We'll Always Have Paris (9 page)

The man held up his hand and gave me a firm look that demanded my silence. He patted the table and smiled. “Welcome to Roma,
belle
.”

***

After dinner, Katie and I walked back to our neighborhood and passed the time with two simultaneous games of
I
Spy: I Spy the worst parking job ever!
And
I
Spy
a
man
wearing
red
pants.

We spotted about a dozen cars that were mounted halfway onto the sidewalk. One clever driver pulled his car into a small space, nose-first, despite the fact that every other car was parked parallel to the curb. Katie pretended to be the car owner reacting to our judgment. “What?!” she bellowed. “There is a no room to park nice. I do smart thing!”

After we counted more than twenty men in red pants, we changed it to orange because the game was getting too easy.

Before long, we were back at Casa Banzo, tired, but not quite ready to turn in. “The piazza Campo de’ Fiori is a block away,” I told Katie. “Want to check it out?”

She gave me what we dubbed the Euro-shrug, a gesture we’d seen at least a dozen times in our first few hours in Italy. We initially noticed it when I thanked the deli man for his generosity. He shrugged with his hands stretched wide, his head tilted to the side, mouth scrunched with a facial expression that read,
Ay, what you gonna do?
The Euro-shrug could also mean:
Why
not?
or
Who
really
cares?
At its best, the shrug meant:
Who
knows
why
life
does
these
funny
things?
At its worst, it meant:
Shut
up
and
eat.

During the day, Campo de’ Fiori served as a farmers market, but in the evening, the rectangular enclosure of stone buildings became a lively piazza illuminated by yellow streetlamps. The four- and five-story buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a few narrow alleys to enter and exit. In the center of the piazza was a statue of the Italian philosopher Giordano Bruno, who looked a bit like the Grim Reaper with a book instead of a scythe. At his feet sat a four-piece classical music group, hoping for tips from the hundreds of diners who filled the piazza’s restaurant tables. I gave Katie a euro coin to toss into the musicians’ cup and suggested we cross the street to explore Piazza Navona.

Like Campo de’ Fiori, Piazza Navona was an open area, lined with outdoor restaurants and dotted with street performers. This piazza had a more magical feel because of its three marble fountains, the most famous being Bernini’s
Fountain
of
Four
Rivers
. As exquisite as the fountains were, though, our attention was immediately drawn to an old man performing a show with elaborately costumed finger puppets. He played Michael Jackson songs and rigged the Pop King’s shoes to shoot smoke when he moon-walked across the cardboard box of a stage. When the puppeteer was done, a Latin jazz quartet began playing music. Next up was a boy, no more than fifteen, who whipped out a violin and began playing and singing tourist favorites. Katie and I spent an hour clapping like fools at the ever-transforming, ever-transfixing stage of Piazza Navona.

Katie began snapping pictures not of the performers, but of the people watching or passing. She shot a business owner pulling down the metal gate of his storefront. She snapped a toddler looking at an incoming spoon with an expression that said
I
am
not
eating
that!
Katie’s blurred photo caught the movement of a fashionable young man in sunglasses as he glided by, too sexy for us all.

We moved on to the steps outside the Pantheon, a majestic ancient temple built in 126 A.D. that boasted eight columns and an enormous rotunda. I had intended to snap a photo of this historic site and promptly check it off my list, but the building was hypnotic. In the evening light, the stone looked lavender. I usually bristle at descriptions of places as spiritual, but there was no other way to express how I felt about this building. It had seen so much history that I felt oddly compelled to stare, believing if I did, it might reveal the answers to life’s great mysteries. The spell was short-lived, though, as a fidgety Middle Eastern guy shot a small illuminated disc into the air and whispered, “I make good price for you,
bella
.”

“What?”

“Girl likes fun toy,” he said, pointing to Katie, who was now shooting photographs of people’s shoes.

“No, no, thank you,” I said, trying not to show my annoyance.

“You need purse?”

