Rome, Italy - Sept. 15, 2004

[oyceter]

Note: This is an entry I am typing up from notes I just found, with a few edits. Aka, I am sadly not in Italy now. Anything in brackets are comments from now.

Yesterday we ended up venturing out of Rome for a bit. We ended up going to see the Villa d'Este in Tivoli and the Pope's summer residence at Castelgandolfo. Unfortunately, the Pope was still residing there, so we didn't get to go in. The nearby lake was pretty, though.

Villa d'Este was actually quite nice. The house itself and all its frescoes were sadly not that awe-inspiring, as we had seen the Vatican the day before. My mom kept joking that the Estes had to make do with limestone because all the marble had been co-opted by the churches. All of us were wondering why in the world they needed a house that big and why people of that time wanted to fresco every surface.

I guess it's a status thing.

The gardens in the back are even more ginormous than the house! Fountains everywhere. It was quite relaxing wandering about there after being in so many museums and churches, and while it wasn't as uncomfortably hot as it had been in Florence, the air was hot and humid enough that being by all the fountains made it nice and cool.

[I stopped writing here -- I think I got to tired at nights, so I didn't write up the last day or so in Rome.]

[What I do remember: I didn't adequately describe the fountains of Villa d'Este. There weren't just one or two fountains, or even ten or so. There were tiny fountains in nooks and crannies, giant show-stopping fountains, a wall with small gargoyles spitting out water every foot or so, water splashing everywhere. It was lovely and green and cool and leafy, completely unlike the city of Rome.

The guards at the Pope's summer residence looked like court jesters to me, what with their outfits of striped yellow and purple and red and their big, poofy pant legs. I am sure they are quite dignified and probably pack Berretas inside the pant legs or something and would not take kindly to my snickering.

On our last day in Rome, we ended up not really going to any touristy places, except for the Spanish Steps. We weren't there to see the steps; we were there because it is the prime shopping area. I think I ended up wandering off out of boredom -- I like shopping, but there are only so many cashmere coats one can look at in 90-degree weather.

I went off to see the tiny Keats museum next to the Steps ("Another museum?" my dad said. "Aren't you sick of them yet? I am!"), which originally was the small house Keats lived in when he died there. There wasn't all that much there, since Keats is buried in England (right?), but there was his death mask, copies of letters and books, and a gift shop full of Romantic poetry and etc. It was rather funny stepping into the house and off of the Roman streets, to switch from Italian to British-accented English all of a sudden.

Previously, we had also wandered around looking for souvenirs, which in my case meant wandering into random little grocery stores to check out the food items. I ended up getting multi-colored pasta (that I didn't end up eating until Christmas of 2006!), and my dad managed to find every single place's stock of wine.

He even managed to find wine at an old-fashioned deli-type place, where we were getting snacks (roasted veggies, mmmm). There were platters of cured meat and roasted vegetables, hocks of ham hanging from the ceiling, bottles of olive oil and basalmic vinegar (all of which I was drooling over), and my dad managed to find the wine stash in the back, even going so far as to grab some bottles from high-up shelves. He looked very educated and snobby as he pulled down his glasses to peer at the labels of all the bottles he collected on a table.

"Whoa! You have Solaia 1997!" he said to the grocer.

"Ah, yes, we have a couple of bottles," said the grocer.

"Pretty good selection," my dad said approvingly. He noted the price, saying that it was fairly cheap for that wine.

"How much?" I asked.

"200 euros," he replied (I think).

I did a quick calculation in my head (roughly $250) and flipped out. "For a bottle of wine?! Are you buying it?!"

"Usually it's even more," said my dad.

I boggled at him.

Later on, we walked into another wine store. "Solaia 1997!" my dad said. "Could I see that?" he asked the store owner.

"Sure," the store owner replied, "but that's my own private collection. Not for sale."

My dad nodded sympathetically. "Good year for that one."

I boggled at him again.

"See," he said to me. "More expensive here."

We ended up going back to the first little grocery/deli, where my dad bought two (!!) bottles of the wine, along with some other bottles, since of course he needed to balance out the wine carrier. (This was, of course, before the current travel restrictions.)

Then I thought, wow, I think I understand my dad a little more. Wine stores for him are like used bookstores for me -- you never know what amazing bargain or rarity you might find, so you have to comb through every one you find.

When I took rachelmanija back to Taiwan with me for Chinese New Year this year, we had some very tasty wines -- as in, even I could tell they seemed pretty good.

"Hey!" I said after looking at the bottle and pretending I knew something about wine. "That's Solaia! I know that one!"

My dad looked at me in surprise, as he has largely given up on educating me on the wonders of wine. "Yeah," he said. "Pretty good, huh?"

"Pretty tasty. Do you still have the ones you got in Italy?"

"Oh yeah. Haven't found the right occasion for them yet. Very good wine."

(As a coda, I would like to note than anyone who thinks my yarn stash is frightening should see my dad's wine collection. It's not my fault! It runs in the family!)]

Comments

[jinian.livejournal.com]

Berettas inside the clashing poofy pant legss! Just you try to smirk, missy. They'll show you.

[oyceter]

They are probably after me already!

[oursin.livejournal.com]

Keats was buried in Rome - in the Protestant Cemetery. The tombstone doesn't have his name but the line 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water'.
There is a Keats House museum in Hampstead (picture is not of this, but another house in Hampstead).

[oyceter]

Ah cool, thanks!