Italy 2017

The path to our apartment – 251 steps to be precise. But they lead to a little haven of peace and tranquility to which we gladly escape. We have now settled into the Mediterranean habit of siesta – it is simply too hot in the middle of the day to be outside. So we escape, snooze, and then tackle the streets or the beach.

Yesterday, we decided on the spur of the moment to rent a scooter. 60 Euro for 24 hours. The little thing sighs under our weight. Before we can give it too much thought, we are off into the madness of the Amalfi coastal road. (I remember fondly when we were here 12 years ago driving to Ravello how our dear friend Terry got car sick. He was sitting int he back looking either over a steep cliff or seeing a massive bus approach at full speed). The roads are increibly narrow, the drivers incredibly insanely not afraid of anything. A few times I can feel Victor’s entire body go into spasm as he tries to pull in his stomach, his knees clutching to my sides as we just miss an ooncoming bus. Other scooters scoot past us at the speed of light. It must be the most laughable thing to see these two middle aged men perched upon a small little scooter, obviously scared shitless but nevertheless scootering along as if we know exactly what we are doing. 

Well, it is so worth it, and possibly the best way to see this magnificent coastline. We venture all the way to Amalfi and Ravello, where we spent a few glorious day celebrating my 40th birthday with Dianne, Van, Gillian and Terry. I remember stuffed gourgette flowers, pasta vongole, copious gallongs of wine and laughter. I cannot remember a time that I had laughed so much. it all started in a Villa between Florence and Siena, with a joke about Veruschka on a train from Vladivostok to Moscow. Memories, friendships that are still such an important part of my life. (Terry and I have known each other since the late 80’s). I can write books on my friendships – my life is so much richer for the wonderful people who share my story. Like fellow actors in this drama of life they contribute to the richness of the story, adding colour and life and joy and drama. Picking up the pieces after a broken heart, sharing the joys of birthdays and celebrating achievements. I do believe that I have the most incredible selection of people in my life – they inspire me, share their children with me, challenge me, and love me for the crazy person that I am. And as I get older, these connections seem to become deeper and the bonds inseperable. 

We are surprised at how little we remember about the village – except for the bloody bus stop where one night we waited for what felt like hours, in the rain, for a bus that was not arriving. Eventually we all bundled into a taxi, only to be told that the busses were on strike. After much deliberation and wandering around, we find the place we stayed in. It is an old tower that must have been part of the original settlement. (I remember that the floor in our room had a glass cover through which one could see the kitchen below, and that it was all very close and intimate. Dianne did mention that farting and snorting kept her awake….) The little front garden where Victor did yoga is covered in a lush vine that provided the perfect setting for wine in the afternoon, looking across the endless blue ocean. Ravello is beautiful and just a tad less touristy than Positano. 

The freedom of the scooter is wonderful – we can explore places that we will never see on foot, and renting (actually parking) a car in this part of the world is just a pain. 

Back in Positano it is clear that the Madonna festival is still on – we can hear the Priest sing with his very croaky voice, using what sounds like a home-made loudspeaker system. Tinny and scratchy. (I am not sure if it is his voice or the loudspeaker, but the sound carries all the way to our apartment). We venture into town following the singing – on the square in front of the Cathedral there is a whole commotion of people, a brass band, children singing and croaky Priest. We settle for dinner at one of the beach front restaurants, and I for a sacrilegious non Italian meal: schnitzel and chips! And for my sins I am punished with the most hideous piece of flattened meat – the crumbs being more substantial than the actual piece of meat, and frozen chips. The pouches of mayo makes it even more disgusting. Revenge of the Italian god of pasta. Victor had Pasta Amatriciana – tomato, pancetta, garlic. The perfect meal. I learnt my lesson. 

This morning we are up early to enjoy the last few hours of our scooter. We scoot up the mountain – hair raising bends that I find almost impossible to manouvre. Take note – this scooter has an engin no bigger than a stick blender, carrying two men weighing in at – well never mind. So we tututututututut up the hill, hardly able to make 10km/h, swerving like drunks every time a truck or bus come hurtling down the mountain, leaving so little space for us that I could feel the skin being torn off my knee by the passing vehicle. Sometimes, life is all about “daring greatly” (Brene Brown again). I love taking risks – always thinking “if so and so can do it, I can do it”. Seeing people of all shapes, sizes, ages, denominations and personalities scootering away in Italy, why can’t I? And here I am – alive to tell the story, having seen the most breath taking views, feeling the ocean breeze in my face, getting the most exhilarating adrenalin rush and being able to tell the story. 

Life is good.

Reflections on “Daring Greatly” by Brene Brown.

On day two of our holiday in Positano we decide to explore the beach at Arienzo – another ydillic little pebbled cove surrounded by steep cliffs with the most exquisite houses perching bat-like against the cliffs. There are 251 steps from the road down to the beach. Living here is not for the faint hearted, overweight, unfit or anyone with possible knee, hip, feet, ankle, joint, heart, asthma problems. I cannot imagine carrying the groceries (or wine) down all these stairs, and then take up the rubbish (all the empty wine bottles), especially considering that the recycle lorry comes to take away a different type of recycling every day of the week. (Monday is plastic, Tuesday is glass, Wednesday is carboard etc.)

