Go Thou To Rome

at once the Paradise, the grave, the city, and the wilderness

A Caravaggio tour with a visit to an art restoration lab


Caravaggio wasn’t Roman, but he spent many of the defining years of his life and career in the Eternal City. It was in Rome that he found patrons and painted some of his most famous works (Boy with a Basket of Fruit, Judith Beheading Holofernes, The Calling of St Matthew). It was also in Rome that he befriended prostitutes (sometimes using them as his models), was accused of sodomy, got arrested near Piazza Navona for carrying a sword without a permit, threw a plate of artichokes in the face of a waiter, and finally killed a man during a fight. After 16 years in Rome, Caravaggio was forced to flee to Naples, and then Malta, while Pope Paul V gave him a death sentence in absentia.

As well as the biographical connection with Rome, many of Caravaggio’s works are still on display in the city – in churches (Santa Maria del Popolo, San Luigi dei Francesi, Sant’Agostino) and galleries (Galleria Borghese, Galleria Doria Pamphili, Palazzo Barberini). There’s also a Caravaggio in the Vatican Museums (The Entombment) that most people miss in their haste to get to the Sistine Chapel.

I love Caravaggio – the drama, the subversiveness – and I love Rome, so a Caravaggio tour in Rome was always going to be relevant to my interests. But, even better, this tour also involved a visit to an art restoration lab, and meeting the restorers who have helped to preserve Caravaggio’s paintings. More on that later…

I joined the Restoring Caravaggio tour with Roma Experience, starting in Piazza del Popolo with a visit to the church of Santa Maria del Popolo. I’ve been fascinated by this church ever since I found out the legend of its origins, involving Nero’s tomb and a walnut tree haunted by demons, and it’s also home to two paintings by Caravaggio – The Crucifixion of St Peter and The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus.



Apparently a church official wasn’t happy that the horse took up so much of the picture, and had this conversation with Caravaggio:

“Why have you put a horse in the middle, and St Paul on the ground?”


“Is the horse God?”

“No, but he stands in God’s light!”

We walked through the streets of Caravaggio’s old neighbourhood, past Via di Pallacorda, scene of the murder (pallacorda was an early form of tennis), to Sant’Agostino and one of my very favourite Caravaggio paintings.


Madonna dei Pellegrini (also known as Madonna di Loreto) caused a scandal when it first went on display. To the modern eye it might not look that extreme, but compare it with older, more traditional portrayals of the Virgin Mary and you’ll see the difference. This is a very earthly Mary in a humble, every day setting – a far cry from the ethereal Marys floating in clouds, who hardly seem to have bodies at all. But it wasn’t just the slight suggestion of cleavage that made Caravaggio’s Mary controversial. She was standing in a doorway. A doorway! But what’s so controversial about a doorway, you might ask? Well, at the time the figure of a woman standing in a doorway in the street was associated with a prostitute. A coincidence, you might think. But then there’s the yellow shawl (also associated with prostitutes), Sant’Agostino’s congregation (the Augustinians were more liberal, and prostitutes often attended services), the fact that the model for Mary was most likely a prostitute…It’s not a coincidence.

Even though I’m not remotely religious, I really enjoy religious art. Angels, saints, ugly baby Jesuses, all of that. But I especially enjoy Caravaggio’s subversive blend of religious art – how he brought God into the streets of the city, narrowing the gap between ordinary people and the divine. In the Madonna del Pellegrini the pilgrims are peasants with dirty feet, just a few feet away from a Virgin Mary who suddenly doesn’t seem quite so virginal after all. To suggest that Madonna and Whore inhabit the same world – even the same woman – was pretty radical for Catholic Rome in 1606.

restoring 1

A short walk away from Sant’Agostino, in a ground floor laboratory that was once a stable, a small team of art restorers work on 17th century paintings by Caravaggio and his contemporaries. They even restored Madonna dei Pellegrini in what is known as a restauro aperto (open restoration), working on the painting in the church, in full view of the public. When they’re not on site in churches or galleries, they’re based in their laboratory, which resembles a kind of hospital for paintings – discoloured canvases wait their turn, while restorations-in-progress are marked with white lines to highlight the “before and after”.

We met Valeria and Daniela, the experienced restorers who run the laboratory, and Arianna, who gave us a tour and explained how restoration works. As you might expect, it’s highly specialised work, and the most difficult part (which only the most experienced restorers are allowed to do) is cleaning paintings. It’s painstaking process, removing old layers of yellowed varnish bit by bit. It has to be done slowly, as some mistakes can’t be undone, and finding the right mix of chemicals is crucial.

restoring 2

On our tour we watched a restorer at work, and gained appreciation for just how slow, careful and precise they have to be. For someone like me – impatient with shaky hands – it would be impossible. We also learned all about different materials and chemicals, and how the approach to restoration depends on the canvas, the age of the painting, and many other factors. I was curious to know why the laboratory also had some contemporary paintings on the walls – surely a painting created in the 20th century couldn’t be in need of restoration? But it turns out that a lot of modern artwork doesn’t endure in the same way as older paintings. Modern artists are more experimental with their materials, and after just a few decades the artworks can become discoloured.

After the tour, over a couple of glasses of prosecco, we discussed the restoration work on the Sistine Chapel and the anti-restoration argument – there is a small but vocal minority that believes paintings shouldn’t be restored. The artist Richard Serrin was particularly critical: “The [so-called] Glorious Restoration of Michelangelo’s frescoes has destroyed them forever. What we say now cannot bring them back to life. We can only speak out to document the accountability of the Vatican restorers so that it does not pass unrecognized.”

Part of me understands some of the anti-restoration objections. We can never completely understand the artist’s intentions, and even the most careful, experienced restorer can never return the painting to its exact original state. To some extent, it will always be a subjective interpretation.

restoring 3

But if you don’t restore paintings, what’s the alternative? Let the colours fade, let the paint flake away, until the masterpiece is a yellow shadow of its former self? The anti-restoration argument also strikes me as somewhat selfish. A damaged Caravaggio painting might still be considered “OK” for now, but if we don’t restore it, what will it look like in 200 years? It’s the same for the Sistine Chapel. Shouldn’t future generations be given the opportunity to appreciate the restored frescoes – imperfect though they may be – instead of having to squint at the dirty, time-darkened figures and console themselves with the thought that “At least it’s more authentic”?

After a visit to the restoration lab, I know which side I’m on, and I have a new appreciation for the art/science/magic of restoration. Caravaggio is famed for his use of chiaroscuro, but you need the contrast between the light and dark to fully appreciate it. And thanks to Valeria and Daniela, the Madonna dei Pellegrini is in the light once more.

Note: I was a guest of Roma Experience, and the restoration pictures are from their website.



Sant’Angelo, Ischia


I blame Instagram for my island envy. Sardinia, Sicily, Ponza, Capri, Ischia. Endless photos of sunsets, beaches, boats. The rest of the world was sipping cocktails on terraces with a seaview while I was enduring the British heatwave in sweltering classrooms and trying to convince my teenage students that Frankenstein was interesting. I was teaching on my 27th birthday, and when I asked my students to guess how old I was, they all answered “35”. I finished summer school feeling exhausted and old.

But at the end of it all, in the last days of August, I finally got my holiday – a few days in Sant’Angelo, Ischia. My friend Tara (also a writer – check out her novel Social Creature) had invited a random mix of friends to come and join her in her mother’s villa, which sits high on the hill overlooking the sea. Quite how high, I underestimated.

