Where are all the penises?

Trust me, this post is about art. Ok, including the word penis in my blog is sure to increase traffic, but that's only a side benefit.

Given that there are literally thousands of statues and paintings of nude men in Rome, you'd be hard pressed to find a penis on any of them. But that's not how it has always been. Romans were proud of their appendages and carved them in a realistic, although not always flattering proportion. It was during one of the Catholic churches many bouts of paranoia that the male genitalia become too "distracting" to have protruding from statues. Apparently the housework was falling behind.

So there were a couple of approaches taken to cleanse art from such troubling sights. For many of the old Greek statues, the penis was simply chiseled off. I don't know about you, but the site of a fully intact scrotum with nothing but a stub of rough broken stone is far more disturbing than an anatomically correct rendition. Did the young Roman boys just think this was what would happened when they hit puberty? I'm pretty sure their ancient talks about the "body changing" during puberty were as cryptic as our household. It just made sense that my thingy would just fall off after a while. I wonder if there's a museum somewhere with thousands of stone penises.

The second approach to cleansing was used for more valued works of art and involved putting a stone fig-leaf over the groin on a statue or painting a strategic handkerchief where required. I'm surprised there isn't a line of fig-leaf shaped thongs for men - The Roman Thong. The pope even asked a painter to cover up Michelangelo's nude men on the front wall of the Sistine Chapel. Now that's sacrilegious. If Michelangelo wanted me to see Adam's private bits, then that's what I should see.

Meanwhile, I will keep up my search for stone penises and report back if I stumble into one.
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My Way

After hearing dozens of street musicians and been serenaded late at night by musicians in the piazza below our apartment, we have figured out Italy's national song and it was written by a Canadian. We've heard My Way played on a saxophone, a violin and of course, an accordion. Are Italians so proud of Frank that they pay homage to him on an hourly basis? Or is it Paul Anka's heritage that they are celebrating. I'm betting that the 60+ crowd hands over more euros than anyone so they are simply playing to their audience. There's not a lot of teens tossing coins in the hat of the musicians playing U2 on the accordion. But maybe there just isn't an accomplished enough accordionist out there to give it a try. I knew I should have kept up my lessons.

The other popular song is the theme from The Godfather. I'm not sure you would hear the theme from Schindler's List in Munich but, again, it puts a smile on the faces of the old folks with the new purses.

One night we were serenaded outside our window by a woman with a cello playing beautiful classical music. She hasn't been back knowing it's tough to compete with ole blue eye

The Birds

Unless Hitchcock was Italian, there's nothing Roman about what we saw tonight. Just as the sun started to set, tens of thousands of small birds swarmed in the cloudless sky.
We saw it from the ground and then rushed up to our terrace to get a better look. The birds put on a 20 minute show swarming in multiple clouds of thousands of birds each. Each cluster moving in synchronicity but independent of the other clouds. In the distance they appeared as puffs of smoke blowing in the wind (no relation I'm sure to my previous post). Up close, a hitchcockian (look it up) swarm of birds made me want to hide under the bed.

Click on the pictures to get a bigger image. Just in time for halloween.

Blowin' in the wind

We spent an hour in a very old church that was just filled with beautiful art. Most religious art depicts some moment from the new testament or focuses on the namesake of the church. All very beautiful, but I hesitate to say that it rarely moves me (sorry Mum). Maybe it's message overload or maybe any simplicity in the message is lost in gold, multi-coloured marble or papal coat of arms. Or maybe it's just me.

As we exited the church, there was some graffiti on a nearby wall that stopped me in my tracks.

"How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man?"

This famous line, written by Bob Dylan when he was a mere 21 years old, made me think more than any of the papal tombs, frescos, and stained glass in Rome. I know there are inspirational religious messages and poets - I hear there's even a best selling book of the stuff. Maybe I should pull out Gideon and look for them. Or maybe I can just be satisfied that something as simple as graffiti made me stop and ponder humanity.

Or maybe, it's just the wine talking.