Halfway down we come across a well dressed English lady, discussing lunch options with what looks like a nurse in white uniform on the other side of the gate. She is reassured by the Nurse that there will be pasta for lunch. (Hell yes – there is always pasta for lunch if she would have asked me.) I am not sure whether this is good news or bad news for her…

A few steps down I turn around to see her battling up the stairs. In spite of the stylish trousers I can see how her knees have started caving to the middle, the arthritic hands pulling at the (thank God there is one) hand rail. Hat in hand (yes, being old does not mean that you do not have to protect against the sun) I wonder where she is off to, and marvel at how brave she is to tackle this beautiful sunny day in paradise. And I sense her immense vulnerability.

I have a predisposition to the vulnerability of Elders. I feel it, sense it. I cannot escape it. In her struggling up the stairs I see her daily struggle against shame and disconnectedness, against the stereotyping of an ageist society. The beauty of this coast bears testimony to youth – beautiful bronze bodies in skimpy bikinis, the folly of youth, perky breasts and voluptuous speedos, flat stomachs and smooth, youthfull skin. They will never get old… And she has to pay for someone to care?

The shame of ageing. Of not being able to produce any longer, or to contribute. The be seen as a burden. The shame of being slower. The shame of not being worthy of being listened to, of not being heard, of not being taken seriously. The realities of shame, guilt, humiliation and embarrasment are a tangled web spun on this age of youthfullness that ensnares our Elders to a life of loneliness, helplessness and boredom. And we, the younger, don’t see it, because we cannot see it. We are protected, we are immune to the syndrome of ageing. Our youtfullness cloud our ability to see that we are all on our way there. Our Elders find it difficult to distinguish between shame and guilt as pointed out by Brown, between “I am bad” (because I am old) and “I did something bad” (because I am a burden to the world). The dexterity to “lean into the discomfort” becomes a falling flat on my face, into a crowd of youthful onlookers. 

Even the Queen (now that she is old) suddenly has become aware of vulnerability (or maybe it is just my imagination?). I see her reaching out to the survivors of the apartment block that burnt down – she is different now. Slightly.. stooped over, her facial expressions are more intent, her whole bearing more connected the vulerability of others than ever before. She also for the first time ever feels it necessary to bestow honours on younger people – maybe now that she herself is old she realises that it could be too long a wait? And next to her is the ever goofy Prince Philip – when asked why he is stepping down from public life he explains “well it is hard enough for me to stand up these days..”. I never really liked him, and yet the malaise that this comment triggers in me makes me want to weep for him. Old age will get to all of us – sooner than later. Even Prince Philip and the Queen.

Our train ride through Tuscany takes us through idyllic landscapes of green vineyards and olive groves. Apart from the Americans next to us who jap non-stop (sorry my American friends, but I cannot get over how much and how loud some American tourists are, and how they have the need to talk non stop. It is like a running commentary on every passing moment.) Have earphones, will block out talking and listen to Maria Stuarda. Next to us are two Italian Elders. The husband hangs on to their train tickets for the entire trip, looking at them every few minutes. They have a silent knowing between them – no need to talk or ask to take out the cooler bag with padkos. A baguette stuffed with meat, followed by young, juicy apricots that drip with goodness and smell delicious. A loving smile passes from the one to the other, as if to say “our tree did us proud again my love…”

The arrival in Naples is everything one would expect, and more. Crazy hoardes of manic travellers pushing and shoving their way on and off the trains. Elegantly overdressed Italians waiting on friends, families and colleagues. (Only Italians can wear linen with such style – soft pastels with dark linen jackets, no socks). A few of the women look as if they have just stepped out of an Elle photoshoot. I literally reel around to stare at the elegance and sophistication. 

Our private transfer man is waiting for us. He jets out of the station to the car park with one of our suitcases, remarkably fast considering that he is only two bricks high. His black Mercedes is impeccably clean and shiny. By the way he pulls out of the car park, I immediately know that we are in for a fast transfer. This man would make a Cape Town minibus taxi blush – zipping in and out of difficult traffic situations, passing against the line, taking chances and sqeezing in where I think we will get squashed. (The last time I was here we were told that as long as you can pass a credit card between you and the oncoming bus, you are fine!). Judging by the number of missing side view mirrors and scratched and dented cars, not many people know just how thin a credit card is….

