Eating Honey from the Jar
And dancing on rooftops
Ciao ciao ciao! I’m in Rome and the above film still is exactly how I feel about being back in Italy. The mornings are cool and brisk, with afternoons balmy under the dazzling sun. The light is different here, that unmistakable intensity of Mediterranean sun. Sure, less than a week after my arrival I got covid, but it’s a mild case that feels mostly like a bad cold and I’m here until mid November. Riding it out while becoming intimately acquainted with my accommodations is just how the cards have fallen.
Oddly this has been a rather enjoyable episode of being stuck at home whilst ill. Maybe it’s the novelty of having arrived in a new country and that even the most mundane occurrences can feel like a revelation while traveling. Congestion and coughing don’t feel quite so bad when they’re punctuated by enjoying espresso and biscotti on a balcony in Rome. I’ve eaten breakfast out there every morning since I arrived and step out several times a day to sip more espresso or just observe the happenings. Two small restaurants and an auto repair shop are just below; a stationary store, cafe, butcher, grocery, pharmacy, and school around the corner; apartment buildings, old villas, and trees in every direction. I’m up on the third floor which means most pedestrians don’t notice me, and for the few who do, we maintain a somehow not uncomfortable amount of eye contact as we observe one another from afar. Twice I’ve watched green parakeets fly by.
I’m in Monteverde, a quiet by Rome standards, mostly residential neighborhood on a hill above Trastevere. I’ve rented a room for six weeks in the apartment of a friend of a friend of a friend. Chiara’s two daughters are both away at school for the first time and rather than be an empty nester, she’s opened her home to wanderlust women like me. I’ve spent the past year pairing down my belongings, researching expat life, and poorly learning Italian all in an effort to one day relocate to Italy. This was my chance to dip my toes in.
With espresso and adrenaline, I hit the ground running. Caffe latte, cornetto, cacio e pepe, tiramisu, pizza bianca, gelato pistacchio. Sì, sì, sì! My holy grail: carbonara and Chianti Classico. I had carbonara for what I thought was the first time last September while attending an artist residency at Villa Lena in Tuscany. It was a transcendent moment of culinary awakening. I ate it four more times in the following weeks. When asked what my last meal request would be, I didn’t hesitate. There was no need to think, the answer was obvious. Chef Dom used a recipe from Roscoli, a Roman institution. Make no mistake, I have multiple reservations at Roscoli while I’m here.
And that misrepresentation of my first time eating carbonara? Turns out what I had labeled as my best pasta eating experience prior to that transformative dinner in the Tuscan hills was in fact carbonara. I just was oblivious to what I had ordered, instead focusing on the glee of an entrée that included three different pastas. And truffles were involved, easy to get distracted by those. Low and behold, what I had stated was the best pasta I’d ever had was Ristorante Ad Hoc’s signature carbonara, three ways: classic, honey mushroom, and black truffle. Perhaps this is why being sick for a few days is no sweat: I know I have some obscenely delicious food to eat in the weeks ahead, along with my usual parade of drooling over frescos, ruins, and worn cobblestone streets. And it’s not like I haven’t been eating well whilst at my current abode. Pumpkin ravioli, parmigiano reggiano shaved over greens with olive oil and lemon, pizza bianca con zucchine, tomatoes dusted with sea salt, three different kinds of biscotti.
I came here with the intention to balance work and rest at this charming apartment with the invigorating routine of exploring a place I’ve been enamored with for years. I managed to spend the first few days being productive with work commitments while still skipping around the city with fervor. I’ve spent the past four days experiencing the light change in and outside of this apartment, studying Chiara’s eclectic collection of art, books, and objects while becoming buddies with her little dog Pepe and spying on the neighbors. While I much prefer the restoration of health I’ve been experiencing over the course of the past day, the extended time at home that was forced upon me really hasn’t been all that bad. I’ve actually enjoyed some of it and perhaps this can reframe my approach towards times of illness in the future. Or maybe I’m just high on the fact that it’s clear I’m getting better and will be back in the streets of Rome soon.