I took the regionale train from Rome to Naples – a leisurely three hours to save money – and spent a day wandering along the Lungomare, eating pizza, and exploring the backstreets, finally calling it a night when I got jumped on by an over-friendly pitbull called Nikita. I stayed in an Airbnb near the port – a cavernous apartment decorated entirely in 1970s style, complete with unsettling patterned wallpaper and creepy vintage toys. The vibe it gave off was part brothel, part 1970s Neapolitan vampire lair, and although the owner presumably lived there, and often seemed to be lurking in the shadows, the place had a curiously unlived-in quality. Still, it was comfortable enough, and conveniently close to the port.

The next morning I got the boat to Ischia (Forio), then a taxi to Sant’Angelo. At this point I managed to get hopelessly, deliriously lost. In my confusion I was following two sets of directions (one to the villa, one to the bar where Tara was waiting), not realising that they were nowhere near each other. It didn’t help that I had the wrong address for the villa. Conflicting instructions from Google Maps and street signs confused me even further.


Also, Sant’Angelo is steep. Really, really steep. There are no cars, as they wouldn’t fit on the tiny paths that wind up the hill. Trying to drag a suitcase up a hill under the intense heat of midday in August, wearing sandals with no grip, not knowing where on earth I was or where I was supposed to be, was not one of my more enjoyable holiday moments.

Anyway, I made it in the end, and Sant’Angelo turned out to be lovely when experienced in the right way (in sensible shoes, in the shade, without a suitcase, with at least a vague sense of geography). The town was originally a fishing village, and it has a sleepy, laid-back feel. Everyone potters around at a relaxed pace (it’s impossible to rush uphill anyway) or travels on golf carts, and most of the tourists seem to be older couples or families. It’s all very charming and unpretentious, and once you’ve recovered from the trauma of your arrival, it’s the perfect place to unwind.


I allowed myself a total break from work – as well as working at a summer school, I’d been busy editing my novel for the last few weeks – and enjoyed a lazy few days lying on the beach, swimming, getting painted with mud (more on that later), and getting to know the other guests over countless bottles of prosecco. The careers of Tara’s group included: writer, model, burlesque performer, and university lecturer and director of Oxford chapel. I was one of the only non-New Yorkers. There were some entertaining conversations…


One evening we had dinner in Eugenio’s garden. You couldn’t call it a restaurant, and I doubt you’ll find Eugenio on TripAdvisor. Tara befriended him the previous summer when she accidentally trespassed on his land, and one night he cooked for us – generous vegetable antipasti, gnocchi, pasta al pomodoro, rabbit (an Ischian speciality), more vegetables, two types of dessert (rum baba’ and mimosa cake), washed down with white wine. Brian (the only Englishman) was scolded by Fabrizio (the only Italian, Eugenio aside) for using cutlery to eat his rabbit, which turned into a minor cultural war and extended metaphor, while Eugenio appeared and disappeared at random intervals, sometimes singing, and his dog and cat ran under the table. Somewhere far below was some kind of concert, blasting lounge music across the island. I heard a lot of terrible music during my stay in Sant’Angelo, including trashy party versions of Lucio Battisti.

However, the food made up for the music. Pasta with mussels, courgette and pecorino by the beach, and the amazing caprese with a twist (layers of anchovies and swordfish between the mozzarella tower):


Another highlight was the spa day. Since Roman times, Ischia has been famous for its thermal baths, and Sant’Angelo is a short boat ride away from one of the best-known, Cavascura. One day we took the taxi boat to the beach, then walked down a path through a kind of rocky gorge to reach the baths of Cavascura. In the end, only Laura and I decided to brave the spa treatment, while the others headed back to the beach or went to drink prosecco, most likely.

For 30, this is what you get:

  • A shower
  • Approximately 15 seconds in a sauna cave, saying “oh god, it’s too hot”, shrieking when you lose your footing in the dark and fall into some kind of hole filled with hot water, and then quickly escaping
  • The spa man asks you, surprised, if you’re sure that you’ve spent enough time in the sauna, to which the answer is a very assertive “SI
  • The unique experience of standing outside and being painted in cold mud from head to toe. If you make small talk with the spa man while he sticks a paintbrush between your thighs, at least it distracts you from the awkwardness of knowing that you’re in full view of the other spa-goers
  • Once you’ve been painted you stand in the sun and wait for the mud to dry, until you resemble one of those green plastic soldiers, and you feel so at one with the Ancient Romanness of the whole situation that you could be an extra in Fellini’s Satyricon. Then the spa man says “sei un elefante“, which means it’s time for a shower
  • A cold shower to get the mud off
  • And finally an unknowable length of time soaking in an Ancient Roman thermal bath, relaxing, wondering what time it is, relaxing, wondering how you’re supposed to know when you’re done if there are no clocks, relaxing, wondering if it’s dangerous to stay in such hot water for a long time, relaxing, deciding it’s better not to risk it and getting out of the bath


Overall, an experience as enjoyable as it is surreal. The fact that it all takes place outside, beneath rocky cliffs covered with cactuses, makes it easier to pretend that you’re an Ancient Roman, doing as the Romans did. You can round off the experience with a sublime spremuta (freshly squeezed orange juice), and then book yourself in for extra treatments like massages. But after my spa experience I was ready for lunch at a nearby restaurant – bruschetta, insalata di mare, white wine with peaches, fresh figs from the garden – before we headed back along the beach, stopping off for a swim along the way.

Plan: work more to work less next summer, and spend more time swimming in the sea/eating pasta and drinking wine on beautiful terraces/overcoming my Englishness to take part in ancient spa treatments

villa prosecco

Torpignattara restaurants: no ties allowed

One of the advantages of changing neighbourhoods is that it forces you to try new restaurants. Living in Testaccio, a neighbourhood full of excellent restaurants, made me pretty unadventurous. But like Testaccio, Torpignattara is also known for its Roman cuisine, and a couple (Betto e Mary and Bonelli) are famous among Romans. If you don’t live nearby, it’s worth taking a trip on the trenino to check them out.

For the full Roman experience – no-frills, boisterous and meaty – these restaurants won’t disappoint. Remember, when it comes to edible parts of an animal and volume levels, there are no limits, so if you want to fit in, order the intestines and shout at your dining companions.

Betto e Mary


Restaurant: Betto e Mary is famous in Torpignattara and beyond. It’s very Roman, and very meaty. Come here to indulge your love of horse meat and oxtail, but don’t wear a tie. There’s even a sign with a picture of a man in a tie that says “io non posso entrare”. The atmosphere is casual and a little chaotic, but what it lacks in finesse, it makes up for in character.

Menu: Meat, meat and more meat. There’s no written menu, and when the waiter comes to your table to recite the menu at you, it can be a little overwhelming. In addition to the usual Roman dishes – carbonara, amatriciana, coda alla vaccinara etc – there are a few options with horse, even frog. Always wanted to try bull testicles? Now’s your chance.

When the couple at the next table (two inches away) heard me say that I was vegetariana they burst into laughter, as if a vegetarian at Betto e Mary was the most hilarious joke they could think of. If, like me, you don’t eat meat, you’re limited to the cacio e pepe (buono but not exceptional) and the vegetable side dishes like fried cauliflower (delicious) and red pepper with pine nuts. House wine is just about drinkable.

Service: Friendly and informal. Waiters sit at the table with you when they take your order.

