School or Scuola?

School or Scuola?
What to Do When Relocating to Rome with Kids

As an American mother of two and Rome resident since 2010, new and imminent arrivals often solicit my advice about local schools as they anxiously research educational options. While I don’t claim to be an authority on the subject, I can lay claim to a modicum of expertise based on my childrens’ age (7 and 6), our neighborhood (Gianicolo/Trastevere/Monteverde Vecchio), direct and indirect experience, anecdotal evidence and a statistically relevant amount of hearsay. So in the interests of helping bewildered, overwrought newcomers make the best decision for their family (and saving myself the trouble of copying/pasting/personalizing the same email over and over) I herewith offer my admittedly limited insights.

Among your considerations should be the age of your children and the length of your proposed stay as well as cost and convenience.

Our kids were just starting primary school when we arrived and instilling an appreciation of Italian was paramount to our 12-24 month relocation plan, so my husband and I were set on a scuola Italiana. Our quandary was whether to go public or private. Soon after initiating research, a general consensus emerged among both Italian and non-Italian parents we spoke with that, unfortunately, the public schools here no longer enjoy the stellar reputation they once enjoyed -- many in fact are so drained of funds that they can't even provide toilet paper in the restrooms. We ultimately chose the private route once learning that long wait lists were the rule at Rome’s best-regarded public schools and that a private Waldorf-inspired option was within walking distance that cost half as much as my son’s daycare in California. We also thought it would help ease their transition abroad since our daughter had attended a Waldorf kindergarten (and honestly, leaving their beloved tabby cat to start at a new school in a new language is one thing, but making them pack their own toilet paper each day is quite another).

Happily, Arcobaleno was the right choice: the teachers were super, our kids made friends quickly and they began speaking Italian confidently and embellishing their frequent outbursts with expressive hand gestures after only six months. Unfortunately, our Waldorfian paradise was forced to move across town over the summer so we were faced with a difficult decision: run the gauntlet of Roman traffic by driving to the school’s new far-flung, sidewalk-lacking location to double park twice daily or transfer to the local Catholic school 12 minutes away by foot and near my favorite no-name forno, a sprawling outdoor mercato and my go-to cheese guy. As Americans who relish our new pedestrian lifestyle and recoil at the thought of willingly raising our blood pressure four times daily by getting behind the wheel at rush hour, and as non-religious former Catholics forswearing religious education for our offspring early on, this wasn't an easy choice for us. Ultimately we opted for proximity over ideology and signed up at Istituto Sant’Ivo. It's more traditional than what our kids are used to in that they’re expected to sit longer and do more homework, but an acceptable tradeoff for the sake of our entire family’s well being and my sanity as their daily chaperone.

We’re satisfied with our decision, but I’m less thrilled that Italian teachers and parents across the board invariably pretend they didn’t hear you or look at you with a shocked, uncomfortable expression and their mouth hanging open like a cat assessing if something’s rancid when you suggest the possibility of volunteering in the classroom. On the plus side, our kids have the option to stay until 5 pm and are becoming acquainted with the theological underpinnings of the Western canon -- to the point that they now authoritatively fill in the more vivid/bloody details for us when we encounter cautionary frescoes on cultural forays. My chef husband most appreciates the fact that they get a three-course hot meal every day. For me, the icing is they’re actually learning the libretto from Mozart's Don Giovanni in preparation for a performance this spring. It’s been truly amazing to hear them singing my favorite opera in Italian at the dinner table and not something I could ever imagine them doing back in the U.S. (its theme about the exploits and ultimate fate of an unrepentant sex-addict aside). So amazing in fact that I’m almost considering softening my stance against the Church for its long rap-sheet of transgressions – almost. In somma, the school is well organized, the teachers are firm but loving, there’s only an occasional bloody crucifix in evidence, I have only seen lay-people on campus and music and athletics are available on site after school at a discount. A fine solution for those planning to stay a year or two.

Some other families here at the American Academy in Rome that were stranded by the Waldorf-inflected school with us last year decided to transfer to Ambrit, a highly regarded private international school where instruction is in English and more academically rigorous, there’s a door-to-door school bus, and annual tuition is on par with that of a private university back home. Kids love it and the field trips sound enviable (i.e. outings to Pompeii in 5^th grade; to Venice in 8^th), but parents consistently remark that the rubric of “the more you pay, the fewer number of days” applies when it comes to total class time. If you go this route and work outside the home, be sure to develop a deep roster of on-call babysitters.