The coastal scenery makes up for the madness of the driver – I am in any case so dog tired that I could not be bothered with stressing about his driving. In Positano we pick up the lady who shows us to our apartment. We did see in the Air b&b advertisement that there are quite a few stairs to the apartment. They did not lie. Schlepping our suitcases up about 300 stairs in the blazing heat of the Med afternoon I secretly smile at the thought that I will be able to eat as much as I can, as I will walk it off coming up these stairs a few times a day! The apartment is spotlessly new, and in spite of the fact that the “sea view” is a bit of a fib, it is set in a beautiful garden, far enough from the crazy crowds. I immediately make for the deck chairs under the veranda, where again I am astounded by the number of birds that are out cavorting outside. (I was very aware of this in our apartment in Rome as well – in fact I was woken up in the morning by the birds singing with such passion! Only Italian birds…)

Positano is everything you see on cheesy postcards and more. Thousands of tourists. Streets lined with everything from kitch trinkets to beautiful clothes, gushing red geraniums, old leathery skinned men sitting at side walk cafes, high heeled ladies navigating cobble stones and lazy cats sunning themselves in the late afternoon sun. We were warned about a festival for the local saint and that it would be very busy. Well, this particular saint must be very popular, because the place is packed. A little stroll calls for our new addiction – Aperol Spritz. This cool, refreshing drink made from Aperol (almost like Campari),, mixed with Prosecco and sparkling water, adding a slice of orange, is a life saver. (I wonder if it would taste this good at home? One so often enjoys something in a foreign country, buys it and then it stands in the cupboard for years untouched. The last time it was Limoncello… It would seem that some things need the original context. Like that silly hat one buys at the music or art festival – it really just looks stupid on a Saturday morning in Sea Point.)

After eating pasta and bread non-stop since we arrived, I really need to get something non-carb and fresh into my body. (Now for those of you who know me well, you would know how strange this is. I never crave anything fresh….). A beautiful salad (yes it had bacon and chicken added) in the most amazing setting a few steps from the beach settles my craving. The vino rosso della casa is slightly horrific, but hey, we finished the bottle. As entertainment, the local marching band, followed by the Madonna on a guilded pedestal, followed by the priest and the mayor and all the choir boys, followed by the local community, parades past us on the promenade. 

Earlier in the evening we followed the band to the town square where the festivities will take place tonight. The square is filled with locals chatting away, droves of beautifully dressed children playing and surprised tourists passing through, dripping with sweat. There is a service in the church which opens onto the square – a full holy communion being served whilst everyone pops in and out. (I say to Victor I wish our church was like this when we were kids – that you could pop in and out as you wish, avoiding the boring bits and just staying for the good parts. Victor is so hungry at this point that I recommend he goes in for some communion bread…)

Our trek up the hill and the many stairs brings us to our quiet little haven. I had just fallen into a deep sleep when the promised fireworks started – had we not been warned I would have thought that the Russians had invaded with heavy artillary! The earth literally shaking with the sounds of the fire works exploding, lighting up the skies in bursts of colour. It was a good first day in heaven…

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Atul Gawande refers to Plato’s Laches (380 BC0, in wich Socrates is in conversation with Laches and Nichias, two generals, on the topic of courage. They cannot reach consensus on a definition, and leaves the reader with “Courage is strength in the face of knowledge of what is to be feared or hoped. Wisdom is prudent strength”. In the past two years I have come to know the fears of so many Elders, coming from a lack of knowledge. Hence my parading around the country with “The Geriatric Giants”, and the incredible reponse to this session on ageing. The lack of knowledge and information, the ageist projection of “alternative facts” and the fear of the unknown result in an unnatural trajectory of ageing. Truly understanding the geriatric giants not only alleviate the fears, it has a visible impact on the way that people age. Addressing any of the myriad of eventualities of ageing can bring about positive change. Empowering Elders through information, knowledge, skills, the right tools and a supportive environment bring about a new lease on life. One where the Elder can take charge of their own destiny, making informed decisions, being the master of their own ship again. 

Many years ago I was told the story of an Elder in the Jewish Care Home in Cape Town, Highlands House. When he moved in, he was unable to walk. The staff asked him what his dream was. “My son died many years ago, and now his daughter is getting married. My dream is to walk with her into the synagogue on her wedding day”. With the help of the Occupational Therapist, they made his dream come true. Gawande expands greatly on this theme when asking his terminally ill patients these three critical questions: “What are your biggest fears and concerns? What goals are most important to you? What trade off are you willing to make, and what not?” Profound questions, not just at the end of life. (A professor told him that if he can no longer watch football on the television and eat chocolate ice cream, his life will not be worth living.)

Apart from almost missing the train from Rome to Figline because we are waiting on the wrong platform, our trip is uneventful. The joys of a decent public transport system that is dead on time, spotlessly clean and seamless. On the quiet little station of Figline we are met by the most beautiful welcoming party – Danielle, Cristian, Simone, Valentina and Elder Maria with a poster with the South African flag bidding us welcome. A chance connection via Facebook thanks to Bogga in Iceland brings Victor and I to this little village to share the Eden Alternative story with the employees of Casa Gia and Casa Martelli. There are two more Elders waiting for us in the bus to welcome us. We are whisked off to the most beautiful hotel – Casagrande. And Grande it is indeed! An hour later Simone and Valentina pick us up for a tour of the two homes. As we walk into Casa Martelli, it is clear that life is happening here – there is a farewell party for two employees who are retiring. Champagne and music, lots of laughter testifiy to the Italian spirit. 