Price: Around €25 per person – maybe not as cheap as you’d expect, for this kind of restaurant, but reasonable. The signora at the till shouts “MAAAANCIA” when you tip.

Osteria Bonelli

osteria bonelli

Restaurant: Bonelli is at the eastern edge of Torpignattara, near the aqueduct park. It’s famous – not only is it a local favourite, but it also attracts people from across Rome, and even the occasional adventurous tourist. There’s a picture of the actor who played il Libanese in Romanzo Criminale, so top marks for romanità.

The restaurant is a typical, unpretentious osteria with tables close together. It’s comfortable enough though, and not too chaotic. Of course, if you find yourself sitting next to a large, noisy Roman family (likely) it can be a bit deafening.

Booking in advance is essential.

Menu: The menu is written on a few portable blackboards, which pose a tripping hazard to the waiters. Typical primi: tonnarelli alla gricia, gnocchi all’amatricinia, fettuccine burro, alici e fiori di zucca. Typical secondi: all the usual Roman meat dishes like polpette, abbacchio, fegato. The menu is seasonal and changes daily. Everything I’ve eaten there has been delicious, and according to Valeriano, the tonnarelli alla gricia was the best he’d ever had That’s high praise indeed from an Italian.

Service: Friendly and efficient.

Price: Very good value – perhaps one of the best value restaurants in Rome, considering the quality of the food. Eat all you want, and you’ll struggle to pay more than 20 per person. Also, they give you a real receipt! Not just an incomprehensible scrap of paper, but a real, fiscal receipt, which means they pay taxes. Bravi.

La Certosa


Restaurant: Located just down the road from Betto e Mary, in the piazza dedicated to Ciro Principessa. I call it the “Amy Winehouse bar” because of the mural outside, but its official name is La Certosa, and in the evening it becomes a very informal trattoria, specialising in fish.

In the summer there are plastic tables outside in the piazza. When I say piazza, I actually mean “the middle of the road, next to parked cars”. A lot of the reviewers on TripAdvisor are clearly aghast at this unconventional and possibly illegal arrangement, but personally, I like it. You’re right at the heart of the most Roman neighbourhoods, enjoying the street life and the novelty of eating spaghetti alle vongole on the tarmac. If you want fine dining and luxury, look elsewhere, but you can’t deny that it’s got character.

Menu: Like Betto e Mary, there’s no written menu – the waiter will recite the menu of the day. It’s all fish and seafood – insalata di mare, alici fritti, spaghetti alle vongole, calamari, grigliata di pesce, frittura di pesce and so on. The quality is good. Not exceptional, but it’s got a nice casareccia feel to it, especially with the mismatched cutlery. House wine is quite nice.

Service: The general consensus is that that the service is bad – long waits, rude staff. One reviewer describes them as perecottari – literally “cooked pears”, meaning “so-called professionals who offer poor quality service”. I don’t know if we just got lucky, but on the evening we went there were no problems. The waitress was fine, and accompanied by her 6 year old son who followed behind with his notebook and pen, as if he were the one who took the orders.

Price: The other pros and cons are debatable and subjective, but the price…Dinner for 2 (antipasti, secondi, water, a half litre of house wine and amari) came to 64, which is a bit steep for an unpretentious restaurant in a working-class neighbourhood. A tourist might think it reasonable, but Romans know better.

To summarise: I would recommend all three to anyone looking for a memorable Roman meal, but the winner has to be Bonelli for quality and value.

Next on my “to-try” list is Bazar – a new Neapolitan-Kurdish restaurant on the Casilina.

Any other local recommendations?

The most “allucinanti” places in Rome

allucinante: crazy, mind-blowing, unbelievable, weird, shocking

In this post, I’m translating allucinante as “crazy/weird/bad to the point of unbelievable”.

Over the past few years I’ve written so many articles and blog posts focusing on the positive side of Rome – the must-see monuments, the most beautiful piazzas, the coolest neighbourhoods, the most breathtaking views – and I’m starting to feel the need to show the other side.

I love Rome. But there are certain places that can only really be summed up with allucinante. There’s no word in English that quite captures their awfulness.



You haven’t truly experienced Rome until you’ve broken down in tears at Termini at least once.

The main train station of a capital city tends not to be the nicest place, but Termini is especially bad. I think it’s partly because it’s not just one of several main stations (compare to how things are spread out in London between Waterloo, King’s Cross, Liverpool Street etc). While there are other big train stations in Rome, Termini is the station. It’s the unavoidable hub where all commuters, tourists and undesirables are thrown together, and it’s a mess. A confused, sweaty mass of humanity.

Examples of how Termini is allucinante:

  • Some of the platforms are so far away. Including the train to Ciampino, which is just sadistic – making poor tourists run breathlessly down a never-ending platform with their heavy suitcases.
  • 90% of the toilets are always out of order, and the one that “works” is usually malfunctioning, leaking and flushing non-stop and spraying you as soon as you enter the cubicle. More of a fountain than a toilet, but it’s not exactly the Trevi.
  • Having to change from line A to line B (or vice versa) at rush hour. A moment of silence for the commuters who have to do this daily.
  • The bench at the bottom of the escalators near the main entrance, which is almost permanently occupied by a depressing assortment of people who most likely have nowhere else to go.
  • Random puddles of piss, vomit, and one time blood.
  • If you find someone’s tessera sanitaria (health card) on the floor and attempt to be helpful by handing it to a member of staff, they’ll mock you (“Ma di dove sei???“) and be of no help whatsoever. When you recount this story to an Italian, expecting some sympathy, they’ll shrug and say, “Lavati le mani. Dalla stazione Termini non si raccoglie nulla” (“Wash your hands. You don’t pick things up in Termini”)

And I haven’t even mentioned the horrors of Piazza dei Cinquecento (the bus terminal in front of the station) or Via Giolitti (the street running along the southern side of the station).

Piazza Vittorio Emanuele


Valeriano wants to live in Piazza Vittorio. When I remind him of how allucinante Piazza Vittorio is, he clarifies: “Not literally in Piazza Vittorio. I mean the neighbourhood.” There’s a difference, you see. I have nothing against the neighbourhood, but the piazza scares me sometimes.

There are so many weird people in Piazza Vittorio. Drogati, fulminati, criminali. There’s always someone fighting or shouting, dragging seeping bags of rubbish along the marble floor beneath the arcade.

Piazza Vittorio should be beautiful. I believe it used to be. It’s certainly grand enough, with its palazzi, arcades and park. But over time it’s become very run-down indeed. Saving graces are the Gatsby Cafe, giving Piazza Vittorio some much needed class, the international food market and the Indian restaurants on the periphery of the piazza.

Finally, MAS deserves a special mention for being exceptionally allucinante. Good old MAS. It no longer exists, but while it was open it contributed a lot to the weirdness of Piazza Vittorio. A vast, cavernous department store stuck in a time warp, selling clothes from the 1980s in their original packaging and an assortment of cheap and hideous things. There were sinister mannequins, danger signs and a ceiling on the verge of fall collapse. MAS’s closure was long overdue, but I miss it nonetheless.


Colle Oppio

colle oppio

A dirty park where people eat cats (apparently) and a tourist was raped. It would be horrible anywhere, but what makes Colle Oppio particularly allucinante is that it’s literally next to the Colosseum. It seems unbelievable that a park in such a central, historic location of a capital city could be so horrible and run-down. A sad symbol of the ongoing crisis in Rome.

