on Royal Melbourne Show day as a kid when I knew that even though it was a weekday I was going to use it to do a ‘weekend’ activity.
This particular day off is not an Italian public holiday, but a much needed day out to restore my mental health after too much study and work. In my view, there is nothing as frivolous or indulgent as going to see an exhibition of paintings. It won’t restore world peace, provide food for the hungry or help others, all of which I see as undoubtedly my responsibility. On a more practical note, how does it pay the rent, get my assignment finished, increase my marketability as a consultant? The point is that it doesn’t and I badly needed a day off from all of that.
Once outside, the day begins incredibly well with a lovely cappuccino at my local bar. It is such a nice day and I ponder whether I don’t just want to sit in the park on my day off and enjoy the sunshine rather than be inside. I comfort myself with the thought that I will have my cappuccino outside and read my book to get some sunshine. But for the first time in the two years since I have been going to my local bar, the barista is in a good mood and actually says hello to me, and then begins chatting to me. I desperately want to go outside and sip my cappuccino but do not want to miss the opportunity to befriend the barista, which is absolutely vital to your wellbeing here in Italy.
Any minute now I expect her to regroup and become her usual surly self, but she is talkative and smiley, and I keep the conversation going like a new juggler, amazed at how far it has gone and desperate to try to keep it going. We talk about Australia and how much she would love to go. I go through the paces. It seems everyone wants to live in Australia except me, and I have to answer the usual reasons about why I am not living there when everyone else wants to. If I had a euro for every Italian who said ‘it is my dream to go to Australia’ I would be rich.
I try to do it without sounding like a bad stereotype – I married an Italian man, I work for the United Nations and I am here for my job – or a bad advertisement for Australia, but some days I dismally fail and just draw blank looks. These are the same blank looks I draw from Australians when I tell them why I love living in Rome so much. I am overwhelmed by the fact the barista and I have chatted, however, which bodes well for my future wellbeing.
It is difficult when the absolute best coffee in your neighbourhood is served by someone who mostly tries to ignore you when you order, and then acts like you are a great inconvenience to her life when you do. Every now and then my husband and I get fed up. We have a few backup places when our weeks have been particularly bad and can’t handle feeling any more inadequate than we already do. However, we always come back here; the coffee is just too good.
‘Why is their coffee so damn good?’ I once asked my husband.
‘It’s because they take their time to make it,’ he said.
That certainly explains the long waits, the hundreds of people jostling and the mood of the barista as she tries to deal with many orders at the same time. It’s a catch-22 situation, though. They take their time, so their coffee is good, so they attract more customers, which annoys them, which makes them slow down, which makes their coffee good. Someone should tell them.
* * *
Even the bus is on time today, and I bounce and jostle my way to the doorstep of the museum. I am not sure if it will be open, as Italian museums and exhibitions can be closed for no reason on any particular given day. Websites are few and far between, and even then are not always connected to the reality on the ground. ‘Oh, we forgot to update it’ or ‘I don’t know, I only work here, I don’t take care of what the internet says’ are two responses I have had when politely asking why something is not as advertised. Therefore, it is always best not to have too firm a plan when having a day off in Rome and to have at least two or three other alternatives.
Most Italians are adept at this; I as an Anglo-Saxon still rely a little too much on planning for living in The Eternal City. My husband never says, ‘We are going to do X on Saturday,’ even though we are, according to me. I know it is because he has been trained to think it’s bad luck to pre-empt things and that you can never really rely on your planning to be the whole answer. It is also the reason that baby showers are not had in Italy. It is considered bad luck to celebrate before the baby is actually born; the cot and baby clothes are hidden until the moment there is a baby to put in them.
I walk up the magnificent stairs of the Campidoglio to the official Town Square of Rome, avoiding the many excited Spanish teenagers who are there for the day to visit the Capitoline Museums. I wander lazily through the square, imagining how amazed those visitors will be at Rome’s magnificent squares, statutes and history, just as I still am after so many years of living here.
I am not sure exactly how to get to the entrance of the Vittoriano Museum that houses the Renoir exhibition, but I spy a delicious and fresh-looking garden that gives a magnificent view over the Forum, the Coliseum and from which I judge I will be able to see the entrance. The view over the Forum is spectacular and the garden is quiet, sun-filled and has seating, a rare treat in Rome. I walk over to the edge and on my way spy a backpacker who has taken an interest in me.
From my solo backpacking days, I can spot a man longing for company from a hundred paces. Solo backpacking is lonely – great but lonely – especially in big cities, where most other backpackers are just moving through and you don’t get the groups that stay for weeks who get to know each other. It’s also lonely seeing some of the world’s greatest monuments on your own and having no-one to go ‘wow’ with.
This is probably why sex and backpacking go hand-in-hand. Firstly, because you’re often frightened, sometimes a lot, and sex is a life-affirming activity that calms you and convinces you that you are closer to life than death. And secondly, the feeling of danger and of being alone and in a strange place increases your sex drive. Backpacking is also incredibly romantic. Meeting attractive strangers in beautiful cities, neither of you knowing anyone else, both of you only passing through, both of you with travel stories to tell, you therefore share more in common than with any other person on the planet in that moment. So I feel the interest as the backpacker comes to rest by me on the ledge, gazing out over Rome.
Since my backpacking days are long over and I have a wedding ring on my finger, I march smartly off, run down the stairs and into the museum. I feel his eyes on my back the whole way and I am surprised and flattered that I can still get this attention, even though it has been many years since I hung my backpack up.
I am so delighted that the museum is open, that the exhibition is actually on, that I can leave my bag in the cloakroom, that I can indulge in as many hours of frivolous and indulgent painting ogling as I like.
Italians know how to do galleries and museums. The setting is always magnificent – large marble staircases, huge stone columns and beautiful sculptures at every turn, and just for decoration. The building is very classical and has been modernised for the exhibition. The two-storey high columns are encased in wood and glass, the walls repaneled with light yellow wood to make false walls and barricades of glass, transforming the room into something that will better frame the exhibition.
First off, there is a film about the life of Renoir that runs continuously in a small dark theatre at the beginning of the exhibition. I feel my whole body relaxing as I experience the effects of doing something for no purpose at all except to enjoy it. What a fitting subject: a painter who had almost no public recognition in his lifetime, painted things no-one wanted, but painted solely for his own pleasure. I feel a freedom in hearing about this life which so contradicts my regimented, over-achiever, goal-oriented one, and I suddenly know why it is so important that I am here today. This is my homeopathic remedy: take one day’s dose of your worst nightmare, living without a specific purpose, and just please yourself. This should help me mange the symptoms of my disease better.
I