This is truly an amazing group of individuals. Most of them were born in the village and have grown up here, knowing each other for a lifetime. Same is true of the Residents. Figline Valdarno was the grain storage for the Romans – warehouses behind huge walls protected the gold of Italy – wheat for their pastas and breads. The sense of connectedness cannot be missed – hugs and kisses and jubilant “CIAOS” follow us through the two homes. Simone is remarkable – his genuine presence with every resident and staff member makes my heart crumble. I wish I could show the world what genuine, authentic human caring looks like when personified in a human being. I wish I could show them Simone. Every time I look into his eyes my heart crumbles.

The homes are similar to our – apart from fantastic pieces of equipment. Bed baths, hoists, vending machines of every possible kind all over the home. Lots of activities make for a feeling of energy – in Casa Gia there is a guitarist playing traditional Italian songs. Elders are singing along. We request one of the Italian patriotic songs we learnt years ago in Venice – within seconds everyone is belting out “della ciao, della ciao della ciao ciao ciao!” – must be the Italian Sarie Marais!

After our tour we are zipped off to Danielle’s house in the mountains, which he has lovingly restored over the past six years. Only the photographs will do this place a bit of justice. Here you find the soul of this remarkable human being. Danielle and I connected on a deeply personal level. His energy is almost frightening his passion infectious, his deep understanding tangible, trying to learn more and more all the time. His leadership is wonderful to watch, especially the way he cares for his staff. We take a walk to the village square to have ice cream. A slick little shop has a mind blowing selection of gelati. I go for the Nutella and Rum and Raisin, with a scoop of mango in a sugar cone. Moments like these make me realise how blessed I am…

After our visit to Danielle’s beautiful refuge in the mountains, we go for dinner. Three of the group members are very good cooks – Mario, Rolando and Andrea took over the kitchen of Selvapiana. A tour into the cellar reveals thousands of wine bottles, dating back to the 60’s. We start with antipasti – bruschetta with pomodoro, sausage of boar, salami, cheese and of course the best red wines from the cellar. The main courses are four different pastas. By number three I want to weep – not only is it so delicious, but incredibly filling. The joy of being at the table with Italians. Everything that we see in the movies and fantasise about it real, right here at this table. 

I am not quite sure how we got home, reminding me of my 40th birthday party in La Piavine many, many years ago. Slightly hung over we are picked up at 07h15 the next morning to trek out to the mountains for our two day retreat. Of course we first have breakfast on the way. Well, Italian breakfast. Strong coffee and a sweet pastry. I opt for the doughnut filled with the creamiest custard filling, covered in sugar. Just what I needed after a few gallons of wine the night before.

As we climb higher and higher up the mountain pass, I start panicking about how on earth I am going to share the Eden Alternative story via a translator, to people who have been dragged away on the whim of their Director. We have to take a ten minute walk through a beach forest to the mountain refuge, where Marco and Christina await us with bellowing ciaos! Characters that are high on mountain air…

The room is set up for us, and at each table we find a personalised T-shirt for each one of us, including our hosts Marco and Christina. Danielle has thought of such minute detail and had gone through such trouble. The T-shirts were only finished at 02h00 that morning, when he went to fetch them.  I stand astounded at this man – and see so much of my own dreams in his eyes. 

No time is wasted before we launch into an extended “Open Hearts, Open Minds” session. Valentina is amazing as a translator. Very soon I feel the magic happen as people start interacting – nothing like a bunch of 24 Italians debating what a true human habitat is. After our session we all trek up the mountain – the views are endless. The greenest of hills and dense grass with tiny little flowers and loads of insects make one want to roll down the way we did as children. Someone mentions that we should have had Prosecco – trust Danielle and Simone to run down the hill to fetch ice cold Prosecco for us. Our room overlooks the forest, I sleep like the dead and simpy cannot get up as promised to see the sun rise. Danielle did – just before 08h00 he returns from a four hike up the mountain. (I think he never sleeps…)

Our second day starts with a learning circle out on the green meadow, and the energy is flowing. We now know each other, have a wonderful connection of shared passion which open hearts and minds. Every now and then I really have to pich myself – here I am in the Appening mountains sharing my passion. In between energetic discussions, loads of strong doppio macchiati, sweet pastries, more pasta and red wine, time flies. Before long we are back on the mountain path to where the cars were left. Somehow it all went too fast. How can I imprint these two days in my memory to never forget them?

“Nog is dit het einde niet”. Danielle arranged for all his staff to come for supper at the home at 20h00 and a meeting at 21h00. I rest my case – the man is crazy. And by 21h00 he had prepared a beautiful presentation with photographs and stories of our two days. The enthusiasm of the group that went up the mountain is tangible, and the testimonies of what it meant to them incredibly humbling to me. Between gooseflesh and tears I find myself being eternally grateful for this experience.

Victor and I stumble into bed – hard to believe this little interlude in our Italian holiday. Tomorrow is Thursday – must be Naples.  