We're moving back to California in August, but if we were staying any longer we'd most likely consider making the commute to Scuola Janua, one of Rome’s more traditional Waldorf-method schools slated to move out somewhere near E.U.R. Even though it's future location remains uncertain, the overall emphasis on art and music is right up our alley and a great way to learn/reinforce a language. Plus, the quality of baked goods at all those inevitable classmate parties promises to be above average given the pervasive philosophical preference for handmade over commercial. We also have Canadian friends who send their son there and really like it. 

The decision is of course a very personal one, but I would be confident that the younger the child the easier it will be for her/him to adjust to Italian school and pick up the language quickly. If anything, I think we parents often prove to be the less flexible ones. The memory of our summer vacation stands out as a case in point. We spent a week on an Austrian farm with some French- and German-speaking families, and thanks to the onsite trampoline and my son's Lego® collection, the kids soon found a way to communicate and became fast friends; we parents followed their lead and were thereafter sharing sausages, beer and hiking recommendations. By week’s end the kids were sad to leave, but we had standing invitations to Belgium and southern France and my son was actually speaking some German.

Reasons to Consider an Italian-language School:

• Your kids are 8 years of age or younger;
• You value multilingualism (your kids will pick up Italian rapidly and begin speaking and helping you argue with bureaucrats after only 6 months);
• You will get to meet real Romans and have plenty of opportunities to improve your Italian;
• You prefer that your bambini hum/sing opera arias before bed instead of “Little Rabbit Foo Foo” or anything by Hannah Montana;
• More soccer/football than rugby;
• If it doesn’t prove the right fit, you can always transfer.

Reasons to Consider an English-language School:

• Your kids are 9 years of age or older;
• Your kids will prepare for British system exams which commence in grade 5;
• You will get to meet other English-speaking ex-pats who work at FAO, IFAD and the World Food Program;
• If you’re American, you’d like to increase your child’s chances of picking up a plummy British accent;
• More rugby than soccer/football;
• You value computer literacy at a young age (and could really use help creating decent PowerPoint slides for your next presentation at work);
• You're in Rome for less than a year, don’t speak Italian and aren’t planning to learn it beyond differentiating basic pasta shapes when eating out.

Reasons to Consider Public  v. Private School:

• Your kids are used to supplying their own toilet paper;
• Organic lunches are mandated by the state;
• You will inevitably improve your Italian and encounter fewer English-speaking expats;
• You want to experience Rome beyond the postcards and Woody Allen’s new movie;
•  You already think your kids are too coddled and desire to “toughen them up” by experiencing an overcrowded/underfunded urban school;
• You need first-hand anecdotes for the book you are currently researching on how state educational systems everywhere are in decline.

Bottom line: If you like the idea of your child becoming bilingual and increasing your own opportunities for meeting locals and speaking/learning Italian, choose an Italian school. You could always transfer to an English language institution if it doesn't work out. (In fact, many parents who send their kids to an English school from the start with the aim of facilitating adjustment to life abroad, find themselves regretting not having opted for Italian immersion.) Alternatively, if your children are older and/or well on their way to preparing for British/American system exams, an English-language international school might be the better course.

Un Permesso per Piacere!

Since we've decided to stay another year in Italia and my spousal Visa expired in May, I'm required to obtain a Permesso di Soggiorno (the Italian equivalent of a green card). As a non-citizen, this document allows me to reside and work here legally until my dual citizenship application is accepted ("estimated processing time: 2.5 years").

Having finally obtained my Permesso, I can say without reservation that the best gift we as parents could ever bestow upon our children is not a signed original of the Articles of Confederation happened upon at a roadside flea market, a mortgage-free country house or even a well-diversified stock portfolio, but a European Union passport. For it is indisputably the latter that will broaden their world-view by offering countless opportunities for travel, learning and global friendships. The benefits are legion really, and extend far beyond exponentially improving Giovanni and my chances of ending up with a decent view and palatable meals when we're consigned to a long-term care facility in our dotage.

