Fiumicino is a very large airport. Get lost in it, if you flew to Rome for the first time, just spit. I go strictly following the signs to the exit, where an escort named Riccardo should meet me. The situation is somewhat complicated by the fact that I did not see Riccardo in the eye, so the meeting place at our place is designated as "at the exit, near the currency exchange." Finally, I see the stand of the exchanger and next to it is a man of good appearance reading a newspaper. I’m coming up, smiling.
- Hello! Riccardo? I am Julia.
A man looking up from the newspaper (his whole face lights up with a happy smile):
- Ltd! Yes Yes! Hello! How are you?
- Everything is fine! Well, let's go?
Man, somewhat embarrassed:
“Sorry, Julia, but could you remind me how we know each other?”
I (suspiciously):
“Listen, are you Riccardo?”
“No,” he sighs doomedly. - I'm Fabio.
Yes, my Italy smiled at me from the first steps.
I dreamed of Rome all my life. For some reason, everyone aspires to Paris. Well, you know, "see Paris and die" and all that. But not for me. Two weeks before the trip, the Eternal City began to catch my eye everywhere: on signs, on the Internet, in advertising and scraps of random conversations. Rome waved to me with its red-white-green tricolor from every corner. I knew that he was already waiting for me and mentally almost moved there to live.
The weather was almost lucky - at the end of May, instead of the expected heat, the temperature was about 18 degrees, and sometimes cooler, in general for walking - it’s just perfect if it weren’t for a couple of days when the rain that was charged for the whole day spoiled the plans a little.
I can’t imagine how some tourists travel to Italy under the program “The whole country in 10 days”. 10 days were not enough for me even for one city.
Rome is beautiful. It is stunning with its endless beauty. The beauty is in it at every step: if it is not a beautiful church, then some beautiful ancient ruins, or a beautiful street, or a beautiful cafe, or a house, or a balcony, or the whole terrace on the roof of the house, or at least as beautiful as Apollo, a barista in a coffee shop the size of a box for a TV, but also perfectly fine, with the same coffee and breathtaking homemade cakes. That's right - beautiful on beautiful with beautiful inside. And it just knocks you down, and drowns, and swallows, and soaks every blood vessel of yours.
It is better not to close the camera at all. In principle, you can just stand in one place, spin around its axis and shoot, shoot, shoot. And so every two steps: orange trees along the sidewalks, small tables with Italians drinking a fifteenth cup of coffee a day, happy faces of tourists scurrying back and forth with suitcases on wheels, a brickwork of a wall that is five hundred years old or just pieces of blue sky, if you have the strength to break away from the beauty around and lift your head up.
It turned out that Rome is a very green city. Yes Yes. Parks, trees, green boulevards are scattered in abundance. The old villas are surrounded by lush vegetation, and it does not occur to anyone to shove “elite” housing in the form of a 20-storey candle on their territory. Nope. In corrupt Italy, a sense of taste and love of architecture invariably prevails over the desire to stupidly cash in. Italians prefer to cash in on the preservation of their historical and cultural values. Or on the service. Or on food that affects all of your taste buds so that you want to fall off your stool and fight in orgasmic convulsions.
In the restaurant, wine means a whole bottle of it, and southern wine - Sicilian. What? Argentina? SOUTH AFRICA? And there they also make wine? No, we don’t know.
A cheese plate is almost a pound of cheese for which you can sell your homeland. Not a hundred grams of finely chopped something with something where the best piece will be Polish parmesan. And such a dish with 6-7 types of cheese, which is enough for three. Mozzarella is generally a separate conversation. Real mozzarella is made only from buffalo milk, and its shelf life is only 3 days. Taste ... uh ... divine. It has nothing to do with our mozzarella. The meat is cut from huge pieces of beef, veal, pork, lamb, which you pointed with your finger, because here they are - they are on display in the window, they brought everything today.
Cut off generously.
- To me, please, this little piece.
- C, Signora, damn.