I wish I was a poet. I would write an ode to Rome. What is it about this city? Perhaps its heart laid bare in the Circus Maximus? The ever deeper search for its origins, excavating deeper and deeper into history? The sense of walking on paths that date to 600BC is hard to explain, one feels humbled knowing that kings and conquerers have walked these very paths, chariots have ridden these very cobbled roads. A cruel yet spectaculart history.

The architecture in Rome is testimony to its glorious past. From the “toaster” (Victor Emmanuel monument) to the Vatican, one feels small and insignificant against such splendour. The detail on these buildings, busts of the greatest men on earth, chariots and horses, angels and gods sprouting crystal clear water in marble fountains. The Castel Sant’Angelo (where Tosca jumps her death), the Colloseum, the Pantheon – one of the oldest buildings on earth with the entire dome built out of concrete. Architectural wonder constructed to honour all gods. 

The city exudes history. But more than that it tells of the might of mankind – to build and to destroy. To pillage and to honour. It also exudes charm – beautiful, sophisticated people. Incredible food. Today we again tasted “carciofi alla giudia Roma” after first experiencing it twelve years ago in the Jewish quarter. A Roman Jewish traditional dish, artichoke slowly cooked in oil, then flashfried to create a crispy yet tasty artichoke that it eaten in its entirety. We had the pleasure of meeting up with friends just outside the Vatican, where thousands of people were congregated to see the Pope do a short Sunday mass. We saw the Pope. He is not my favourite person, and I have my serious reservations about his church. (With all due respect to my wonderful friends who are Catholic). However – the Vatican is an architectural wonder. Enough of that – back to food!

To start – we had two of the most wonderful things together! The carciofi and my all time other favourite – stuffed courgette flowers. The most delicate, tasty, subtle flower of a courgette stuffed with ricotta cheese, dipped in tempura batter and lightly fried. The world can stop. I am happy to get off right here and now – I have lived my life for having experienced this today. But wait wait wait – there was then the main course. Spaghetti Carbonara. Thick, al dente spaghetti with crispy pieces of speck (no better word for it – it is not bacon!), just covered in an egg sauce with parmigiano. (Again – three ingredients!). Simple, yet magnificent. Truly magnificent. Of course I had to try the Tiramisu. Served in a cocktail glass, beautiful mascarpone with a thin layer of boudoir, served with a single expresso poured over at the table. 

My apologies to my sensitive Italian friends – but I have to include the photograph of the vegetables. Cooked to death, beyond repair – if ever I see vegetables in a GERATEC kitchen like this, I would kill the cook. Anyway – just a little aside to a wonderful meal. WHY bother with vegetables in any case one would ask?

A tiramisu is enough to make up for any sins the chef might have committed.

The other thing about Europe that one can never miss, it the intergenerational lifestyle. Across the table from ours was the Italian family – all four generations of them! And yes, the Grand Mama was there – old and frail in her wheelchaird. Cheeks red, glass of wine or rouge – who cares? Integrated, together, connected. 

After the meal it is extremely hot – we decide to just take a walk into the Vatican and then head back home for a siesta.

In the cooler early evening we venture back down (three hundred and fifty eight million billion stairs I have you know) to the bustle of the Trastevere. Here Rome comes to life when the day gets a bit cooler. Musicians, dogs, bicycles, Vespas, people and tourists. Gently strolling through the streets, just being. No rush. Dogs explore under tables for morsels that fell to the ground before the pigeons can get to it. High heels on cobbles make for wobbly ankles, but fashion is tough in Rome. Men with leather skin as a result of years in the sun, smoking short cigars and drinking Spritz. 

Tomorrow we have to leave Rome. It is sad. Very sad.  

I just realised that I left out the best bit of our meal the night before last! Only for the second time in my life (the first time was at Mario’s in Cape Town, many many years ago with Erwin Plaut) have I encountered the magic of Zabaglione. Made a la minute, at the table, in a copper pot on an open flame, hand whisked. What is this magic, you may well ask…. Three egg yolks, three (more or less) table spoons of castor sugar whisked vigorously in a copper pot until just beginning to thicken. Add a dash (or a lashing) of Marsala. And our waiter added another lashing of red wine, which gave it an interesting twang. Four minutes later, scooped over the smallest little strawberries, and your have a mouth watering, melting foamy custardy deliciousness that makes you close your eyes and go “mmmmmmmmmmmm…..”. 

The thing is about Italian food – it is so simple – the three ingredient rule. If it has more than three ingredients, you may doubt authenticity. Here you will not find a pizza stacked with bacon and cheese and pineapple and mushrooms. Instead – your typical Margherita is so delicious that it needs little else. Of course it is all about the base, the base, the base. Not too thin, not thick at all, delicously chewy and moreish. And the finest ingredients – not stacked or layered – simply placed on top. The pastas are even more chewy in their al denteness, the sauce just wetting the pasta. (If is swims it will drown!). And again three things… Some of the most delicious pasta I have ever tasted had olive oil, garlic and parmigiano. 

Now, let’s go and have lunch!