Before I could decline, a series of whistles sounded and dozens of vendors collected their wares from display blankets and scurried off.

As we walked back to Casa Banzo, Katie told me she wanted to take “people shots” this trip. “We’re digital now so it’s not like I’m wasting film.”

“Okay, fine with me,” I told her. “I still need to document the sites, though, so we’ll share the camera.” She nodded in agreement.

“You know what I noticed about you today?” Katie asked, not waiting for a response. “You always give money to street musicians, even when we don’t stop and listen.”

“You have to support street musicians, Katie,” I said. “Imagine tonight without all of the performers in the piazzas.” Katie nodded, satisfied with this explanation.

“You know what I like best about Italy so far?”

“How everyone calls us
bellas
?” I answered. “How colorfully the men dress?”

“The piazzas. Who do we talk to about getting some piazzas in San Diego?”

***

The closest thing to a piazza I’d seen in the United States was the replica of the Arc de Triomphe in Washington Square Park, where I spent many Sundays with my father. Some days I would climb on the jungle gym in the playground while he flirted with the mothers. In the summer, we would run in the fountain despite my mother’s concern that it was filled with germs.

When I was ten years old, I saw something I’d never witnessed before—and never would again. A brown upright piano and bench sat under the arch. My dad rushed over the cobblestones to reach it before anyone could assault it with the usual ear-grating version of “Heart and Soul.” Whenever there was a piano, my father was ready to perform, invited or not.

Soon he had an audience tapping their feet and swaying in the sunshine. As my father’s leathery hands tapped the keyboard, he belted the start of the chorus of his signature song, “Life’s Lookin’ Beautiful.” We were both surprised to hear one of the park’s drug dealers chime in with a gospel-like echo. “Life’s lookin’ beautiful,” my father sang.

“Yes it is!” the dealer chimed in.

“Life’s lookin’ beautiful,” my dad continued.

“Hear me now,” sang the old black man with a face as wrinkled as a raisin.

“Life’s lookin’ beautiful since I seen you.”

The crowd, which had now reached about fifty, began clapping when my father finished. In an instant, we had the same thought. Our eyes locked intently. I nodded to let him know I was on a mission.

He began playing another song, “Remember Me,” always a crowd pleaser, as I bolted for the Good Humor stand.

“What do you do with your empties?” I asked breathlessly.

“Nuttin’,” the Good Humor man said. “What people do with their trash ain’t my problem.” This was the dawn of the anti-littering movement, and he probably thought I was an overzealous do-gooder. Beside him was a thick wire garbage can, which provided a clear view of ice cream wrappers, empty Italian ice cups, and other assorted trash. Then I struck gold. I reached in elbow-deep and pulled out a blue-and-white coffee cup from a Greek diner. Unfortunately, it still had a few sips left at the bottom and a lipstick mark around the rim. I ran to the cement water fountain and quickly rinsed the cup until it was presentable.

I made it back to the arch just as my father began the chorus. As I placed the coffee cup on top of the piano, my father gave an approving smile and continued singing. “Don’t you remember the love we shared? Don’t you remember the way you used to care?” He made enough that afternoon to take us to Chinatown for dinner—lobster Cantonese and cold noodles with sesame sauce. We even ordered Cokes.

“‘Remember Me’ was a big hit in Italy,” my father reminded me as he dipped a crispy chip into a small bowl of Chinese mustard. “Rita Pavone. Cute little girl with a boy haircut and a set of pipes,” he said. “When that song hits the charts here, I’m going to buy a mansion on Long Island, and your mother and you can live in it with me. Think Carol would go for that if I gave her her own wing?”

“She says she’s never leaving Manhattan again,” I told him.

“Then I’ll buy a brownstone,” he said, holding his empty Coke to signal to the waiter that he’d like another. “Upper East Side. Carol can have the big apartment and I’ll live upstairs and you can go back and forth as you please.”

“I think she’d like that,” I said.

