not even a circus monkey could have beaten this sister here. I have never seen a fellow who could balance on poles or the tops of the pillars so well. She was capable of doing a couple of full turns during a jump and then land on four paws. O yeah, extraordinary acrobatic, that she was. And gorgeous.«
He looked down sadly at the Siamese, and suddenly I knew that neither the smart-alecky Francis nor the vain Rome-expert Antonio nor any of the dirt eating pack at the Largo Argentina would attend the wake for her, no one but this scar f ace who got mocked by everyone.
5.
A lukewarm night in Rome means pleasure. This I had already guessed beforehand. And Antonio showed me that they could turn into a real surprise at any time. After we had left the Largo Argentino and had crossed Corso Vittorio Emanuele II with a suicidal sprint right through the cars, which kept flashing by, we plunged into Rome’s pulsing heart. Oh I wanted to kiss them, the many alleys whose cobbles shone golden in the streetlights. I saw the triumphal arches, which reminded me of entries to palazzos, well, even to utterly normal houses, promising a romantic as well as a scary interior. I marveled at the baroque churches on every street corner, which had once been endowed by churchmen who had been much more focused on earthly glamour than on Christian asceticism but still represented God’s glory in the world better than anything else. And finally the old sea of houses itself: yellow, ocher-colored facades with darkish green blinds, small balconies on every floor, and roof gardens with real jungles of pot plants all over the place. Who wasn’t able to enjoy themselves in this very spot, might as well blow their brains out with my blessing.
Antonio had decided on the Ristorante Piperno close to the Tiber Island at the Monte de' Cenci, where apparently they served Roman cuisine which had more to it than usual home cooking. Although by now I felt like a gourmet who gets close to a mental breakdown when he has to decide on a restaurant, the whole thing still seemed pretty hilarious to me. Not with the best will in the world I could imagine us marching into some location and flagging down the waiter with our raised paws. In this context I’ll skip the joke about the »cat’s table«.
»Dear Antonio, your man-about-town-show is really quite matchless, but can you maybe tell me how we are supposed to have dinner at a restaurant? I’m afraid that we will already fail at pushing the door handle.«
We passed by some small and still open grocery stores where thick salamis and gammon were hanging from the ceiling like stalactites in a dripstone cave. And those nom noms in the shop windows! No wonder these people, alongside the French, spent triple the money on eats than the rest of Europe. In piazzas, always decorated with artful fountains, sat people in front of cozy trattorias and had a good bite or gulp, let the comforting twilight from the windows of the time-honored houses around them shine on them, and not seldom one of the stretched hands petted our backs affectionately. Compared with this, my home reminded me of socialist military housi ng.
»Who said we’d have to push any door handles at all, Francis?« Antonio replied with a malicious smile. »And who said we will use the front door like any average blockhead? Trust me, il mio amico , a restaurant is like a well-filled tummy. But you won’t find the truth by visiting its belly, but its butt!«
Finally we arrived. Through the windows I saw cushioned chairs surrounded by silver and fine wainscot from pre-war times. People in clothes of refined taste pushed all kinds of delicacies into their mouths and toasted each other. Waiters with handlebar mustaches and ankle-length aprons bustled around the mostly southern looking customers. Without a doubt, this was one of the classier locations.
»Follow me«, Antonio said giving me a suggestive look and disappeared in a narrow back alley. I obeyed,
He looked down sadly at the Siamese, and suddenly I knew that neither the smart-alecky Francis nor the vain Rome-expert Antonio nor any of the dirt eating pack at the Largo Argentina would attend the wake for her, no one but this scar f ace who got mocked by everyone.
5.
A lukewarm night in Rome means pleasure. This I had already guessed beforehand. And Antonio showed me that they could turn into a real surprise at any time. After we had left the Largo Argentino and had crossed Corso Vittorio Emanuele II with a suicidal sprint right through the cars, which kept flashing by, we plunged into Rome’s pulsing heart. Oh I wanted to kiss them, the many alleys whose cobbles shone golden in the streetlights. I saw the triumphal arches, which reminded me of entries to palazzos, well, even to utterly normal houses, promising a romantic as well as a scary interior. I marveled at the baroque churches on every street corner, which had once been endowed by churchmen who had been much more focused on earthly glamour than on Christian asceticism but still represented God’s glory in the world better than anything else. And finally the old sea of houses itself: yellow, ocher-colored facades with darkish green blinds, small balconies on every floor, and roof gardens with real jungles of pot plants all over the place. Who wasn’t able to enjoy themselves in this very spot, might as well blow their brains out with my blessing.
Antonio had decided on the Ristorante Piperno close to the Tiber Island at the Monte de' Cenci, where apparently they served Roman cuisine which had more to it than usual home cooking. Although by now I felt like a gourmet who gets close to a mental breakdown when he has to decide on a restaurant, the whole thing still seemed pretty hilarious to me. Not with the best will in the world I could imagine us marching into some location and flagging down the waiter with our raised paws. In this context I’ll skip the joke about the »cat’s table«.
»Dear Antonio, your man-about-town-show is really quite matchless, but can you maybe tell me how we are supposed to have dinner at a restaurant? I’m afraid that we will already fail at pushing the door handle.«
We passed by some small and still open grocery stores where thick salamis and gammon were hanging from the ceiling like stalactites in a dripstone cave. And those nom noms in the shop windows! No wonder these people, alongside the French, spent triple the money on eats than the rest of Europe. In piazzas, always decorated with artful fountains, sat people in front of cozy trattorias and had a good bite or gulp, let the comforting twilight from the windows of the time-honored houses around them shine on them, and not seldom one of the stretched hands petted our backs affectionately. Compared with this, my home reminded me of socialist military housi ng.
»Who said we’d have to push any door handles at all, Francis?« Antonio replied with a malicious smile. »And who said we will use the front door like any average blockhead? Trust me, il mio amico , a restaurant is like a well-filled tummy. But you won’t find the truth by visiting its belly, but its butt!«
Finally we arrived. Through the windows I saw cushioned chairs surrounded by silver and fine wainscot from pre-war times. People in clothes of refined taste pushed all kinds of delicacies into their mouths and toasted each other. Waiters with handlebar mustaches and ankle-length aprons bustled around the mostly southern looking customers. Without a doubt, this was one of the classier locations.
»Follow me«, Antonio said giving me a suggestive look and disappeared in a narrow back alley. I obeyed,
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