The uncle in an apron with a cleaver in his hands, a smile from ear to ear, behind him a grill, everything happens right there: he snapped, showed, weighed, cooked, just a magician carving cows into chops.
- Prego! - Shows me a little one weighing half a kilo. Oh Madonna. Our ideas about a small size obviously do not coincide with him. How do I eat this? Next time it will be necessary to say "microscopic."
But nothing, you know, everything breaks in. The meat cooked so that it can only be eaten with lips, it turns out, slips into the stomach almost imperceptibly, so much so that dessert is still placed on top - cannoli, for example. This is such a culinary miracle, invented in Sicily. Who remembers Godfather 3? There is such a moment when Aunt Connie, such a bad aunt, of course, brings to her godfather, Don Altobello, who has become the enemy of the family, these same cannoli in a box. But not simple, but with poison. Eat, godfather. The decrepit, treacherous grandfather cannot resist the temptation and sweeps the whole box to the last crumb to the sounds of the beautiful (again) Italian opera. You know, I understand him now. Imagine the thinnest brittle wafer dough melting in your mouth, stuffed with freshly beaten mascarpone or ricotta cheese, which is prepared with the addition of chocolate, or pistachios or something else unbelievable. It’s impossible to stop. Cannoli or death? Damn, I thought. This is a very difficult choice.
I wanted to bring my friends at least some of these wonderful cakes. The confectionery said: “We’ll do it without any problems, but they are stored only for a day.” - "And then what?" - "And then they are not fresh." You see, yes? You can’t carry it not because they will deteriorate (maybe not), but because they will not be fresh. Here's a cult of food, yes. Fresh food is a nambra van. No nambra van - there will be no kin, come tomorrow.
Coffee is drunk everywhere, all the time, a lot. Coffee is such a very small cup, which is poured to half. I was drinking cappuccino all the time, I had never seen an Italian with a cup of cappuccino, only tourists. All the time I was tempted to ask the barista about the Americano, which I do not drink, but just to look after that on his face.
Americano - by Italian standards, it’s just a slop, to order it means to drop your reputation forever, without the possibility of restoration.
You can talk about museums, the Vatican, sculpture and painting for hours, while the word "beautiful" will occupy 80 percent of the story. Imagine a marvelous park, in which stands the delightful Borghese Gallery. Now imagine a large room in which every inch of the floor, walls and ceilings is painted, decorated with molding, frescoes, mosaics and masterpieces of Italian masters. Multiply these square meters by 20. Place three dozens of amazing sculptures and the same number of picturesque paintings inside this room. In the center of the room put Bernini's sculpture "The Abduction of Proserpine." Can you imagine? Well, how would I say this ... Covers.
If beauty can crush - then this is just the case.
I don’t know what kind of person Senor Giovanni Bernini was in life. On Wikipedia it is written about him that he was a violent jealousy, on whose behalf crippled his unfaithful mistress Constance, convicted of voluptuousness with his own brother. Either his brother had more horseradish, or the maestro was too immersed in the work of cutting off all unnecessary stones, but, in general, something went wrong with them. Women are creatures selfish, they still give attention, even if you are a genius and head over heels bogged down in your studio, seized by a creative impulse. The story was publicized, but Bernini had his own hairy hand in high papal circles, and the masters otmazyvali, imposing a fine on him and quickly married a quiet girl from a decent lawyer's family. That is, it seems like all this looks extremely wrong. And I, in principle, against violence and for fair punishment. But not in this case. Because to deprive the descendants of such a brilliant sculptor (as well as an artist, architect and playwright) would be simply inhumane.
Unfortunately, photography in the Borghese Gallery is prohibited (already allowed, update from the editor). Or maybe this is right, because you need to enjoy such masterpieces personally. His sculptures breathe life. Each fold of clothes, each hair on the head. Proserpine had an expression of genuine despair on her face, and real tears were rolling from her eyes. Cold marble? You're wrong. This is a real human body, and the fingers of Pluto the kidnapper on the thigh of the unfortunate Proserpine squeeze living human flesh. Bernini was 24 years old when he created this sculpture. How is this possible? What talent should a person have to create such a work of art? Incomprehensible. You can look at her endlessly. I just want to stand nearby, for hours, and sob with admiration.
