Notti Animati!

The mausoleum of Hadrian is surely the only tomb of the Roman emperors that is not only still intact (most, like that of Augustus, are crumbling red brick ruins), but grander than in Rome's ancient glory years.

Now known as the Castel Sant' Angelo, the building that now lies a stone's throw from the Vatican has, in its colorful history, been a fortress, sacked by goths and visigoths, saved by an appearance of the Archangel Michael (hence the name), a refuge for popes, a palace, a prison and place of execution.

Now, in summer, it's the home of Notti Animati - the nights are alive - thrown open to the public til 1am every night (2am Fridays and Saturdays), with children's entertainment until midnight (I love what that says about the Italian approach to life), live music and comedy in its various courtyards, bars, and tours of that now famous (thanks to Dan Brown's sequel Angels and Demons) tunnel linking the fortress to the Vatican.

My new 'besties' from work, Rach and Astrid, and I have been planning to get long for the fun for ages, despite the hefty 10 euro entry fee. Suddenly, it was the last weekend in August and if we didn't go now, we'd miss out... We met up in Trastevere and caught the bus up, queued for not nearly as long as we thought we'd have to, climbed to the top, found a bar... and made our way through two bottles of bubbly. By the time we'd finished pouring out our hearts to one another about life, the universe and everything, it was closing time. We raced ahead of the packing-away crews, stopping for gelati and to admire the views and the statues, singing (yes, singing) our way up and down stairs, thinking we sounded pretty damn good as our voices echoed off the stones.

We sang all the way home too... Astrid is now a huge fan of my new favourite: What you do with what you've got', which I learned from the singing of Dick Gaughan.

And what's the use of two strong legs if you only run away?

And what use is the finest voice if you've nothing good to say?

What good is strength and muscle if you only push and shove?

And what's the use of two good ears, if you can't hear those you love...

It's not just what you're born with

It's what you choose to be

It's not how big your share is

But how much you can share it

And it's not the fights you dreamed of

But the ones you've really fought

It's not just what you're given

It's what you do with what you've got

My feet ached by the time I walked in the door. And a bunch of italians we passed on the way probably think I'm crazy.

I don't care. Tonight was alive and me with it.

Note: I pinched this pic from Wikipedia, see link above.

Siena - away from the Palio

Ants and I had decided long before the weekend was over that we'd love to come back for the non-Palio side of Siena too. It's not just for the amazing dishes of offal (my 'bruschetta toscana' was definitely more liver than kidney), the wild boar pappardelle, the red wines (August is mostly too hot for them anyway), the panforte cake sold in every deli, or the amazing icecream place that we went back to at least twice. There's a sense of people living very modern lives in this oldworld town full of winding streets, a balancing of past and present that feels perfectly comfortable. Accoustic musicians playing tunes by a 900 year old fountain (Fontebranda), market stalls in the 600 year old marketplace, which probably sell cheap knockoff watches. We want to see it on a non-Palio weekend.
Then there's St Catherine, patron saint of Italy (alongside St Francis), who hailed from here. We went for a walk along the street she was born in, allegedly the youngest of 25 children (ouch, her poor mother). I confess to a perverse sense of delight in finding out what a crazy old bint she was - fasting from the age of six to convince her da to let her become a nun, and then sucking the pus out of the wounds of the sick she tended. She finally collapsed, wasted but euphoric, at the age of 33, having campaigned to bring the pope back to Rome from Avignon. Catherine's letters - (more than 300 of which survive) have been branded by Wikipedia as 'one of the great works of early Tuscan literature'. Hmm. I've read bits of them and think she sounds like a religious fanatic. But apparently that was quite the thing to be in those days (she died in 1380) - at least she escaped a better fate than that crazy Savonarola in Florence. And in any case, that a woman of her station could read and write at all (her father was a mere dyer) - let alone get listened to, let alone become one of the most influential figures of her time... well it's nothing short of remarkable.
Then again, crazy views have worked for Neil Mitchell and Derryn Hinch. Thank heavens newspapers weren't invented in her day. Or blogging. She'd have been all over YouTube
But I digress.
The point is, Siena has much more to offer - from stunning views of the surrounding hills, to her black and white striped marble Duomo. We will definitely be back, well before the next Palio in July.