Italian soccer from a distance

Spoiler alert. For those of you that have taped the Lazio-Sampdoria soccer game, don't read on because I end up telling you the score.
On Chris' suggestion, I read the famous Hunter S. Thompson article about his trip to the Kentucky Derby. The crux of the article was that to truly experience an event, you can't be a spectator - you have to become part of the event. It's the journalist's equivalent to "a watched pot never boils". As you may have figured out from my other posts, this is in stark contrast to my "safety first" attitude.
On Sunday afternoon, we attended our first ever professional soccer/football/calgio game. With soccer hooligans in mind, I purchased mid-priced tickets figuring if you were there to brawl, you'd go for the cheap seats. Hunter would have been disappointed in me.

After an easy bus ride to Stadio Olimpico, my safety-first decision was reinforced by the dozens of Carabinieri (Italian military) trucks and swat teams. We bought a home team scarf and settled into our comfortable center line seats. The first thing we spotted was an isolated group of fans across the stadium. Surrounded by security, this was the visiting team's section. They started singing an hour before the game started and didn't stop until we were on the bus on the way home. They even unrolled a 75 foot flag with the picture of some 50 year old guy. That is my new goal when I turn 50.
Behind the goal and about 100 meters from us was a packed section of crazy home team fans. Knowing where the "cheap seats" were, I rested easy. A little too easy. Our seats reminded me a lot of the Leafs games. A comfortable, respectable section but not a lot of fun. No banners, no flags, no singing, no shivs.

At the half, we decided to try to get closer to the action - the fans, not the game. We couldn't quite make it into the mayhem, but got within 25m and enjoyed people watching for the second half. The game included 2 red cards and I'm pretty sure there is now a "hit" out on the referee - so lots to cheer and jeer about.
While we didn't understand what they were yelling and singing, they didn't seem more emotional than a rabid hockey fan but they had a much more colourful way of showing it. Italians are very dramatic at minor things like missing the bus, so you can imagine the performances when they miss the net.
The game ended in an enjoyable 1-1 draw which mirrored our feelings about the experience. Enjoyable, but I couldn't help but wonder that had we gone for the win, we would have had a lot more fun - win or lose. That, my literary friends, is a metaphor.
We might try another game and lower the ticket price to become part of the event, rather than watching at a safe distance. Then again, the swat teams were there for a reason...

Surprise pub crawl

We headed out to our local blues bar again. I'm sure we will soon be regulars at Big Mamma's. The attraction this time was an acoustic guitarist named Pino Forastiere. Calling him a guitarist is like calling Moses a good Jew. He was an exceptional Jew. If you're interested, here's a clip I stole from youtube.


As good as Pino was, he wasn't the highlight of the night. The club is very small so we had to share a table with another couple. We lucked out and the couple spoke English - always a welcome find. He was from Australia and she was from Ireland. In hindsight it was obvious that we were at a table that knew how to drink. Before I was finished my first beer he was up buying us another round. Very nice people but I started to worry about the pace. Between music sets we find out that they live in Saudi Arabia and are out for a quick 5 day vacation. This was their first crack at real beer and drinks since the stuff they get in Saudi is homebrew beer or moonshine. We were definitely in for a long night.
We were relieved to see Big Mamma's closing down at midnight thinking we were out of the "alcohol woods". But our Aussie friend insisted he buy us another beer. So we closed down one bar only to move to another... and then another. We were home at 3:30am and I'm proud to say Sue and I didn't disappoint Canada - a bronze medal in pub crawling is nothing to be ashamed of.  Our Irish friend gave us lots of places to see while in Ireland (we're going to make a sidetrip to Galway, which we only know from a line in a Pogues song) and we ended the evening as best friends never to see each other again.

Turkish bath? Is that legal?

Sue put on her adventurous hat again and we went to a "hamman". I can't imagine what we'd do if I were in charge of entertainment. As far as I can tell a hamman is what is left over when you take all the illegal activities out of a turkish bath. Stay with me, it was actually quite nice without all the worries of disease and burning in hell.
This gem of a place was in the middle of Rome's Jewish ghetto. They really need a PR campaign because everyone calls it a ghetto.  At reception, they send us in opposite directions to change into our swimsuit (on Wed and Fri, it is women only and bathing suits are optional - who said Rome is ruled by men). I have trouble understanding the signs and end up walking in the back door to the women's changeroom. (Un)Fortunately Sue is there alone and I only get a bonus look at her.
We both make our way downstairs to a beautiful marble bath area with arched brick ceilings, hot misty air and warmed marble benches. We lie on the marble benches and an attendant pours warm water over us. I'm already worrying about what on earth to tip such a person. Sue and I get the hang of things and starting pouring water on each other - I am accused of dumping more than pouring but in my defense, it was my first such experience since Mike and I stopped bathing together.