Porta Maggiore

porta maggiore

Porta Maggiore is perhaps the most allucinante of all the places on this list. Located to the east of Termini, it’s a huge traffic hub, with train lines, tram lines and roads going around and through a Roman ruin – the eastern gate of the 3rd century Aurelian walls. It’s also the location of an impressive funerary monument known as the Baker’s Tomb.

When I was writing blog posts for a tour company and running out of ideas for places to recommend, I once included Porta Maggiore in a list of unusual, “off the beaten path” tourist attractions. It is a place of historical interest, after all, and it was featured on a Mary Beard programme. My boss was horrified. “You can’t send tourists to Porta Maggiore!” At the time I tried to defend its inclusion but now, having spent more time there, I have to admit that he was right.

Porta Maggiore is chaos. Gypsies picnicking in the undergrowth, homeless people sleeping on benches, alcoholics throwing empty bottles of beer in the grass, people selling things that are laid out on the pavement. Yesterday there was a man walking around in those white slippers you get free from hotels. It’s dirty beyond belief – the grass around the archway is overflowing with rubbish that’s probably been there for a decade. The rats are gigantic.

Porta Maggiore has essentially been abandoned. Everyone in Rome seems to accept that it’s filthy and chaotic, and there have been no efforts to improve it. It’s somewhere to pass through if you absolutely have to, that’s all. There was a recent story about an immigrant getting into a boxing match with a policeman, which would have been shocking if it had happened anywhere else in Rome. But you know, in Porta Maggiore…

The only way to enjoy Porta Maggiore is to pass through on the motorino at night. Speeding under the arches and admiring the monument when it’s all it lit up, you can appreciate the beauty. The contrast with the urban setting – the surrounding layers of roads, bridges and tram lines – makes it more atmospheric somehow. Having said that, it’s very much a place to pass through as quickly as possible. Enough time to enjoy a snapshot of Ancient Rome juxtaposed with the urban sprawl, then get out of there.

Carrefour, Via Filarete


When I was trying to explain to Valeriano where to find the nice salmon in the Carrefour (our local supermarket), I ended up drawing him a diagram on Microsoft Paint. It was actually quite good, skillfully conveying the confusion of the Carrefour and the desperation of staff and shoppers alike, but unfortunately I didn’t think to save my abstract masterpiece.

The Carrefour is open 24 hours, has a security guard, and a collection of sad/bored/high people who gather around the plastic tables outside. There’s a sushi counter that no ever visits. A lot of the products don’t have the price on display. If you want to buy pine nuts, you have to ask for them at a special counter; I’m assuming because pine nuts are expensive, and they’re worried about pickpockets. There’s also the risk of being threatened with a syringe.

The people who work at the Carrefour mostly seem defeated by life. I would be too, if I had to hear “Cassa…numero…sette” on a loop for 8 hours a day, with conversation limited to…“Tessera? Busta?” Some of them have given up saying buongiorno, and quite frankly I don’t blame them.

Casellario Giudiziale, Piazzale Clodio


I sometimes work in summer schools in the UK, which require me to do a criminal record check in Italy. I put it off for as long as possible, and then reluctantly get the bus to Piazzale Clodio.

What should be a relatively simple process is complicated by the fact that the office is really hard to find (even having been there multiple times, I still get lost), and inside, confusion reigns. For first-time visitors speaking little to no Italian, it’s especially overwhelming. Which desk? Which queue? Which form? You’re surrounded by people frantically moving from queue to queue, arguing with the staff and waving bits of paper around. A bell rings every time the door opens, and every time the number in the queue changes. It does your head in after a while.

Every year I meet my nemesis. The woman at the desk where you have to buy the stamps, who refused to let me buy the stamps. I knew that I had to buy the stamps there, because I couldn’t at the second desk. I argued with her, left stamp-less, then waited for a while and re-joined the queue. By the time I got to the front again, my nemesis had gone on her break and there was a new woman, who immediately gave me the stamps. It’s really a question of luck – who’s behind the desk?

The problem with the Casellario Giudiziale – and any kind of bureaucratic office in Rome – is that some of the people who work there are so bored, or so stupid, that they make everything ten times more complicated than it needs to be, wasting your time and theirs. If you betray any sign of confusion, hesitation, or not having perfect Italian, they use it as an excuse to say “No”. Then you’re back at square one.

See also: the post office, ASL, Anagrafe, Agenzia dell’entrate, and anywhere else involving bureaucracy and queues with numbered tickets.

Trevi Fountain

trevi fountain

You fight your way through the crowds, get prodded with selfie sticks and momentarily swallowed up by a tour group, catch a glimpse of that iconic, dazzling white monument, think “Wow!” and then “Great, I’ve seen it. Now I can go.”

The Trevi Fountain is beautiful. But visiting it during the day, and particularly during peak tourist season (March-October), is an ordeal. The piazza is relatively small, considering how many people are there to admire the fountain at any one time. There’s just not enough space. It’s kind of like Termini at rush hour, except at least at Termini everyone’s moving, trying to get somewhere. At the Trevi Fountain the crowd consists entirely of tired, distracted tourists, walking around in circles, bumping into each other as they try to take photos, and no one moves to let you get past. Just as you had to fight your way in, you’ll have to fight your way out.

Some crowds I’m fine with. Crowds at a concert, for example. I can even tolerate public transport crowds, as long there’s some air. But there’s something about the Trevi Fountain crowds that makes me feel all anxious and panicky.

Of course, the good thing about the Trevi Fountain is that you can easily avoid it. If you live and work in Rome, many of the other posti allucinanti are unavoidable.

Any other nominations?

Street life


Sono abitudinaria. I don’t know why there’s no corresponding adjective in English, but essentially I’m a creature of habit. I like having a routine. When I lived in Testaccio I had various morning routines like having coffee at Linari or going for a walk in the Protestant Cemetery, and now that I live in Torpignattara I’m creating new routines. As much as I’d like to be spontaneous, I’m just…not. I’m happier with habits.

My new morning routine developed after I joined the local swimming pool. If you want to swim in a pool in Italy, by the way, you have to get a medical certificate from your doctor. Actually, first you have to go to a cardiologist to get an ECG, and then you have to make a second appointment with your doctor, who will check your blood pressure, ask you the usual questions about allergies and family medical history, then charge you 30 for a bit of a paper with her signature. Then, and only then, is it deemed safe for you to get in the pool.

The swimming pool is about a 15 minute walk from my flat – a stroll through the street life of Torpignattara.


First I have a coffee. At the bar with the Amy Winehouse mural outside, which seems to be stuck in a timewarp. Or at the bar on the corner where there’s usually a group of old men having a lively conversation in dialect. Or at the posh bar on Via Alessi that symbolises the neighbourhood’s very gradual gentrification, where some confused tourists (what are they doing in Torpignattara?) attempt to order decaffeinated coffee (why would you?)

On Via di Torpignattara I like to read the walls. There’s hardly an inch of wall that isn’t covered with graffiti or posters. Marvin the budgie is smarrito (missing). Poor Marvin. Apparently a young man named Francesco Concari is a STUPRATORE INFAME (a villainous rapist). There are numerous posters featuring Caravaggio’s painting of David with the head of Goliath. FREEDOM BASQUE PRISONERS says another wall.