But let’s start with dinner last night. After a first aborted attempt (one waitress for fifteen tables, a small menu that had nothing we wanted) we discovered a huge restaurant filled with locals in our hood. Name unknown. (We still only have one waitress – this time for about thirty tables, but she can move). We are sitting on the pavement, it is yet another beautiful evening. I have no idea what time it is, because the sun only sets at about 21h45, seriously messing with my drinking pattern. 

The menu, unlike the first little place, is extensive. I settle for tagliolini with clams, zuchini and baby tomatoes, while Victor goes for Baccalau. We are transported to a world that no master chef has ever discovered. It is so simple, pure, utterly flavourful. (Yes I know I said this about the peach, but trust me…). I decide that we will eat pasta again when we get home. Simple home-made pasta with simple sauces.  Our walk back is scented with the heady fragrance of Jasmine. Another fragrance that will stick in my senses forever – like the figs of Portugal and the rotten bait of my childhood.

Just after 08h00 this morning the builders start working next door. They are so close that we can literally hear them fart! (And do they fart!). We have a lazy start to the morning, until we head out to the MAXXi museum of modern art. On the outskirts of Rome. Far far away on the outskirts. Impressive architecture does not make up for the strange collection of non-art. There is an arcitectural model exhibition on interior and exterior architecture looking at the spaces we occupy. A sentence catches my attention: the interior of our homes are the setting in which our lives play itself out. It is the design that depicts how we live. It sets the scene. It directs us… How much say do we have in this? Are we aware of the impact of our environment on our psyche? Do we consciously choose/design to improve our quality of life? Or are we a product of the impact of our environmental influences? It intrigues me – considering the environments that so many Elders or vulnerable people live in. How can we improve this? How can we truly create human habitats that engages our psyche to enhance and support our wellbeing? Are there some universal factors that will improve this, or is it unique for every individual?

On our way back after visiting the art gallery we make our way towards the Gay Pride march. Second year in a row that we stumble across Gay Pride (last year was London). For two people not really interested in this, we are swept up this time in the energy of thousand and thousand of people marching through Rome. This is not a spectacle of flesh and muscle, but a rather moving portrayal of cause – Jewish and Moslem  people marching alongside Catholics. Families – parents with children. People with different abilities. For the first time in my life I feel that I can relate to this community. We walk past the Colloseum – an ancient relic of power – towards a new relic of power. In search of freedom for those who are different from the stereotypical “norm”. I am not part of it, and yet I am. I am my own person. I have never felt that I belong, and yet I know that we all need to belong. I see myself as different, and yet the same. 

Within the throngs (and thongs) of beautiful bodies, an Elder, dressed in black, shuffles along begging for money. The youthful crowds push her along. They do not (can not) see this. Not today. It does belong here. I say to Victor how I wish I could show them a picture of themselves in thirty or fourty years, when youth is gone and reality has struck. How the marginalised can marginalise. There is no one as blind as he who does not want to see… We embrace the other. And yet we cannot embrace the otherness of the others. We shy away from it. 

After a few Spritz (Aperol, prosecco and sparkling water) we stumble along with the crowds – a heaving mass of others.  Spritz is the most refreshing drink! Our airb&b is up on the hille above Trastevere, reached by climbing many, many stairs. The more beer or spritz, the more the stairs. BUT- at the top of the stairs is a wonderful restaurant, Ristorante Gianicolo Care Diem. I have veal with murshrooms and Victor has the pasta with beef. A feast. A perfect end to a long, hot day.

Can one fall in love with a city? Is it possible to get a headrush walking along a river in this city, seeing the sun set on ochre walls, the last rays through the green leaves of ancient trees, the river flooding towards the sea? Can one honestly be moved by the sun on the bridge, seagulls diving into the river? Or cockatiles screeching in flight? Of ancient cobble stones and ice cream shops, fountains gushing and scooters screeching? Ambulances howling and beggars begging? Rome is another one of thos sensual cities where a river runs through it. Divides and conquers and separates, yet brings life. I love Rome. I truly, madly, deeply love Rome.

Our Airb&b has no hot water. Coming from a a drought, we are quite used to showering very quickly in cold water. Yet, after a long haul flight and 37 degrees, I crave a hot shower. Our landlord’s mother is here to help. And itranslate. She speaks a bit fast for the app but it helps tremendously. At first we think that the fancy Italian taps are too clever for us. Then I think maybe we are just too water conscious and not letting it run long enough to get warm. Then I am convinced that the buiders next door (who started very early this morning with angle grinders – the story of my life who those who have read my Portuguese blog) have severed a pipe. Eventually we give up, call Mama who calls a plumber to come and help. There is indeed a problem with the gas geyser according to the friendly plumber and itranslate.

I take a stroll to find breakfast goodies. The plumbers are very busy. Eventually just before 12h00 we can leave with knowledge that we have hot water. By this time, my nerves are shattered from taps running and gallons of water going down the drain. Suddenly I wonder where Rome gets all its water from – I am acutely aware of the many water fountains running non-stop. Surely this is not good?