Although we might well be back then too.

Siena Palio!

Ants wasn't entirely convinced when I told him that apparently one of the best things in Italy all summer is a horserace. After all, we've both seen Cup Day in Melbourne.

I promised him that, on good authority, this would be different. For a start, it's run bareback . Between local neighbourhoods, or contradas, in Siena. Held in the town square. Since the 11th century. That got him.

It was also the only bank holiday of the summer - Ferragosto, or the feast of the Assumption of the Virgin (although literally translated it's just 'iron August'. Who knows with these italians), so I was joyous as we hopped another early morning train for my first glimpse of Tuscany. I got shivers as the train slid through the vineyards of Montepulciano, home of the famed 'super Tuscan' red wines, and again as we pulled into the station at the foot of a rocky outcrop that has the city perched on top, almost entirely contained in its old walls, the population never the same since the plague of '48 (that's erm 1348, when two thirds of the 60,000 townsfolk died).

We dumped our bags at the hotel and caught a bus up the winding roads, through the city gates, to the edge of the beautiful old town centre.

The first thing we noticed was how clean the place is, with street after street swept clean of litter. And water fountains that can be turned on and off (wasting less water than Rome), tidy restaurant tables lining the streets, shops laden with hams and cheeses, panforte, almond biscuits. But cool, despite the baking sun. We decided we liked what we saw and headed for the centre of the fun: the Campo.

We found it in the middle of celebrating lunch, more tables pulled up over the racecourse (a dirt overlay on the rock hard cobbles) with barriers for the crowds to pack behind as the race drew near.

Fed and watered, our next job was to pick contradas and get scarves. The Sienese are said to be remarkably standoffish - after the constant pushiness of Rome and Naples, we enjoyed being left alone. The Sienese, even at a major event, were refreshingly uncommercial and intent only on getting on with their horserace. You could join in or not. Suit yourself.

So we joined in, finding a very helpful chap to made sure our contradas actually had horses running this week (only 10 out of the 17 get a guernsey), and that they weren't 'sworn enemies' of one another. Ants, determined to have 'the one with Cundall colours' of red yellow and blue, ended up with the chioccola (the snails!! haha!) while I already knew I wanted the porcupines - or Istrichi. The best bit about this race is that there are actually three days of practice races beforehand. The buildup just for the Saturday was impressive enough: thousands of people packed the Campo (luckily we'd been tipped off and arrived early enough to score a spot near the inner barrier). There was pomp and ceremony that descended into pure exitement: a troop of mounted cavalry who trotted regally around the ring ...then at a signal, as one they levelled their swords and spurred their horses to a gallop as they thundered around again to cheers and screams and the rising adrenaline of the crowd, blades flashing silver in the sun as they disappeared down an alley as quickly as they'd appeared.

Then came the horses , round once and into the 'barrier' - a set of two ropes across the track. The session itself was over in minutes: three quick laps, two falls and suddenly every bloke in a scarf is over the barrier in flash to protect 'his' contrada's horse and stop anyone else from sabotage.

We were thrilled to bits as we went in search of the famous tuscan papardelle with hare sauce, and couldn't wait for the morning.

On Sunday we hit town early and parted company, to find our respective contradas. I'll confess now, I picked mine cos I knew where it was on the map. The Istrici control one of the main gates into the town, and the whole contrada was decked out wtih banners, and people wearing scarves.

After wandering some very quiet streets for ages, I finally found where the horses and local dignitaries were being prepared for the parade, and the local guild hall, where the in crowd were, once again, doing the serious business of lunch.
Finally, the horse appeared and we all crowded into the church while the beasty was blessed, a cheer going up when he lifted his tail and shat in front of the alter - supposedly a sign of good luck.Ants and I were texting each other madly by this stage at all the sights we'd seen, and finally reunited amid contrada supporters converging, in full medieval regalia, on the campo. There were drummers and pipers, knights on horses, foot soldiers in full plate, flag bearers tossing their standards metres into the air and catching them as they fell. And there were these magnificent beasties, 6 in all, and a massive timber dray, dark with age and festooned with banners, to carry the mayor and the Signoria (the freemen of the city council) on their lap of honour.We scored a spot by the barriers again, and watched the Campo fill to almost bursting, with a good natured crowd, tens of thousands strong, and hardly a drunk in sight (sooo ouldn't happen if you had a 3 day outdoor party in the streets of any town in Aus, England or Kiwiland!)We were excited as the parade started........ although two hours later, when it still wasn't done, we were ready for it to finish...