The Nepali alimentari is overflowing with potatoes and onions every time I pass. They’re spilling out the door, cascading down the steps. Other foreign alimentari have vegetables I don’t know the names of in English or Italian. Like the green, cucumberish vegetable I see a Chinese woman eating in the street as she walks along, savouring it like an ice cream.

The alimentari is overflowing with potatoes, and the bins are overflowing with rubbish. Always. There’s usually some random furniture in the street too. Mostly mattresses, but sometimes a small cupboard, or a chair, or an oven. If you get impatient of waiting for it to be picked up, you can download the app for AMA (the rubbish collection service) and send them messages until, three weeks later, they take away the mattress. Victory!

There are so many bars on Via di Torpignattara, but I don’t go to any of them. I find them intimidating and slightly depressing. I suspect the empty “cocktail bar” is a front. And I can’t bring myself to have coffee at a bar where everything looks dirty and there are men drinking beer at 10 o’clock in the morning. Or the bar where the owner shrieks at customers who dare to move the plastic chairs even an inch over the invisible boundary on the pavement. “E se un vigile passa?” she says, as the men sheepishly shuffle back to their original positions. I’d have thought that an illegal chair would be the least of the police’s problems…

I pass the Pizzeria Pomo d’oro; a man sitting in a red plastic chair outside is wearing a “Hard Rock Torpignattara” t-shirt.

Then there’s the aqueduct. The Roman aqueduct that cuts through the heart of Torpignattara, creating the border for a park. It’s a surprisingly neat and well-maintained park, considering the disorder in the surrounding streets. The grass is cut, there are tidy little flower beds and cypresses and a separate park for the dogs.


I always see the same people on the benches. There’s the Indian man who’s always on the same bench with some plastic bags, sometimes with a bottle of Peroni. The only words I’ve heard him say were to a man on another bench – “Mamma mia, che dolore.” I’m not sure what pain he was referring to, but it might explain why he’s always sitting. Then there’s the old man in the white shirt and white baseball cap with the white chihuahua, who sits and watches the world go by.


I cross the square where children play football and Muslims pray during Eid, go past the car repair shop with all the broken Smart cars, and then I’m at the pool.

The pool is for serious swimmers, who speed up and down with their goggles and flippers and hand-flippers (?) and nose plugs. I hope they don’t judge me for my awkward doggy paddle and goggle-less version of the front crawl (I’m sure they do).

A woman who’s been doing lengths stops suddenly and says to the instructor, “Posso farti una domanda?” “Si.” “Come prepari…?” She’s asking him how to prepare a pasta dish. I swear there’s not a moment of the day that Italians aren’t a) eating b) thinking about food or c) talking about food. Eavesdrop on any conversation in the street and there’s a 90% chance they’re talking about what they had for dinner last night.

I do a couple of lengths, and when I return to the shallow end of the pool it’s become a group conversation about how to make the dish. Still, when you’re a serious swimmer, capable of doing multiple lengths of butterfly stroke without pausing for breath, I suppose you burn enough calories to eat all the pasta you want. I’m not quite there yet, unfortunately.

The instructor – who sometimes takes pity on me and gives me tips on my technique – shakes my hand as I leave the pool and says “Hello”. He means “Goodbye”, but of course in Italian it’s the same – “Ciao” whether you’re coming or going.

In the changing room Thegiornalisti are on the radio. Their new single Felicita’ Puttana (literally: “Whore happiness”) is a guilty pleasure, and likely to become the tormentone of the summer, just as Riccione was the tormentone last summer. Both songs are so easy to parody, with cheesy videos and ridiculous lyrics (“Sotto il sole di Berlino/mangio mezzo panino) but god, they get stuck in your head.


With “Felicita’ puttana” going round in my head on a loop, I head home the way I came, walking through the park in the sunshine with dangerously damp hair (living life on the edge).

On Via Alessi there’s an elderly signora trundling along with her shopping trolley. Suddenly she stops and exclaims: “‘sto cazzo di camion!” (“this fucking van!”) There’s a van parked on the pavement (there’s always a van parked on the pavement). There’s nothing like an old lady swearing at the top of her lungs to remind you that you’re not in England any more.

I haven’t been in England for a while. I’ve got my flat in Torpignattara, my job in Montesacro, my doctor and hairdresser in Testaccio. I’ve got a codice fiscale, a carta d’identita and a tessera sanitaria. I speak Italian to my Italian boyfriend, make cacio e pepe and zucchine alle scapece, never drink a cappuccino in the afternoon, successfully deal with bureaucracy…

But I walk through Torpignattara with wet hair.

“Go thou to Rome” said Shelley – so I went


It’s strange to think, during the more mundane moments of my life in Rome – sitting on the trenino, or taking orders from the loudspeaker in the supermarket queue (“Cassa…numero…sette“), that if it weren’t for two long-dead Romantic poets, I probably wouldn’t be here at all.

Indirectly, in a myriad of ways, Keats and Shelley influenced my decision to come to Rome. It all started as a teenager, re-reading their poems obsessively, devouring every biographical detail, and even writing a Shelleyan novel (finished and then abandoned). Apart from the fact that I adored their poetry, I was also deeply inspired by their lives – how Keats turned his back on a career and devoted his short life to poetry; how Shelley rejected his country, wealth and social norms to pursue his ideals in Italy. They burned so brightly, creating such an astonishing body of work in the space of just a few years, and then they were gone – Keats from tuberculosis at 25, Shelley drowned at 29. Both were buried in Rome.

They were my heroes. When I had the opportunity to work as a volunteer at Keats House in Hampstead, it was a dream come true – giving guided tours, closing the shutters at the end of the day and imagining how Keats himself would have stood at those windows, watching Fanny Brawne in the garden. For many visitors, coming to Keats House was a kind of pilgrimage – a once-in-a-lifetime experience – and I felt incredibly privileged to be able to do it weekend after weekend.

Then, while at university, I found myself wondering what to do with the summer. On an impulse I wrote an email to Keats-Shelley House in Rome, asking if I could do some work experience in the museum. They said yes, and I began to plan a 3 week trip to Rome . This would be my poetic pilgrimage, a chance to pay my respects to Keats and Shelley in the Protestant Cemetery and to spend time in the building where Keats had spent his last months. On top of that, of course, there would be sightseeing and copious amounts of pizza and pasta. The only thing that prevented it from being a perfect holiday was that I would have to rough it in a shared hostel room and limit myself to a budget of 20 a day. It wouldn’t exactly be a luxury experience, but it would be an adventure.

Re-reading old blog posts from that time (September 2011) makes me nostalgic:

11 September

Things I did today:

-Visited the Protestant Cemetery, found Shelley, Keats, Severn, Trelawny and Wilmouse. A kindred spirit had already put some little blue flowers there. I didn’t bring any flowers, as I couldn’t find anywhere selling them nearby, but I plan to go back on my own after Rachel’s left, so I don’t bore her with my dead poet love.

-Spent ages at the Baths of Caracalla, which are spectacular. Possibly one of the best things I’ve done so far. Shelley used to walk there all the time, and sit there writing poetry.

-Accidentally spilt water all over the 1890s edition of Shelley’s poetry that was in my bag, and started to get upset, but then stopped when I realised that there was something quite poetic about a Shelleyan day ending with his poetry being drowned. It’s only the cover of the book that’s damaged, thankfully – the inside is all right.

Other posts romanticise every aspect of working at Keats-Shelley House, from sitting in the the office in the attic and poring over Severn’s letters to wandering around barefoot in the library, cataloguing books and dusting shelves.