The other night I watched Luca Guadagnino’s A Bigger Splash for the first time and have been rolling it around in my head in the days since. Ralph Fiennes’s off the wall manic energy. Tilda Swinton’s silent magnetism. The gluttonous focus on fruit, fish, and torsos. The languor of an island vacation under the Mediterranean sun. And of course: Fiennes’s uninhibited, wildly wonderful dance moves. If you don’t know what I’m referring to, do yourself a favor: pause reading this to watch the scene here. Word is that Fiennes decided to sign on for the role when he learned there was a scene in which his character expressed himself through dance. And he gives this bit, and his entire performance, every last ounce of energy.
This dance is joyous and weird, deeply spasmodic, but infectious. I’ve rewatched it again and again and again. Fiennes’s character, Harry, is exhausting and pompous, and yet, his zest for seizing every god damn moment is endearing. He’s demanding and attention seeking from the moment he’s first on screen. Even before we meet him, when he’s just a voice in a poor reception phone call, he’s brash. Still, Fiennes makes Harry’s brazen tornado of a friend crashing a lethargic vacation thoroughly entertaining. His dance number is the cherry on top. He ecstatically moves throughout the room and on the roof, communing with the Mediterranean sun and reveling in the physical release. Hardly any of his dancing rhythmically aligns with the music. But it works because each wriggling motion appears so deeply felt and conjured from within.
Meanwhile, Swinton’s rock star on holiday character, Marianne, is unable to speak after undergoing vocal cord surgery. There are whispers of a sentence here and there, with each holding tremendous weight, but otherwise, she quietly luxuriates in her downtime, wearing one sumptuous Dior outfit after another. (Seriously though, her wardrobe is incredible. A closet full of exquisitely draped jumpsuits, structured shirt dresses, silk skirts, and floral kimonos. Oh if I could wear just one of these outfits with the nonchalance that Marianne does!) And she’s mesmerizing in every single scene. Through a sea of expressive movements, Swinton manages to build a character who is far better at communication than any of her speaking counterparts. While there are times of great physicality to what she’s doing, she tends to converse through subtle, measured facial expressions reminiscent of a silent film actress. She’s mysterious, cooly glamorous, and utterly fascinating to watch.
In the lull of a lazy poolside afternoon, Marianne sits in the shade, slowly eating honey from a jar. I have been doing the same the past several days, minus the poolside location, and there is something so satisfying in eating liquid sugar straight from the jar. For nearly five days I haven’t been able to speak much without going into a fit of coughs, and so, much like Marianne, I’ve been primarily silent - minus all that coughing. This petite pot of Miele Toscano has been wickedly soothing for my throat and I like to pretend I look just as posh as Tilda Swinton when I eat it. I also like to think of this trip as me continuing to feast on the sweet honey jar that is Italy.
If I walk up a flight of stairs, I’ll reach this apartment’s rooftop terrace. As I’m feeling healthy again, I can’t help but think about putting modesty aside and dancing a la Ralph Fiennes. I’m sure it’ll feel exhilarating, and any neighbors watching will have a great story to tell their friends.
I dare you to do the same.
— Katie
Four Seasons in Rome by Anthony Doerr. I started reading this short but splendid memoir en route to Rome last week and it was the perfect hype man, if you can call a book that. Doerr perfectly expresses the rejuvenating power of travel while also not shying away from the struggles and frustrations that undoubtedly arise.
A Bigger Splash. Obviously I’m recommending this movie. It’s a celebration and critique of pleasure that’s bubbling over with dazzling eye candy and stellar performances in an idyllic setting. Worth it just for Ralph and Tilda.
Bialetti Moka Alpina. All that espresso I savored in this dreamy apartment? I’ve been making it in Chiara’s perfectly kitschy moka pot that has a top shaped like the iconic Alpine Corps hat, feather included.
Pizza Pianca con Zucchine. Simple, easy, delicious. If you can’t snag a slice from the Italian market around the corner for €1, this recipe should do the trick. A mandolin is absolutely required and wanting to recreate this flavor when I’m back in the States is what will make me finally buy one.
Touring A 16th-Century Italian Palace: Isabella Ducrot’s Private Art Collection. Of course I love the home I’m living in right now. But would I mind spending a few days hanging out with Isabella Ducrot in her palatial abode? Certainly not. Last week, I had the most exquisite morning at Palazzo Doria Pamphilj and am all the more astounded that there are apartments tucked away amid the splendor.
Dance on the rooftop and continue to feed us more on your observations of Roma! You make it all come alive! Grazie !
What a joyful read! Exactly the content we all need right now. Enjoy your charming abode and all the adventures ahead!