Strike!

Sciopero. It’s the most dreaded word to any traveler in Italy. If you hear or see the word sciopero (show-pair-oh), perk up your ears ‘cause there’s a labor strike a-coming, and it’ll probably affect your means of transportation.

Train workers, especially, tend to strike at the drop of a hat, although city transit systems are pretty prone to it as well.

The funny thing is, these aren’t unplanned affairs, and the strikes are announced days or even a month ahead of time. Strikes have a set hour at which they will begin, and a precise time when they’ll end.

This isn’t the American-style “walk out until management agrees with you” strike; in Italy they do it merely to make a point.

On occasion the sciopero is over contracts or work-related issues, but more often it’s used as a form of vague, general protest, and—although this isn’t journalistically verifiable—it’s hard not to suspect that sometimes, someone just want a day off.

Chasing Lorenzo around Rome

Palazzo Venezia, Julian Schanbel, and the effects of karma

The Northwest Airlines employee at the gate assured me, yet again, in a syrup voice that our 4:15pm flight would leave on time. This despite the fact that (a) Frances had just told me the NWA.com web site was showing a 20-minute delay and, (b) it was already 4:05pm and there was, as yet, no actual plane at the gate.

I don't know about you, but I've never seen a flight land, taxi, offload, get cleaned, switch out crews, load up again, taxi, and take off in ten minutes.

Right after the woman lied to me about my flight, I noticed a man hurrying down the terminal drop a plastic toploader folder out of his bag without noticing. I picked it up, caught him up, and returned his folder. This will become significant, in some small way, later on in the story of my day spent chasing Lorenzo de' Medici around Rome.

Entirely the Wrong Witch

La Befana, Babbo Natale, and the shifting focus of Christmas traditions in Italy

It is around 9pm on the last day of October, All Hallow's Eve. Back home, in America, it is Halloween, and everywhere kids are looking forward to the end of the school day when they can dress up and hit the streets to fill pillowcases with candy begged from the neighbors.

Here in Venice, it is simply October 31, the day before the Feast of All Saints. In Italy, the time to play dress-up isn't for another four months and the moveable feast of Carnevale, that Fat Tuesday of partying before Ash Wednesday ushers in the 40 austere days of Lent.

So why is it that the pizzeria I just left is packed with babbling kids, their faces smeared with makeup, pointy hats on their heads and gauzy or silky capes tied at their necks? Why did the marble fountainhead on Campo Santa Maria Formosa have a gaggle of costumed youths sitting upon it, laughing and eating candy?

What, in short, the Hell is Halloween doing in the very capital of Carnevale?

(Before you get confused: Yes, this story really is about Christmas; Halloween is just the setup.)

Requiem for A Currency

On arriving in Rome the day Europe switched over to the euro, and how I got rid of my remaining lire

1 January 2002, A Tuesday

I am quite the Eurotrash. Last year I rung in the New Year under the Eiffel Tower. This year I am doing it in Rome. Well, technically the annual odometer clicked over to 2002 somewhere over the Atlantic for me, and I was trapped in a plane (they didn’t even serve us champagne or anything), but when I landed, it was new Year’s Day, and it was Rome.

Of course, first thing I did was start looking for some Euros. As of yet, I have only been able to catch glimpses of the new notes clutched in the hands of bewildered or bemused Romans as they drift away from their bank machines, staring in wonder and slight trepidation at this new reality they're slipping into their wallets to snuggle alongside the lira notes, all those extraneous zeros of which about to be retired forever.

I specify "Romans" because unfortunately the ATMs here seem only to be honoring Italian-issued bankcards today. I've seen (and joined) packs of panicked foreigners dashing from ATM to ATM trying desperately to milk some local cash out of them, to no avail. I even saw a young French couple get turned away from one, which struck me as odd since the whole point is that now there is officially no difference, in a fiduciary sense, between an Italian and a Frenchman.

Apparently, no one told the Italian ATMs that, and the poor French were turned away. It's nice to know the joyful snafus of European travel won't end, even as some of the old symbolic speed bumps between nations are getting smoothed over.

A distant view

The Gianicolo (Janiculum Hill) at night

Stand against the burnt red cat's-tongue stucco. Press your knees into the rough wall that encircles the crest of green rise called Gianicolo.

Let the breeze bite your face. Fill the linings of your nose with the bad cologne from the self-absorbed couple pressed against each other nearby, and the cloy of sleeping flowers in the park below.

Listen to the Fiats behind you creak as they sway with erotic love. Smile at the winking yellow man-stars from the low suburban slope across the valley, and the fluid car headlights that flow alongside the Tevere.

All of Rome belongs to you.