So today we are taking a bus into town, as Victor’s heal is not happy. Another app (moovit) directs us to the bus stop, where we wait for nr. 75. A not so friendly bus driver informs us that he does not sell bus tickets on the bus. WHT? So we jump off, make for the nearest tabac shop and buy tickets. Back to the bus stop – waiting for te next one. It is hot. Very hot… Eventually we get the bus and make our way to the Palantine Hill. The Roman Forum, Colloseum and Palantine Hill make us realise why we had to come back to Rome. It is overwhelmingly fascinating. 756 BC these roads were built. Layer upon layer of history is being exposed to reveal sophisticated life, water cooling systems and political systems that make us in 2017 look the barbarians that we are. The House Livia, and Romulus. Temple upon magnificent temple. On the Palantine Hill we lie in the the shade of Stone Pines, possibly one of my most favourite trees. I fall asleep with the drone of scooters in the distance…

What is it about Rome? Now that we are rested, the history and splendour of the city seeps through the cobblestones. Ice cream shops and hairdressers (I am always astounded at the number of hairdressers and pharmacies), side walk cafes and pet shops. Cathedrals and fountains. Trevi. Crystal clear water gushing over white stone – could it be marble? Sculptures of horses and gods and cherubs blazing in the afternoon sun. And thousands of tourists with selfie sticks. Oh my word. When we were here way back in 2003 the selfie stick was not yet invented. We politely asked strangers to take our picture. Now, the bloody protruding stick with a cellphone attached to its end sticks out into nowhere, poking out eyes and obstructing passage. There is an obsession with this gadget, to catch yet another fake smile in front of yet another tourist attraction. We find a seat at the fountain (made famous in La Dolce Vita before any of the selfie stick wielding fake smile idiots were born) and entertain ourselves with the spectacle of the human species trying to catch themselves in the best possible pose with a selfie stick.  It would have been hillarious if it was not so tragically sad. This narcissistic habit of self portrayal in every possible position and pose is an indictment of how self obsessed we have become. A generation of people who are trapped in their own portrait, not seeing the world around them, not being able to just inhale the beauty without plastering their own grimace over it. 

Eventually we strole away towards the Spanish Steps. And it is here that we encounter the peach. No wait, it is here that I encounter a peach for the first time in my life. A simple street vendor selling his fruits, nothing spectacular. Just a blushing red peach. I bite into a sensual, juicy, sweet sensation that dreams are made of. If ever I had to fantasise about a peach should taste like, this would be it. It conjurs up suggestions of paradise, of the first fruit. Of flavours so strong that one cannot believe mature producing it. A nostalgia of something so real, so fresh, so godly, that I can hardly believe it is happening. I check with Victor – is it just me, or is this possibly the most incredible taste sensation ever related to a peach. I am not alone, thank foodness. It truly is phenomenal. Why is this? Why – in sunny South Africa, with the most wonderful soil and mountain air, can we not produce fruit like this? I think back of the figs in Portugal, and the strawberries in London. I remember biting into a plump purple fig knowing that I have never tasted anything like it in my life. Maybe THAT is what happened in paradise. Maybe they were only used to Woolworths’ tasteless, bland, floury apples. And when they picked this gift from nature…… Well the rest is history. I would also drop everything I have learnt to seek out this fruit. (And remember – I do not particularly like fruit!!). This would convert me. A simple peach. Tomorrow I will have to try a pear. And then an apple. You might never see me again…

In Trastever we land at a sidewalk cafe just as the daily passagio starts – families strolling along the streets enjoying the evening out. Loads of them – three and four generations – strolling along the cobbled streets. Talking (a lot), laughing, just being. We have a “spritzer” and watch the world go by, family after family, Connected. Young and old, all together. This is how it should be. 

Our stroll/struggle up the hundreds of steps back to our apartment is particularly strenuous after two cocktails and a day in the sun. A hot shower and fresh clothes prepares us for our evening meal…..

The last time we were in Rome was for my 40th, twelve years ago. Nothing has changed. Except that I am a little bit older and have a little bit less energy. Just a little bit… 

The Turksih Air flight is not too bad – thanks to Downton Abbey I am not bored for one second. We are both exhausted during the lay-over in Istanbul. Obviously the night of storms in Cape Town and an over night flight took its toll. We arrive in Rome just after 10h00, dredging through customs in queues that reminds me of my days of National Service. (I am always aware of how spoilt we  are in South Africa, even though we love moaning about service! We spend at least the next hour trying to get through customs!)

Rome basks in full summer regalia. Thousands of tourists shouldering their way from Trevi fountain to Forum. We find our air b&b in a quiet neighbourhood. The landlady speaks perfect sign language in explaining about how to lock doors and where to find restaurants. It is 32 degrees outside. A mid morning nap restores our energy levels, after which we decide to venture into the city.