We then rubbed some Moroccan olive soap over ourselves working up a lather that smelled like Mum's kitchen during the first wonderful stage of Italian sauce making.
Instead of rinsing, we then went into a very hot steam room to sweat out the demons that live just under the skin (my interpretation). When we started to feel faint from the heat we went out and rinsed ourselves by pouring water on each other.
Repeat 2 or 3 times....
On our last time, instead of rinsing, the attendant has us lie on the marble bench and proceeds to scrub us with a rough glove. Even the most confident among us can't handle a strange woman rubbing vigorously on your stomach. As tight as I made those muscles, the jiggle felt out of control. I never made eye contact and we both knew the tip had to go up.
We then showered and relaxed in a cold-warm pool to bring your body temperature down. Throw in a cup of tea and some spa music and you've got yourself a hamman.
I have to admit, it was very relaxing and it cleared my nasals and loosened my very sore neck. I'm not sure what went on in these baths in the past, but having a fully clothed female attendant massage the extra pounds on my belly was risque enough for me.

Searching for George Clooney

For anyone hooked on Entertainment Tonight, you already know that George Clooney has a house on Lake Como in Italy. We set out to find the elusive star from Facts of Life in his natural habitat.
After taking 2 trains, 2 buses and an airplane we arrived at Varenna on Lake Como. We choose the highest hotel in the village to ensure we had good views for a George-sighting. To get to our stakeout point for the next couple of nights, we needed to walk 10 minutes up a hill, take 2 funiculars, and then an elevator to the top. That reminds me, gentleman have yourself checked regularly for funicular cancer.

From our top floor terrance we could see the town of Varenna as well as the surrounding lake and mountains... no immediate sign of George.

The whole time, Sue remained ready and in fine form for the eventual sighting. You only get one chance to impress Georgie-boy.
We heard a rumor that Clooney might be hiding out in Santa Maria church on the mountain opposite our hotel. Build when people believed "getting closer to God" was meant literally, it would prove a challenging hike to the nippled Batman's hideout.
After an hour hike to the church, we found it locked and no signs of the silver fox. Sure we had spectacular views but that's not what we were there for.
This adventure reminds me a little like the time we went Goldie-hunting in the Muskoka's. Imagine Ontario cottage country with mountain backdrops and instead of rich exclusive cottages were quaint villages filled with restaurants and wine bars.
Goldie got the better of us back then and George eluded us this time.  Not willing to let it go completely, Sue is strongly suggesting that I get a Clooney haircut. I'm not sure mimicking his hair will suffice.

Scooters and other fine cars

I'm sure most of you know that the scooter is the national bird of Italy. They are literally everywhere and driven by all walks of life (mental note: update the phrase "walks" of life). They view the spaces between cars, pedestrians and curbs as their own personal hiway and will weave their way through traffic. We met someone who said it takes her 40 minutes to get to work by scooter but it would take her an hour and half to do it by car. You see, cars have to stop; Scooters find a way to keep moving. I'm not sure who's in the wrong if a scooter hits a pedestrian. I wouldn't bet against the scooter.
If you look close, you'll see that this driver has his suitcase between his knees. We have also watched someone drive off with a full 10 foot ladder over their shoulder. I have to give them credit for persevering. Hat head is enough to keep me off a scooter.
As cool as the scooter is, I've found my favorite car and they are also everywhere and remind me of a simpler time. It is the Fiat 500. It's the car the Germans would have made if they hired lazy Italians to design the VW Beatle and a Scotsman to manage the budget.

To their credit, there are a lot of beautiful Italian Alfa Romeo cars as well. Instead of driven by cool people like Emilio Iovio, most are driven by chauffeurs of the Italian government.

The other sight that is fairly common is a Smart car parked perpendicular to the other cars. Apparently they are as long as most cars are wide.
You do see big 6 and 8 cylinder cars here, but I'm going to guess that the average cylinders on the road is under 3. While that has to be good for the environment, we feel sick every time we throw our used wine bottles into the common trash. Rome has absolutely no recycling program. A local blamed the mafia, much the way we blame John Ferguson or Brian Burke for the Leaf woes.