Those three weeks in Rome would define my life. I remember the exact moment I made the decision, sitting on a bench beneath the umbrella pines in Villa Borghese: “I want to live here”.

When I came back to England, I told everyone my new life plan: “Move to Rome and write novels”.

7 years later, I’ve been living in Rome for 5 years, my debut novel is due to be published, and I’m in the middle of writing another one. As Valeriano says, “If you say you’re going to do something, you do it”.

This sudden wallowing in nostalgia isn’t completely out of the blue. It was prompted by a return to Keats-Shelley House yesterday, for a poetry reading by the actor Julian Sands. One of those things you book impulsively without really thinking about it, and then the moment arrives and you suddenly realise how perfect it is, how you’d have been mad not to go.


Julian Sands is best-known for his performance in A Room with a View, but he also played Shelley in Ken Russell’s Gothic, and is a long-time fan of Keats and Shelley. He reminisced about taking girls on dates to Keats House in Hampstead back when he was a drama student and, like me, he has fond memories of his first trips to Rome and visits to the graves of Keats and Shelley in the Protestant Cemetery.

At Keats-Shelley House he read a selection of poems by both poets – poems that I know by heart, like “Ode to a Nightingale” and “Adonais” – and, I have to admit, it was moving. Aside from the fact that I find Keats and Shelley moving in themselves for so many reasons, it was a profound experience to sit in that room and reflect on changes in my life. At 15 I was studying “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” for GCSE English in a classroom in London, and at 26 I was listening to Julian Sands recite the poem I loved so much in Keats-Shelley House, Rome, the city I’d made my home.

Afterwards there was prosecco on the terrace. I had a brief chat with Julian Sands, as I wanted to thank him and try to articulate exactly what the reading had meant for me. How to say to a stranger, “This is one of those unexpectedly meaningful moments that make you reflect on your life – past, present and future – on who you are, on who you want to be, and your relationship with your idols…so thank you”?

I didn’t say that, exactly, but something like it. Then I finished my prosecco and left, passing through the hordes of tourists in Piazza di Spagna to get the metro, and resume my normal Roman life.

Go thou to Rome—at once the Paradise,
The grave, the city, and the wilderness…

From Testaccio to Torpignattara


The past five months have been frantic – a lot of work, crowdfunding taking over my life, and then moving flat…I’ve been wanting to write about a million different things, but I never seem to have the time.

I no longer live in Testaccio. I’ve mostly accepted this, although I still get a pang when I go back, or even pass Viale Aventino (“That used to be the way home!”) For various reasons (mainly financial), Valeriano and I are now living in Torpignattara.

Where is Torpignattara?


Answers: “Near Pigneto”; “about 5 km east of Termini”, “it’s not on the metro, so you wouldn’t have heard it”.

Responses when I told people I was moving to Torpignattara:

Most people in Rome: “Where?”
The guy at the fruit and vegetable shop in Testaccio: “Brutta zona. Brutta, brutta zona. You couldn’t pay me to live there.”
Someone who lives in Montesacro, with a concerned expression: “…really? But do you…want to live there?”
A teenage student in Montesacro: “You can find the best weed in Rome in Torpignattara.”

Prejudices and preconceptions aside – Torpignattara is a left-wing, working-class neighbourhood in the east of Rome with a high population of immigrants. It’s right next to Pigneto, which is better-known (and gentrified). Torpignattara will probably be gentrified eventually, given its relatively central location, but not for at least 5-10 years. At the moment, the only hints of its destiny are the craft beer place and the street art.

In order to become gentrified, it’ll have to become a bit more accessible. Despite the fact that it’s just a few kilometres from Termini, getting to Torpignattara can be an ordeal. It’s technically on the metro (Malatesta), but metro C doesn’t count. There’s a bus, the infamous 105, which comes twice an hour if you’re lucky and has made me consider dousing a handkerchief in perfume to hold over my nose for the duration of the journey. Then there’s the trenino, which not exactly a train or a tram, but something in-between.

Here’s the trenino on a good day:


And on a bad day:

trenino oops.jpg

A colleague said the trenino, when full, reminded her of the trains for Auschwitz. But in the trenino’s defence, when it works, it’s pretty good. It’s comes regularly and rattles along in a charmingly old-fashioned way, making a genuine “choo-choo” noise every now and then (I can hear it from my bedroom window). Yes, when it arrives at Termini it will unfortunately deposit you at the end of Via Giolitti, meaning you have a long, brisk walk past dazed tourists, rows of rough sleepers and the occasional puddle of fluorescent vomit if you want to get anywhere. But the trenino does connect you with the centre. Sort of. Most of the time.


So, imagine you’re going the other way. You take the trenino from the wrong end of Termini, rattle through the surreal transport hub that is Porta Maggiore – a vast Ancient Roman gate and aqueduct surrounded by trams, buses, and greenery used as a picnic spot by gypsies – and arrive in Torpignattara. What next?

Here are some options for the adventurous tourist:

  • Visit the gigantic Carrefour. It’s open 24 hours and is so huge that every time I visit I get lost trying to find the eggs, and end up having a minor existential crisis.
  • Take a walk along Via di Torpignattara, where pretty much everyone is an immigrant (myself included). It’s a little bit like Brick Lane pre-gentrification.
  • Have lunch at Betto e Mary, a famous Roman trattoria where approximately 40% of the menu is horse meat and men with ties are not allowed.
  • After Betto e Mary, keep going along the street to explore the neighbourhood-within-a-neighbourhood known as La Certosa. There’s a fish restaurant with plastic tables right in the middle of the road, an Amy Winehouse mural, a tribute to the young Communist Ciro Principessa who was murdered in a politically-motivated attack, and various illegally-built houses backing on to the train tracks. If you’re not from the neighbourhood, you’ll get stared at.
  • Check out the street art. There are spectacular murals all over the place.
  • Visit the park with the Roman aqueduct (Parco Sangalli).
  • Have aperitivo at Shakespeare & Co or Chourmo, both of which are tiny literary bars on the same street. There’s live jazz at Chourmo on Sunday nights.


Adjusting to Torpignattara hasn’t been easy. Nothing against Torpignattara – moving anywhere was going to be a struggle after Testaccio, a neighbourhood where I’d lived for more than 4 years, and felt so at home. All of Testaccio felt like an extension of my apartment, so moving to Torpignattara was a bit of a shock. It was like starting all over again – feeling like a foreigner, not knowing where to buy anything or how to get to work. I lost my beloved Linari and to find a new bar to have coffee every morning. Not easy.

But, piano piano, I’m settling. I’ve found a bar. I think I remember where the eggs are in Carrefour. And I’m getting to know people. As I waited to cross the Casilina an African boy of about 7 or 8 years old randomly insisted on giving me one of his toys because “I’ve got too many”. The guy at the market calls me “Principessa”. The woman at the bar serves me a cappuccino without me needing to say anything. In this most Roman, most diverse of neighbourhoods, I’m starting to feel at home.



One of the main reasons for the lack activity on this blog is that I’ve been busy with the crowdfunding for my novel In Exile (85% funded). The book is set in Rome and tells the story of Dionysus and his new teenage following. If you’d like to bring a new novel about Rome into existence and help a debut author to achieve a lifelong dream, please take a look…

Helping the homeless in Rome: Nico’s story


I ignored Nico for at least six months. I walked past him like I walked past other homeless people – always with a pang of guilt and pity, but not enough to make me stop. The fact that I walked past him every day on the way to work made me feel more guilty about ignoring him, but also less inclined to stop. Once I acknowledged his existence, I would never be able to go back to ignoring him again.