Over the course of our kids' lives, an EU passport won't only grant them greater possibilities when it comes to living, working, studying, volunteering, loafing, overindulging, pursuing unlikely affairs and having their hearts broken abroad some day, but it will also confer the distinct advantage of significantly reducing the number of hours they spend standing in long queues and suffering the indignities of airless waiting rooms and the whims of petty bureaucrats. Ultimately -- after all the private lessons, carpool choreography, nutritionally balanced meals and investment in sport camps, safety devices and cognitive and artistic enrichment -- isn't that what every mother desires?

Unfortunately, I'm battle-hardened from my encounters with Italian apparatchiks and the wounds are still fresh so I know of what I speak. You'd think that being married to an Italian citizen, possessing Italian heritage and producing two Italian citizens to help reverse one of the world's lowest birth rates would count for something -- or at least make for a straightforward process. You'd be wrong. After withstanding five trips to the Questura (State Immigration Office) on the industrial outskirts of Rome to obtain my Permesso and resigning myself to countless lost hours and associated indignities, I take no small comfort in the fact that both my kids were instantly granted dual citizenship upon emerging from my womb (aka my "ICI" - Italian citizen incubator). Thus they will never have to endure the misery, emotional scarring and lost productivity of their forebears.

This ominous mid 1970s-era miltary bunker surrounded by barbed wire and porta potties and lacking in sidewalks inspires both fear and dread to all who dare approach (the Questura that is, not my womb) and reaching the imposing entry gate alone requires a good amount of nerve as you have to share the main road with oncoming traffic, successfully dodge all the trucks hurtling by and hold on to all 17 varieties of paperwork en route that might or might not be required that day.

As if this wasn't enough to make one reconsider submitting to the process for any presumed greater benefits, there's a lonely, sun-baked bus stop out front that affords an unobstructed view of the sprawling, corrugated metal-and-tarp shantytown across the street where desperate denizens (presumably those denied their Permesso) demarcate their hovels with makeshift laundry lines and broken appliances and start casing any cars as soon as they're parked. No wonder most everyone waiting for their number to appear on the illuminated board inside is agitated -- they know that by the time it's called, their vehicle may well be stripped of anything valuable and they'll have to sit even longer to take the bus home. Everyone else just has that distinct look of resignation endemic to the human spirit being systematically crushed.

However grim or exaggerated it may sound, this is Rome's current version of a welcome mat for those interested in staying in Italy longer than three months, regardless of purpose. And don't count on things getting easier or more hospitable for foreigners of any particular stripe while waves of fleeing Libyans continue to wash up daily on southern shores and prime minister Silvio Burlesque-oni spends what little remains of his mandate trying to change the law only so he can avoid prosecution.

And make no mistake, the government wants you to give up when you're informed by an epauletted official that five additional forms are required by the following week and then are told upon your return by a disheveled guy in an old T-shirt that three of the documents you spent a dozen additional hours to obtain are irrelevant and that four more have to be submitted within a 10-day window (with official stamp) or your application will be considered null and void and you'll be forced to start all over again. Don't give in to the temptation to lash out, cry, assume the fetal position and start rocking, resort to sarcasm or create anything ressembling a scene -- no matter how frustrated or despondent you become. Flying into a rage might be extremely satisfying in the moment but will mark you as among the weak and unworthy and, at minimum, result in several more unecessary trips. Persevere.

The requirements are unpredictable (expect them to change with each official you speak to) the volume and variety of paperwork staggering, the unabashed incompetence mind-numbing and the waits legendary, but none of these deliberate obstacles are insurmountable. Becoming legal here is more akin to an intensive course in anger management than an official governmental process any American would recognize, yet you can succeed if you summon all your powers of Zen detachment and patience in the unshaven face of adversity and stare steely eyed into the abyss of state-sanctioned whim and intentional inefficiency.

For those interested in living legally in Italy or applying for citizenship, I've compiled a few essential "Do's" and "Don'ts" below. If you don't feel up to the rigors required and choose to live fuori le regole (outside the rules), be aware that you may be forced to pay an exhorbitant fine and fly home unexpectantly after a routine traffic stop or while crossing the border for a weekend outing. (I can't afford to take such a risk while I'm still responsible for making sure that two of Italy's youngest citizens' teeth are brushed twice daily.) Now that I've got my Permesso (generated on a dot-matrix printer circa 1987), it's good for five years. I sincerely hope that my application for dual citizenship (now languishing for the past year on a desk somewhere at the San Francisco consulate) is accepted before I'm forced to embark on a renewal odyssey in 2016.