Finally, the moment we'd hoped to see again - the cavalry soldiers trotted out, blades perfectly vertical, faces perfectly composed...... ... until they reached that perfect moment, when the captain levelled his sword, the riders erupted in whoops and ear-to-ear grins, and the roar of the crowd rose audibly, tangibly, like a wave cresting in 30,000 ribcages. Forget concerts, or fireworks, this is the most thrilling public display you will ever see or feel.And then we waited some more.

At last, the horses came out, they hung about at their barriers, the 9 in front waiting for the 1 behind who starts them off - the one behind waiting for the 9 in front to arrange themselves in a postion that gives him an advantage. It's a massive exercise in patience. Three false starts later, Antsy got tetchy, and suddenly it was nearly dark - and then they were off!! Again the crowd's emotion rose as one solid wall, cheering, whistling, willing their horses on, groaning audibly as one, then two, then three riders came crashing to earth (no barrier to the horse winning, the rider is just there for show, when alls said and done!) Out of nowhere, the Owls, who hadn't won for 60 years, broke free, followed by Anthony's Snails and my beloved Istrici (making Antsy's horse 'first loser', which apparently is worse than being last!). But the crowd went wild before dispersing, we went for another amazing dinner (this time I braved 'bruschetta toscana' which did, as I had feared and suspected it might, taste suspicously of liver. Bloody good but).

The next day, being the Monday holiday, we wandered back in to see the debris, show each other where we'd been before (nearly getting lost, cos the banners were down already), marvelling at how sedate the streets were... until 100 mad owls lads, all dressed in medieval hose and tunics, dummies in their mouths ( to represent that, as newest winners, they are the babies of the neighbourhood again, where before they were old men) with whistles and drums, trumpets and cheers, and a gaggle of women following behind with chants and cheers and songs we didn't understand. It was the perfect end to a perfect race and we can't wait to come again.

Miss Meliss does Roma and Naples

We moved over here imploring friends to come and visit, and no sooner had we settled into the new flat (we moved in a taxi, so it was hardly the most testing of removals) than our first houseguest arrived!

Meliss had spent several weeks seeing family in Malta and stopped in Rome on the way back to Melbourne. We introduced her to the delights of the cafe that does 10 euro dinners (bruschetta, pizza or pasta, plus a beer or wine, and a coffee - bargain!) and 'litro mojito' (which Ants has renamed 'sneaky mojito' for the fact that you can have 2 or 3 of these and feel fine, until it sneaks up on you when you stand up....).

Ants has, I think, enjoyed having someone else new to explore Rome with, and the two of them make a hilarious pair - she's quite little, and Ants, erm, isn't!

Best of all, this weekend we hopped a train down to Naples - for the bargain price of 23 euros return - to check out Pompeii. Our morning got off to a hilarious start - two american students hopped on board at the last minute, mumbling something about 'changing trains at the next stop'. We didn't have the heart to tell them that the next stop was Naples, in 2 hours time :-) The look on their faces when the guard told them was priceless.

We'd heard some dodgy things about Naples, and I think Meliss and I were both glad to be travelling with an Anthony. We've all now heard stories about people who brazenly gas your compartment to knock out the occupants and pinch all your stuff. And about the rampant petty crime around the station. So by the time we arrived in Napoli, we were pretty well paranoid.