“You did good today,” my father said. “That was quick thinking with the coffee cup, JJ. We’re going places, you and me.”

***

I was well aware of the fact that wandering around Italy for a month with my daughter was an enormous privilege. Still, the reality was that our daily spending plan was slim. I told Katie to load up on the free breakfast at Casa Banzo, then casually offered her a cup of two-euro gelato at around noon so she would forget about a proper midday meal. I carried dry Fiber One cereal and water in my backpack, which I ate—or more accurately, filled up on—throughout the afternoon.

I did want to experience the food of Italy, though, so for dinner, Katie and I shared an entrée at a nice restaurant. We were always the first diners, seated for the early bird shift at 8:00 p.m. with other American tourists. Sometimes we arrived before the chef. The waiter explained that we could not order for another half hour because the kitchen staff was cutting vegetables and preparing the food. The tone was friendly, but the subtext clear: why in the world would you arrive the moment we open?

In addition to our frugal meal plan, we developed other ways of saving money. While visiting the Roman Colosseum, a young Scotsman who worked at the site told me that the price for my admission would be half if I were a European citizen. “The lass would be free,” he said with a wink. “All over Italy, you’d save a load if people thought you were, say, English or Scottish.”

“Really?”

I was torn. I always felt vaguely embarrassed when my mother would tell New York City bus drivers that I was six years old so I could ride for free. I gave Katie a modified explanation of what my mother shared with me:
If
they
can
afford
to
let
you
on
for
free
as
a
six-year-old, they can afford to let you on for free at nine. You’re still only taking up one seat.
This translated perfectly to our situation. We weren’t going to use any more resources than European families. Why should we be penalized for being Americans? The whole thing reeked of their continental discrimination. And my rationalization.

Quietly, I began practicing my accent. “The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain. Would you fancy a cup of tea?”

After our quick tour of the Colosseum and ruins, Katie perched herself on a low tree branch and hung upside down, taking photos of passersby. She found a more comfortable position splayed across the branch like
Alice
in
Wonderland
’s Cheshire Cat and shot dozens of tourists and vendors as I sat underneath her in the shade and read a novel.

***

Katie and I walked to the Borghese Gardens to visit the Borghese Gallery, but stumbled upon a building that looked similar to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Its façade was different, but it had the same grand stature. Between the columns hung a huge banner that read “NO” in bright red letters.

“That’s welcoming,” I remarked.

“I want to go there! What is it?”

Looking at my map, I told Katie the building was the Museum of Modern Art and assured her we were scheduled to see it later in the week. “A
Roma
MoMA?! Can we go today?”

But…my schedule is so perfectly laid out
, I thought.

“We’ll be back to see it in two days,” I told Katie.

“Why not switch days?” Katie asked. “See this today and the Borghese later?”

It was one thing to be flexible when emergencies arose, but to rearrange our itinerary simply because we felt like it seemed frivolous.

As I opened my mouth to tell her we couldn’t, I looked at the red banner again. Rather than being an answer to Katie’s question, the message seemed to be imploring me not to be so rigid.

There was no compelling reason we couldn’t swap days for our visit to the Borghese Gallery and the Museum of Modern Art. There was only my discomfort, a feeling that could only be overcome by my daughter’s desire.

“Okay,” I said, standing still. Katie grabbed my hand and led me up the stairs. “One moment.” I reached into my purse and grabbed my notebook. I began drawing scratch marks through our daily schedule, switching days for our visits to the two museums.

“What are you doing?”

“Changing our plans,” I replied. Katie tilted her head quizzically. “In ink. I wanted to change our plans on the page so we…” I drifted off. I really had no idea why I needed our change of plans to be properly documented.

“You’re silly sometimes, Mommy.”

“I’m utterly ridiculous, Katie. Frequently.”

We had seen an impressive modern art collection at the Vatican and some of the world’s most important paintings at museums and churches throughout Rome, but nothing blew us away quite like the exhibition at the modern art museum, which featured an artist we’d never heard of before.