In somma...

Questura Do's:

• Do suck up (but don't be too obvious about it or you risk becoming a target for greater abuse).
• Do make the first surly functionary you encounter type up what you need for your next trip on official letterhead so that the next surly official who looks it over will be less inclined to invent an additional non-existent requirement (which happens frequently by the way when a put-upon employee has no idea what's required in your particular case and is simply attempting to save face).
• Do bring water, plenty of snacks, more than 5 hours worth of reading material and toilet paper.
• Above all, do maintain your smile and always be courteous.

Questura Don'ts:

• Don't become sarcastic as a defense mechanism. Just keep all cutting asides to yourself. For example, don't ask out loud why they bothered installing 21 sportelli (numbered help desks) when no more than four are ever operational at any one time. Just start jotting these maddening observations down as the basis for a cathartic blog to help pass the time -- and in case you forgot your reading material in the car).
• Don't try to be helpful by suggesting that the most commonly used forms be evenly distributed to all sportello operators to increase efficiency instead of doled out individually from an office on the third floor.
• Don't be tempted to ask to speak to your assigned malcontented official's superior whenever you reach an impasse.

Following these guidelines might just save you a dozen or more hours and shave your total trips down to under five. But I'd go ahead and pray to your god of choice beforehand to cover your bases if you think it might help. It can't hurt.

Buona fortuna!

Scartoffolaccia!

Say what you will about my increasing irregularity with this blog, I might not be as predictable as the #44 bus in Monteverde Vecchio, but I'm certainly more likely to make an appearance than the mythical #75.

Since my last installment, we've hosted family and friends and partaken in many memorable outings -- the Appia Antica, Colosseum and Palatine Hill here in Rome; Lago di Bracciano, Tivoli and Hadrian's Villa outside the city; the Chianti region of Tuscany; Orvieto in Umbria; the thermal baths near Viterbo; and most recently, the Etruscan necropoli of Cerveteri and Roman ruins of Ostia Antica (the Temple of Ceres pictured) -- many of these jaunts involving illegal picnics with superlative views. Full Disclosure: When it comes to prohibitions pertaining to the breaking of bread amid picturesque and storied surroundings, we are avowed and unapologetic transgressors. As such, we can attest that food tastes best outside and is exceedingly more delicious when you know you are breaking an absurd law.















We've also met dozens of visiting artists and scholars over the past several months, including Kathleen Crowther, the inspirational head of The Cleveland Restoration Society (here in part to persuade the Vatican to preserve some of the shuttered churches and architectural gems of my hometown), photographer Annie Leibovitz (who helped document Giovanni's pasta-making workshop for the AAR community last month while here with her children), and current resident artists poet Derek Walcott and painter Chuck Close. Here's a shot of Annie graciously assisting Giulia out of the Academy aqueduct after one of Giovanni's "family friendly" (aka significantly more raucous than M-Th) Friday night dinners.

Other noteworthy developments include Giulia learning cursive; Giorgio volunteering as Italian translator for a new Canadian girl in his class; Giovanni successfully managing to purchase and register a used car for weekend jaunts (no small feat); and me working as a part time research assistant with a National Science Foundation 3D imaging project. It's only a few hours a week but permits me to spend time milling about the library stacks so that I can take pictures of etchings, paintings and historic photographs. These will ultimately be used to help flesh out an interactive reconstruction of the Roman Forum and Colosseum from approximately 300 BC to the present day. For those so inclined, there's a very good NSF video clip explaining the project here.

I also invested in some new cleats and played in our first inter-Academy soccer match against the Spanish last month. We lost 3-1 and had 6 subs to their none, but were undisputably superior sartorially, if not in terms of skill (see action shot at left). The indignity of being so easily dispatched was blunted by our side's collective rationalization that we were up against several hundred more years of collective and cultural experience with the game. A round of beers with the Iberians thereafter also helped dull the pain. Our next face-off is against the Germans this week and promises to have a more punctual kick off if not a more satisfying result.