And on the ceiling - painting. The name of the artist is unknown. The painting is so ... well, the absolute feeling is that these frescoes are voluminous and will now begin to move, the bearded Jupiter will come down and invite to sip a glass of wine that spills on the adjacent wall of Bacchus. 3D is nothing new. It was created several centuries ago - right there, on this ceiling.
By the way, there are almost no Russians in museums. Mostly Spaniards, in general, many Europeans, less often - Japanese, sometimes Indians. Therefore, there are no inscriptions in Russian in museums. In Italian, Spanish, English, French, German - yes. In Russian - no. What for? There’s nobody to read anyway, Russians mainly come to shopping, and not go to museums.
Italians are very friendly. If during a walk I froze in the middle of the street, absentmindedly looking around, unable to figure out where to go next, some pretty young man would certainly stop and ask how I could help. Some volunteered to attend in person - yes, Italians flirt with you all the time. On the first day of my arrival, when I asked my Italian friend how they get acquainted with women in Italy, he said:
“Well, it’s very simple: if you looked at me for longer than three seconds, I would come up and get to know you.”
Like this. No unnecessary conventions and thoughts “what will she think of me” and “what will I look like if she refuses me”. What I was convinced with pleasure every day. Italians try to get to know you everywhere, even if you're not alone. If you turned your head away from the man with whom you are near, then this is regarded as that you can give a chance to someone else. Especially if you are a pretty tourist. Once we were driving a car, and at a traffic light next to us a motorcycle stopped, there are simply thousands of them in Rome. The motorcycle was beautiful and I turned my head to see it better. By the time when my gaze shifted from the chrome parts to the driver, he was already smiling and waved at me, urging me to drop my companion and transfer to him. I burst out laughing, and my friend was not at all surprised: “And what did you want, you were beautiful and looked at him.”
Contrary to the current belief that Italian women are unattractive, I saw a lot of very pretty Italians. They may not have perfect facial features, but they walk the streets with such self-esteem that they seem beautiful. What the Italians definitely cannot take away is an innate sense of style. They are always with makeup, manicure, very fond of jewelry and all sorts of fashionable little things. Heels are almost not worn and not tall, but they walk with such a proud posture that they seem taller than their 160.
In contrast to women, Italian men are incredibly handsome, well-built and often tall. In general, girls, if bluntly, then men there, even wherever and in abundance, just walk along the street. Your rating in the eyes of Italian men increases several times if you are tall and you have fair hair. At the same time, nothing special is needed. Just walk along the street with a map of the city in your hand. You go, stare at the beauties, slow down in the middle of the street, look at the map with concentration, for persuasiveness you can move your finger along it and mutter something slurred. After a few seconds, an Italian handsome man will stop by your side and sympathetically ask if he can help you with anything. You raise your eyes, look at him a little longer than usual - and that’s it, the thing is in the hat. Then everything depends only on the degree of your freedom and the presence / absence of a desire for adventure. At least, you are surely provided with a magical evening in a pleasant company, and it is up to you to decide how it will end.
The final chord of my trip was ... the sea! Yes Yes! I could not even imagine that 20 km from Rome, near the airport, there is a real sea called the Tyrrhenian Sea and is part of the Mediterranean. Imagine my eyes when my Italian friends took me there. And I thought that I have a "five" in geography.
That was a surprise. Everything, as it should be: beach, umbrellas, restaurants on the waterfront, resort area.
It was cold that day, a strong wind was blowing and there was nobody on the beach except a surfer who rode the gray waves under sail. But it's not that. You just understand: there is a sea in Rome! And this means that this city does not have a single drawback!