Having lived in London, Oxford and Rome – all cities with a huge homeless population – I suppose I’d become desensitised. I was so used to seeing people sitting on the pavement that it was easy to walk past, using one of the usual excuses (“I’ll give money to a charity instead”; “I’ll be more generous in the future, when I’m richer”). I would buy the occasional Big Issue and donate to other charitable causes to ease my conscience.

But Nico changed all that. After hurrying past him day after day, trying to ignore the growing sense of guilt as I made my way to Piramide, I suddenly reached a point where I couldn’t ignore him any more. I think it was a combination of two incidents. The first was seeing a young man stop to talk to Nico, and the realisation that it was possible to break this invisible wall. The second was walking towards him and noticing that he was reading something intently. He was hunched over, reading some kind of magazine spread out on the ground. As I got closer, I saw what it was – an empty sticker book. Pages of empty boxes with footballers’ names beneath. The idea of reading an empty sticker book to pass the time was just too tragic. I resolved to talk to him.

Nico’s usual spot lies at the end of via Marmorata. He sits with his back to the wall of the Protestant Cemetery and the Pyramid. He has a little cardboard box in front of him with a few coins, but he never asks for anything. He never looks up. He always seems to be in his own world, gazing at nothing in particular.

Scusa…” When he realises I’m talking to him he seems startled, almost frightened. What do I want from him? Overcoming social awkwardness and a language barrier – we speak in Italian, which is not his native language either – the conversation is short. I tell him that I want to help him, and that he should feel free to ask me for anything he wants. He thanks me warily, eyes fixed on the ground.

Over the following weeks, as I brought him food and toiletries and asked “Come stai?” he gradually began to open up. Although he never asked for anything, he gratefully accepted anything I gave him. He also complained bitterly about the place where he slept – in front of the post office on the other side of the road – where at least 20 other homeless people slept every night. Nico, himself a Romanian immigrant, complained about the Arabs who smoked and talked, making so much noise that they kept him up all night. Sometimes they stole from him.

post office

In the early stages of my relationship with Nico, I was determined to get him off the streets. Naively optimistic, I thought that if I could get him in touch with the right people, I would be able to get him into a shelter. He didn’t seem to have any addictions or any obvious signs of mental illness, and given his age (60s?) he had a more urgent need for shelter. But every time I mentioned it to him, he just shrugged, and showed no interest in pursuing the subject.

I sent an email to Sant’Egidio, a charity that helps the homeless in Rome. They replied saying that they knew Nico, but that they had never been able to convince him to come to a shelter. He would accept donations of money, food and clothes, but he refused the offer of a bed.

This was something of an eye-opener for me. I had always assumed that any bed was better than the street, and that Nico would have been been eager to accept anything. When he said no (or rather, stared into the middle-distance whenever I brought up the subject), I was finally forced to give up and set more realistic expectations.

If I couldn’t get him off the streets, I could at least help to make his life more bearable. Over the following months Valeriano and I gave him: pizza, sandwiches, cornetti, fruit, chocolate, tissues, toothpaste, cigarettes, painkillers, underwear, shoes, t-shirts, jumpers, a warm winter jacket, a sleeping bag. And a few euros here and there.

Our conversations were always short and a little formulaic, going something like this:

Me: “Ciao! Come stai?

Nico: -a smile and a shrug, or else the usual complaints about the other homeless people who sleep in front of the post office-

Me: “I brought you some pizza/bread/fruit. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Nico: -says no, or mentions that he could do with a new pair of shoes, but only if they’re second-hand of course-

Me: “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Anyway, I’ve got to dash…”

Nico: “Buon lavoro, signora. Arriverderci…

One day, something changed, and no one was allowed to sleep in front of the post office any more. It turned out to be something of a blessing for Nico, who found a new place to sleep – in front of a restaurant on Viale della Piramide Cestia – where he was no longer disturbed by other people. His mood improved, and his only complaints were about how the bench was hard on his back, or how it had rained heavily the other night. He seemed as happy as he could reasonably be expected to be.

But then he disappeared. For a while there was no sign of him at all, and Valeriano jokingly tried to reassure me that he was probably on holiday (“maybe the Maldives”). Then Nico reappeared under the post office arcade, far away from the stream of people on the opposite side of the road who might occasionally stop to give him money. Then he disappeared again.

On 22 December, the day I flew back to London for Christmas, I decided to look for him. I hadn’t talked to him for at least a couple of weeks, and as I’d ended up with an extra Panettone, I thought I should make an effort to find him, see how he was, and give him the cake and some oranges.

There was no sign of him by the cemetery wall, or anywhere near the post office. The only other place I could think of was the place where he’d told me slept, on Viale della Piramide Cestia. And that’s where I found him, curled up on the ground while two women swept up the leaves around him.

He looked terrible. Emaciated, barely conscious. I noticed that among his possessions was an un-opened Pandoro – I wasn’t the only person who’d thought to give him a Christmas gift.

He didn’t really seem to register my presence, so I spoke to the women who were sweeping leaves. They lived locally and seemed to know him well. “He’s not eating,” said one, “We brought him some chicken but he won’t eat anything. There’s not much we can do.” Alarmed by his state of health, I asked if we should call someone.

“He doesn’t have any family. He had a brother – they had a business together, but it failed, and they fell out, and now he has no one. He won’t go into a shelter. If it gets bad he’ll have to go into hospital again, like he did last year, but afterwards he’ll be out here again.”

The night before had been the coldest night of the year, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him spending another night on the streets when he was in such a bad state. I put the Panettone and the oranges next to his belongings and bent down to say goodbye, not sure if he even knew who I was. He raised his palm, as if to wave, and then took my hand and kissed it, tears in his eyes.

When I walked away, I was crying too. The situation seemed hopeless, but I couldn’t leave Rome without at least trying to get him help. Valeriano and I tried a few numbers until we found an organisation that checked up on homeless people during the winter. We told them where Nico was, and a couple of hours they called back.

“He doesn’t need to go into hospital yet. There’s not much we can do for him. He’s an alcoholic, you know.”

I didn’t know. Having never seen him drunk, drinking, or with a bottle of alcohol beside him, it had never occurred to me that he might be an alcoholic. Suddenly, his refusal to go into a shelter made more sense.

“We’ll check up on him again tonight,” said the person on the phone.


There will be no happy ending for Nico. A year ago, I naively thought – hoped – that with a bit of help he could get off the streets. Now, I know that the best he can hope for is to not suffer too much in the remaining months or years of his life, and that when he does die, it will be in a hospital bed and not on the pavement.

When I think about Nico, I also think about all the other homeless people that we ignore every day. People who are less approachable, because they’re mentally ill or addicts, or because they don’t look sweet and non-threatening like Nico. People who hide away in parks or under bridges, rather than sitting on the busy street that leads to the metro station.

You can’t always save someone, no matter how good your intentions are. But you can make a difference. You can choose to acknowledge a homeless person as a human being, to ask how they are, to buy them a cup of coffee or a sandwich. Talk to them.

The easiest option is to walk past, and pretend that it’s not your problem. But try not walking past, for a change. Stop, talk to him, and see what happens.