Now that it's spring in Rome and the perennials of the Mediterranean have returned en masse to the urban parks and meadows (red poppies, white daisies, purple wisteria, yellow daffodils and unnaturally bronzed male pensioners in form-fitting Lycra® shorts), mothers inevitably turn their thoughts toward reintroducing short sleeves to their brood, incorporating the season's first strawberries into school snacks, stocking up on elastici (Band-Aids), and, in my case, renewing their guest Visas until their dual citizenship application is accepted by the state authorities ("estimated processing time: 2.5 years").

While taxes may not be inescapable here, excessive paperwork is and its proponents ascribe to it a kind of fetishistic power that's unmistakably sadistic in nature. Based on my limited experience and as a non-native unaccustomed to its vagaries of application, I admit to being thoroughly unsettled at the thought of trying to obtain a "simple" extension. I'm not sure there is a word in Italian that adequately captures my overwhelming sense of dread, so I've taken it upon myself to make one up that sounds apt enough:

Scartoffolaccia [scar-toh-foh-LAH-cha]- the fear and/or hatred of seemingly endless paperwork and obscure forms invoked by lesser officials to circumscribe one's freedom (be it with regard to travel, expression, choice of entrée, etc.).

Just saying it out loud can be cathartic. I also find that a sense of blithe resignation can be more rapidly attained/regained if your forceful utterance of the word is accompanied by something resembling a spontaneous and indelicate hand gesture. You can begin practicing and refining these gestures while waiting for the #75 and seeing two alternate buses with the same route number go by at the same time (Exhibit A pictured: two #710s in flagrante delicto. Mating season perhaps?)

The good news is that I need to renew my Visa not only to enjoy our summer vacation tooling around northern Europe in our newly acquired 2005 Renault "Scenic", but to remain at the American Academy another year (for those of you who haven't heard, Giovanni will be stepping up to sous chef in the RSFP kitchen and I'll continue to help as a part time midwife concerned with the healthy delivery of the new AAR website and its postpartum care). While we've logged some highs and lows over the past nine months, we're thrilled to be staying on and look forward to becoming even better aquainted with the eternal city over the next sixteen.

We haven't nailed down the particulars of our summer itinerary yet, but I'm advocating that it involve a smattering of imposingly crenellated, moat-surrounded castles, one or two idyllic alpine farm stays and gallons of perfectly chilled Gewurtztraminer. I'm even willing to entertain a pilgrimage to LegoLand in Denmark or Germany and break my solemn parental vow of avoiding all merchandice-based amusement parks if it'll help get us over the Alps with a minimum of whining. No small sacrifice, but I am bouyed by thoughts of returning to Austria after more than 20 years, resusitating some of my moth-balled Deutsch and introducing Giovanni to die weiter Welt der Wurst.

The bad news is that Daddy believes the kids will only be satisfied if they experience EuroDisney as well. I maintain that the bambini would be just as happy, if not more thrilled, to each receive their own roll of duct tape or a large appliance box so we shouldn't even mention it. Besides, LegoLand should more than suffice. What's becoming clearer with each discussion however, is that it's he who's most eager to visit the "Magic Kingdom". It's still early so I'm hopeful that with the dollar in free fall as I type and Parigi being rather far removed from other collectively agreed-upon targets, circumstances will conspire in my favor. God-willing, I'll be able to "slip the Mickey" at least another year.

Tummy Trouble-induced Trash Talk

I can assure you, gentle reader, that my lack of timely updates to this blog does not mean I’m not thinking of you on a daily basis (and I do mean the three of you in Saudia Arabia as well as all you loyal Latvians out there making up my fourth largest fan base). I admit I’ve been distracted and blame the many demands associated with ensuring a steady stream of family merriment during the holidays, several small trips (one to Umbria and another to Abruzzo), two separate bouts battling what seemed to be an eternal stomach bug that sapped my will to go on living (despite each lasting only 36 hours), and some new books obtained via Amazon Italy, including the fascinating new Cleopatra biography by Stacy Schiff which includes interesting anecdotes about the young queen living for at least three months right here on the Janiculum Hill (where I like to think she enjoyed the same view as we do and worshipped the ancestors of the Academy's feral cat population between intrigues).