The summer splendour of flowering Jasmine cascades over ancient walls. Designer dogs discretely poo on roman sidewalks. Old ladies pull heavy grocery trollies across cobble stoned sidewalks. Beggars beg in lamenting voices, picking up the scent of suave Italian gentlemen who parades past in crisp suits and polished shoes. Rome. Beuatiful, glorious Rome. We walk to Piazza Navona and the Pantheon, doding the selfie sticks of thousands of tourists from all over the world. The Japanese wearing masks, the Americans being loud, the Germans marching forth, the English glowing red in the afternoon sun. 

Our first beer (something we never do in South Africa) tastes of holiday. A small sidewalk cafe, a friendly waiter, a bowl of little snacks and the blazing sun. People smoke and talk an laugh. The carefree wonderland of Europe. I cannot help but think if they wonder where the next bomb would explode. I certainly don’t. I marvel at the shops and the massive Chestnut trees laden with fruit. And I deeply inhale the privilege of being in Europe.

I have always wanted to watch “The Lady in the Van”, so what better place than on the plane flying from Cape Town to Istanbul. Good wine, ok food, a terrible seat, and a good movie to take my attention off the fact that my knees are locked behind my ears. The woman in front of me tells her husband “you are too polite! Push the chair back – you are always too polite to do this. Look – it can go a lot further back”. Yes it does indeed – pushing your bloody backrest right into my face, painfully crushing my kneecaps to a pulp. She is all of 4”3’, and there really is no need for her to lie flat on her back eating her meal. I gently tap her on the shoulder (I promise) – she jumps up as if an ax murderer had just shown his face at her seat. (Guilty conscience I suppose). I ask her if she could at all just sit up a little bit to allow me to breath and not have her seat in my mouth. When the husband asks her “what did he say” she politely replies “oh nothing…!”.

After a night of not sleeping, winds at 95km/h and waiting for a tree to fall on our roof, I am particularly edgy. The fact that the air warden has run out of tonic at row 17 does not help. He offers me gin with soda. I laugh – maybe just a tad too loud. A few minutes later he miraculously finds tonic, and pours me a gin that makes my hair stand on end. And that takes some doing as most of you will know. I now do feel and look like an ax murderer. We are offered beef or pasta – only to be told that there is no more pasta. When asking for red wine, I am told that there is a choice between CabSav or Merlot. But there is no CabSav left. I settle for meatballs and Merlot. I should threaten the person in front of me with a meatball – it would have been considered a cultural weapon. Yet, it is tasty.

The Lady in the Van. An incredibly moving portrayal of the frailty that often comes with ageing. Not necessarily the frailty of body, but more the frailty that comes with vulnerability. And how life can deal a bad hand, how the dice can fall in peculiar ways for some. Last night, lying awake in the storm, I could not help thinking of the thousands of people living in informal settlements, and how this storm would have affected them. Maggie Smith embodies the vulnerability of every older person I have ever encountered, living in her van in the driveway of the very reluctant Alan Bennet. His own struggle with his mother, living with dementia, does not make things easier for their relationship. His seeming inability to care for his mother or the lady in the van, makes him particularly vulnerable as well. At one point he says “I hate care, it is dirty!”, after stepping in the excrement of his unwanted tenant.

Their relationship grows as he learns that she was a nun (twice) and studied music, even thought she now cannot bare the sound of any music. In fact, she becomes violent when the children of the owners of the house in front of which she is squatting play the recorder. (Of course, here I am with her. There are few sounds on this earth more nerve wrecking than that of a recorder.)

As her health deteriorates, Margaret becomes stronger willed. Yet, she allows herself to be taken to a day hospital to everyones surprise. Mr. Bennet realises how much he has become attached and how much he actually cares. And how no one else really cares on a meaningful level. At one point he says that”no one went into the van. I went into the van”. The disgustingly smelly van. Few are willing to go into the van. We peep throught the mirrors, tell ourselves that everything is ok. That “they are safe”. We need to go into the van. I sit sobbing throught the tough meatballs, swallowing it down with gulps of Merlot. Atul Gawande in “Being Mortal” says that “hope is not a plan, but hope is our plan” referring to the medical fraternity and their obsession with extending/saving life at all costs, and how this medical hope is dished out like lottery tickets. Very few win…

I discover the last series of Downton Abbey – another Maggie Smith masterpiece. I love it when she asks her cousin “does it not get very cold up there on the moral high ground?”. Does speaking out constitute “taking the moral high ground”? Calling people out about ageist attitudes, racism, white privilege. Standing up against bullying. In a world where the concept of being moral has all but disappeared, one stands little chance of change.

In the world of Aged Care, we have become so good at knowing what is “best for them”, mostly totally negating the “them” in the equation. Is it possible to act in the best interest of another? At what age does autonomy diminish to the point where others take over – family, children, doctors and health care professionals. When am I no longer the true expert of my own life, entitled to deciding on the course I want my life to take? Should we “rage against the dying light”? Our should we gracefully accept our own mortality? Modern medicine does not prolong life – it only temporarily pushes away that which would kill us.

Last week I meet a property developer waxing lyrically about the progress in stem cell research, and how we will soon be able to live forever. Even simpler (according to this expert) we will actually grow younger if we get injected with the blood of children. I cannot imagine the horror on so many levels.