We needn't have worried. Yes, the station district is seedy - welcome to rail travel the world over. But our B&B was spotless - sumptuous even, specially given that we were only paying 18 euros each for the room and brekkie! And I'm sure even the main streets of Naples could be intimidating by night - they're narrow and shut in on either side by looming buildings, and gloomy even by day. (Yes, that's a 'main' street below!)And there were signs everywhere of slightly dodgy dealings - hot cigarettes being hocked on every corner, even occasionally people exchanging embraces and small wads of cash. This is Camorra territory good and proper, but if you kept your nose clean and your eyes averted, it was no problem.

Besides, there was too much else to see. Naples is a poorer city than her cousins further north - Campania is rocky volcanic soil and barren compared to the lush green I remember around Milan. But she holds more than a few treasures. The old town gates were built in the 15th century by the rulers of the day - the Spanish - and the region's profound catholicism was evident in the soaring churches on almost every city block.

But Naples is also gritty and modern and edgy. We loved the modern art and stencil work, and a particularly poignant statement about McDonalds - there's not a Golden arches left in the whole city, apparently. (Huzzah!)

The cafe we stopped at for lunch was beside the ruins of the old town wall, built by the greeks some 2500 years ago and built over by the romans.

After a good feed and plenty o'meandering, we finally found the main museum, where all the best mosaics from Pompeii and Herculaneum have been dug up and 'saved'... hmmm. It seems 19thC Italians were as misguided as their Victorian -era counterparts in England. Never mind. They were amazing.

So was the 'secret room' of naughty relics: erotica deemed so controversial that about 200 years ago some duke ordered it all locked up so that unsuspecting innocents couldn't accidentally be horrified. It's only open for a couple of hours each day, but we made sure we got in on time. Probably more 'hilarious' than erotic, in my humble opinion.

But the bit that took my breath away were the statues from antiquity - the battered Roman-era marble busts you see in books give you no idea of the precision and flowing form of these free standing statues. And to think that, after the Romans, western Europe would wait 1500 years before anything like it emerged again. (Ants, of course, was overawed - and a bit relieved - by the tiny willies on all the statues. Surely Rome wasn't that cold back in the day!)

Thank heavens those 'infidels', the Saracens, Muslims and Moors, preserved all the knowledge that Europeans let lapse - or even deemed dangerous! Humanity owes them much, and many in 'the west' would do well to remember it.

Pompeii!!

Sunday we jumped on the Circumvesuviana down to Pompeii. Mount Vesuvius dominates the landscape of the entire region, the land rising gradually from the coast to this one tall and broad peak (the only still-active volcano on the European mainland apparently, although it was reassuringly still when we were there). Even before we arrived I could imagine how terrifiying it must have been as the mountain rumbled into life, causing the ground to shake and water supplies to fail.

And apart from the fact that it was baking hot - and that 20 minutes after we arrived, Ants decided that he was 'a bit over Roman stuff' and ready to leave, Pompeii was one of the most amazing places I've ever seen.

Top: The temple of Apollo, just off the main Forum or civic square, and

Above: The public bathhouse, complete with unrestored frescoes on the walls

Pompeii in the first century was a thriving town of 20,000 people, weekend playground of the rich and famous, busily rebuilding after an earthquake in 62AD. The three day eruption gave lots of people time to leave, and 'only' about 2000 people - a relatively small percentage - died in the town as it was buried under hot pumice and ash.

Above, the 'small theatre', capacity about 500 people; and

Below, one of dozens of Roman 'takeaway joints' - the food was served from these pots in the counter, kept warm by a fire underneath.

Bottom: aptly enough - Pompeii's most infamous brothel - clients would be lined up in the street outside for their turn in one of the rooms upstairs...

It seems likely that excavators over the past couple of hundred years have done far more damage than the eruption did. In those houses that were exposed later, such as the villa of mysteries, even the frescoes on the walls are still bright with vivid reds and greens and dramatic black, and roofs and shutters sit frozen in position, protecting inhabitants long since fled or turned to dust.

Above: Frescoes in the Villa dei Misterei

Below: Two shots from the largest private house in Pompeii, now dubbed the House of the Faun, thanks to this litle guyWe didn't make it to the other Roman ruins around Vesuvius- the Villa Oplontis and Herculaneum, which are said to be much better preserved. Sometime when Ants is off doing stuff with the Company of Chivalry, I'll just have to go back!