The good news is that I won both rounds with said bug and as a result have lost some pasta-induced kilos (or at least enough that new acquaintances have stopped unabashedly congratulating me on what once appeared to be my incipient pregnancy whenever I wore a tight-fitting top). Through no conscious design of my own, I’m off to a “leaner and meaner” New Year. And meaner insofar as I found it much more difficult to wisecrack while harboring lit matches inside my innards. That and the fact that we've had to cancel family outings over the last two weekends and miss several days of school because each of us has taken multiple turns convalescing with a mal di pancia.

In addition to being buffeted by our first noteworthy waves of seasonal illness, lately the spotty sanitation practices and utter disregard of public space have also played no small part in contributing to my change of spirit. Leaving out the government vs. Mafia standoff contributing to the intractable Neapolitan garbage crisis and the fact that the largest illegal dump in Europe is right here outside Rome in the aptly named locale of Malagrotta, it’s hard to square Italians’ much vaunted love of all things beautiful with their insouciance when it comes to tossing trash everywhere and walking away after their dogs relieve themselves in the middle of the sidewalk.

Six months ago the detritus was somehow more peripheral and easier to overlook and avoid, but now that it's winter it seems to have gotten worse and I'm feeling worn down. For as much as i Italiani are reputed to love children, the majority of dog owners in our neighborhood of Monteverde Vecchio have clearly disavowed the cliché and agreed that the marciapiedi in front of our kids’ school is an especially good location to walk away from nonchalantly after Fido empties his bowels. Apparently the only place deemed inappropriate for creating Rome's next layer are door thresholds and the curb. So much for the social contract.

Discarica, rifiuti, monezza, spazzatura, immondizia, ciarpame, robaccia, porcheria, schifezza, sciocchezza, pezzente... Italians may have as many words for trash as Eskimos have for snow, I really don’t know. While they seem to all but ignore it piling up in the cities, on the beaches and along roadsides, the profusion of terms suggests that garbage is nonetheless very much a part of the collective consciousness.

Assisi proved a salient exception to the glut of refuse in that we saw absolutely no litter of any kind, not even a cigarette butt, and this undeniably contributed to the ancient redoubt’s otherworldly effect (as much as the gorgeous stone edifices, luminous cathedral frescoes, imposing castello and evocative hilltop mist). Nonetheless, I passed on using the public restrooms when I encountered this sign in the Piazza del Commune. Like most wine-loving tourists, I’m happy to pee outside in a pinch (far from public rights of way of course), but when it comes to Medieval facilities I won’t settle for anything less than 5 stars.

Part of the rural/urban contrast in cleanliness is most assuredly one of small towns where inhabitants take more pride in place (and where all women of retirement age are apparently required to stare disapprovingly at passersby out their 2^nd story windows for at least some part of every day in order to continue receiving their state pension) vs. the relative anonymity of cities where such concerns are more easily relegated as “someone else’s problem” (and anyone issuing disapproving looks from high-rises is more easily ignored).

Part of my problem is that I that haven’t lived here long enough to turn a blind eye to the preponderance of trash. I also admit I still harbor a certain amount of “can-do American spirit” when confronted by seemingly overwhelming challenges. I can’t help thinking of potential strategies for deterring the most brazen malefactors over the course of my many trips negotiating fecal landmines with kids in tow -- or plotting my revenge while scraping malodorous shoes before dawn. A live webcam trained on the street in front of our school might do the trick or at least some posted handbills shaming these antisocial, passive-aggressive, poopy practitioners via humor.

When some other expat moms began complaining about the increasing number of dog-bombs outside school last week, I remarked that were we in the U.S. a parent committee would have already formed and distributed multicolored fliers to address the issue. I’m sure if I actually do decide to engage with the system in an attempt to affect positive change, I’ll be humbled soon enough – most likely after the fifth set of forms to be completed in triplicate (what I imagine to be the Rome Sanitation Department equivalent of being kicked to the curb).

The End of Burlesque-oni?