Project Rome – their website is currently down, but check out their Facebook page. Run by British expat Mary Stuart-Miller, Project Rome distributes food, clothes and sleeping bags to the homeless in Rome, and organises “Tiburtina Tuesday” – a weekly event near Tiburtina station where volunteers provide home-cooked meals.

Sant’Egidio – this charity offers food, shelter and other services for the homeless community in Rome.

If you see a vulnerable homeless person in Rome during the winter months you can call 800440022

Canzone #8 “Amanda Lear” by Baustelle (2017)

“Amanda Lear” is a rip-off of a superior song. The lyrics are laughable.

But it’s also my favourite (Italian) song of 2017.

You only have to hear about 3 seconds of “Amanda Lear” to realise that it’s a blatant rip-off of Pulp’s Common People. The melody is identical – I’m surprised Jarvis Cocker hasn’t sued. So the first couple of times I listened to “Amanda Lear”, it was mainly out of incredulity: “What a ridiculous song! A crap Italian version of Common People!”

Then I listened to it again…and again…and again. And eventually I realised that I was no longer listening to it ironically. By the summer of 2017 it had become a guilty pleasure. Now, at the end of 2017, it’s just a pleasure. I unashamedly love “Amanda Lear,” in all its derivative pretentiousness.

The Pulp plagiarism is self-evident and needs no further explanation, so let’s have a look at some of the lyrics:

Colpa mia
se quest’anno ti hanno visto, mi dicono,
vomitare gli occhi e l’anima a un concerto rock
abbracciata ad una testa di cazzo
un regista un coreografo, che ne so
un lavoro come un altro, una droga
per illuderci e credere di essere uomini

(My fault
if this year they saw you, they tell me
vomiting your eyes and soul at a rock concert
hugging a dickhead
a director, a choreographer, I don’t know
a job like any other, a drug
to delude ourselves and believe that we’re men)

I wanna be Amanda Lear
il tempo di un LP
il lato A, il lato B
non siamo mica immortali, bruciamo ed è meglio così
Amanda Lear, soltanto per un LP
il lato A, il lato B
che niente dura per sempre nemmeno la musica

(you said
I wanna be Amanda Lear
the time of an LP
the A side, the B side
we’re not immortal, we burn and it’s better that way
Amanda Lear, only for an LP
the A side, the B side
nothing lasts forever, not even music)

My nomination for the worst line is “ti ho dato in pasto agli avvoltoi/all’olocausto e ai marinai” (“I fed you to the vultures/the Holocaust and sailors”). It’s the kind of song where he sings “fotografia” and it could easily be replaced with “democrazia” or “osteria” and it wouldn’t make a difference.

So, all that said, why am I in love with “Amanda Lear”?

  • the melody (even if it’s copied)
  • the synths (anything with synths)
  • the reference to “Enola Gay” (also a superior song)
  • the reference to Amanda Lear (which makes me feel nostalgic even for the 70s, even if I was born two decades after)
  • the Roxy Music vibe
  • Francesco Bianconi’s voice
  • the general mood and atmosphere – nostalgic, glamorous, wistful but bitter.
  • the catchy chorus which begins with “dicevi” (“you said/you used to say”). Whenever Valeriano or I begin a sentence with “dicevi“, the other person has to say “I wanna be Amanda Lear”. That’s the rule.
  • a certain je ne sais quoi, ma che ne so

I do have a soft spot for Baustelle. They’re a bit silly, a bit radical chic, but that’s all part of their charm. My other favourites are La guerra e’ finita (with the unforgivable line “Malgrado Belgrado, America e Bush“) and Le rane (lyrics actually quite good for once).

But you don’t have to know Italian to enjoy Baustelle. In fact, perhaps it’s better if you don’t. Just listen to “Amanda Lear”, laugh at it, and, if you have a weakness for synth pop like me, let it worm its way into your head and heart….

In Exile: an extract


But as she waited for a bus that would probably never come, staring at a cloudless blue sky and rocking back and forth on her feet, she was taken by a random impulse to go to the river. She found herself longing for the sight of green water, the raging torrent that suddenly calmed and became almost motionless.

She could not look at the river without imagining the thousands of bodies that had plunged into it over the centuries. The water had always had a curious, deadly stillness in certain parts. There were no boats and the branches of the trees were filled with rags and tattered plastic, the remnants of winter floods. The river was so far below, so quiet, that at times it hardly seemed part of the city at all. It was merely a ghostly, pale green stream drifting towards the sea.

Concrete paths ran alongside the water’s edge, but they were mostly deserted, apart from the occasional cyclist and the homeless. The river was not a place to linger. Grace gazed at the water, tranquil and shipless as always, and then looked along the length of the riverbank. There were no pedestrians, only a solitary sleeper basking in the softening rays of the late afternoon. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Grace stared at the man and tried to decide if the resemblance was just wishful thinking.

Against her better judgement, she descended the stone steps and left the shade of the trees and the noise of the traffic behind her. She kept her eyes fixed on the figure below, afraid that if she blinked, he would vanish. Of course she would not talk to him; she only wanted to see.

He was dressed in a loose white shirt and trousers, face tilted up towards the sun. As she crept towards him she became convinced that it was the same man, and she felt a shiver of fear despite the heat. Thank God he was asleep, and she could walk past without ever seeing –

“You again.”

He hadn’t even opened his eyes. She stood beside him, mute with shock.

“It was just a matter of time before we found each other. I know you’re afraid, but…”

There was no end to the sentence. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Sit down.”

They were utterly alone. Grace looked helplessly at the trees belonging to the world above, and then lowered her gaze. These were the eyes she had tried so hard to forget, and now they were inviting her, drawing her towards him as if they were the only living souls in the entire city. She sat beside him.

“What’s your name?”


“Tell me, Grace. Do you believe in gods?”


“Well, if you can believe in one, surely you have sufficient imagination for belief in another.”

“I don’t know what I believe,” said Grace, trying to avoid his gaze. “I’m only fifteen. I think it’s too young to know what you believe.”

“Belief has nothing to do with knowledge. You know a man cannot draw honey from a stone, yet I gave you no choice but to believe it.”

“Seeing is believing, I guess.” Grace turned towards him, expecting a mocking smile. But his face was utterly expressionless. There was not even the slightest glint of humanity in his eyes. Grace willed herself not to be afraid.

“I read The Bacchae,” she said.


“The Lydian is Dionysus. God as man.”

“We’re made in each other’s images. For thousands of years…hundreds of thousands. I lose count.”

“You’re a god.”




Grace took a deep breath and forced herself to stare at the water. A piece of driftwood was being slowly carried downriver, and it calmed her to look at something so small, so ordinary.

“Have I frightened you?”

“I was already frightened.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Grace. I have neither the desire nor the power.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one in this city has believed in me for two thousand years. I’m unknown and unloved. And I’m very, very ill.” He sighed, and the sound chilled her blood. “Give me your hand.”

No one had ever held her hand before, and the touch of those fingers, cold like marble, gave her a queer sensation, as if she had been violated in some way. When he let go, she noticed that his palms were smooth and unlined.

“Well,” said Grace, repressing a shiver. “I don’t think I can help you.”

“Oh, but you can. I’ve always been loved by women, so to have one in this city who knows my name…”

“I’m not a woman, I’m fifteen.”

“Close enough. Anyway, I won’t keep you. Run along.”

Grace stood up, scarcely able to believe her good luck at being released unscathed, and only briefly touched.


To read the synopsis and first two chapters, and to pledge to buy the book, check out the page on Unbound