of the fresh pasta with lemon cream sauce and failing to leave our number should the Ludovisi's find themselves in a similar bind in the future. If she does ever ring, I hope it's before I open another can of tuna and when the kids aren't screaming.

Post script: For those interested in more background on the Villa Aurora, our generous hosts and their ongoing restoration efforts, check out the The New York Times article and slide show at http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/16/greathomesanddestinations/16iht-rerome.html.