Now that the monsoon rains have abated, the weather has taken a decidedly wintry turn (that means temps in the upper 40s-low 50s in Rome). We have our found evergreen branch propped up by a window and suspended cunningly with string lights (thanks to Giovanni) and decorated with red globes and homemade pasta ornaments (thanks to me, the kids and the microwave oven). Naturally I was dubious at first, but admit the overall effect in our relatively austere apartment is a success as it smacks more of holiday spirit than enforced frugality.

Other seasonally noteworthy items include: the Academy Christmas tree now decorated in the salone; the fellows’ holiday play and the kid’s school choral performances coming up this week; the mountains of torrone candy at the entrance of all grocery stores; a few skating rinks; special markets throughout the city center proffering Christmas tchotchkes and “La Befana” witch puppets on broomsticks to mark the Epiphany on January 6^th; and (arguably more cheer-inducing) the anticipated downfall of the Burlesque-oni government this afternoon.

Could it be that enough Italians have finally had the epiphany that continuing to support Silvio, their longest-serving playboy premier, is no longer in their best interest? We shall see. Even if there is a change, I doubt the next liver-spotted, gam-oggling uomo will have the power to change much (like getting toilet paper back into the public schools). If anything, there will probably be a temporary hiring hiatus when it comes to naming leggy dental hygienists to government posts. I wish I were exaggerating. Unlike toilet paper in Italy, there is no shortage when it comes to articles like this: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/italy/7265423/Silvio-Berlusconi-shortlists-dental-hygienist-as-political-candidate.html.

In other news, Gio’s handiwork in the kitchen continues to please (as does his preternatural talent for silken carbonara sauce), the kids are learning a lot of Italian carols at school and building their gladiatorial skills and making winter clothes for their stuffed animals at home, and I'm helping the Academy redesign their website www.aarome.org so that it’s more intuitive and user-friendly when they relaunch it this spring.

Some interesting discoveries made over the course of my online research include learning that the Rome Sustainable Food Project had considered launching a minisite with the "RSFP" acronym for simplicity's sake, but was forced to consider other alternatives by the Rope Skipping Federation of Pakistan (www.rsfp.org). It also explains why my previous blog posts mentioning the RSFP garnered so many page hits in Pakistan – presumably each visitor clicked away crestfallen to find I was merely focused on food. Who knew that rope-skipping was a competitive sport? Apparently no small number of South Asians and now everyone in the AAR kitchen, that’s who. Rather than lament the loss of virtual real estate, I propose that the Academy pursue this rather unique opportunity for cross cultural exchange and increased understanding. At the very least, it would be cool to swap some swag.

Culturally speaking, I've been able to take advantage of some interesting walks and tours over the past month, including one to Rome's historic Testaccio neighborhood where there remains a sizeable hillside made solely of ancient amphorae. We hiked up in the rain but were treated to a great view at the summit and saw many distinct pot sherds along the way. Once the olive oil-filled containers were delivered from the colonies by boat and emptied into warehouses situated along the Tiber, the Romans disposed of them by breaking and stacking them over centuries to create a veritable terracotta mountain. Archeologists have since been able to ascertain that most of the vessels were made in Spain, that lime was spread between the layers to mitigate the stink of rancid oil and that the extensive warehouses still remain largely intact under the district's residential pallazzi. Che figo! Too bad it can't be replicated to address today's scourge of plastic bottles.

I was also able to tag along with a handful of fellows for a private tour of some of the wonderfully preserved and recently discovered beachside ruins outside the town of Ardea about 35 km southwest of Rome. Some assert that this is where Aeneas, the reputed progenitor of the Romans, landed from Greece. Baths and temples figure prominently of course and many mosaics are still intact because they were covered by beach sand for centuries. They only started excavating 10 years ago so more layers are sure to come.

On a final note, my apologies for those who may be bothered by the sudden appearance of advertising on my heretofore commercial-free blog. I still haven't received my replacement credit card since that dreadful day back at Porta Portese and kids' vitamins cost about $18/bottle so yes, I've decided to hold my nose and "monetize". Honestly, I'm kind of curious to see what kind of ads these "smart engines" will serve up to sync with my scattershot musings. Viagra since I mention Berlusconi? Brand name olive oil perhaps? Or is it still just acai berries all the time regardless of topic? Whatever pops up, I invite you to embrace any such commercial incursions as a few clicks here and there might just help keep us stocked in vitamins and vino.

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.