There was less time the final two days but I managed to squeeze in some short trots north of the University and looping back to my hotel. The heat was like a furnace (al forno) and shorter was definitely better.
Both of these runs made their way through the park/gardens of Villa Torlonia which was Mussolini’s house. There’s a bunker, there, as well and nearby it I retired the Crown and Wanker shirt that Brownie sent over some years back:
The t-shirt retirements used to be a thing…this one finally wore down after 6 years.
This 19th century pile in the park was part of the greenhouse and gardener’s quarters:
Early morning during the heatwave, I would have thought there would be more people in the park.
The residence of the Whatzit (Viscount? Duke?) of Tortoloni:
The park is at the top of this path for day 3:
Day 3 inadvertently lost in a student neighbourhood
Altogether, I managed to cover about 35 miles of Roman ground over the four days. Despite all that, I also managed to gain 5lbs (the food…the drink!).
Some quick ones here. Two streets, at least, in Testaccio have American references.
Britain is likewise evoked by this poster on the wall of L’Oasi Della Birra describing Italian cheeses. The British map would be 99% cheddar with a small amount of Stilton dotted above East Anglia.
The heat in Rome was intense coming, as I was, from a solid month of rain and colder than normal temperatures. It was also glorious, originating, as I do, from the Deep South where this furnace-like weather in late June is the norm.
One of the things that helped over the 22½ miles I jogged the first couple of days was the ever-flowing, cold, sweet water from nasoni (I’m reliably informed this means “big nose”) all over the Eternal City. I’d soak my hat, fill my bottle, cool my wrists and continue on the exploration.
About 200m from my digs the first night, the Piramide di Caio Cestio stands as a monument to Caius Cestius. Built by the former slaves freed by decree in his final will and testament, it subsequently was incorporated into the city walls.
Porta San Paolo stands next to the PdCC but I’ve got this photo labeled as the PSP…doesn’t matter unless I hope to find it again (and I could refer back to my run maps, if it really made a difference).
This is all because drinking may have been involved (I know, you’re shocked that a run in this blog involved a bar stop or two). In the Piazza Testaccio, I dodged the kids to get to the nasoni at the base of this otherwise dry fountain. Off to the right, the umbrellas at L’Oasi della Birra can be seen:
Here, I stopped for refreshment and a few birri al spini with a Danish couple. She works for an international food agency based in Rome while he works for the Danish Embassy in Addis Ababa (they met in Ethiopia). Nice kids, they really encourage a visit to Addis and the surrounding countryside even during the current political unrest.
Back out on the run, I slowed a bit from the free nibbles and two pints (preceded, it can be noted, by a tall weißbier at the Dolce Bar in Trastavere.
My foray into the city centre on Day 2 initially had me wondering where the tourists were. Never fear, they started to turn up with a vengeance after Circo Massimo, above.
Halfway to my work-supplied hotel, I looped back for a shower at my own-supplied one with the intention of settling into the short course and too much food (and no further running). This was not to be, happily; don’t get me wrong: there WAS too much food and some sublime science, but I also managed to get out for a few, shorter treks around the north side of town (to be documented, later).
The pizza chef, not the ARSE graffito, was the subject of this pic.
At the northeastern extreme of our neighbourhood recon trip, Sunday, we had already been checking out the postbox situation regularly. Almost every one of them, so far, had been a George V indicating the neighbourhoods were probably established from the 19-teens to the mid-30s (Jackie, who noted this, is a historian and formerly a preservationist while I am just a post box fetishist).
We were walking briskly along the bleak Coventry Road trying to dive back into the old, quiet Emily Street when something about the pillar prompted me to investigate. Certain it would be a Liz the Two because nothing there appeared older than 20 years, I glanced at the cipher and had already followed through on taking a step away when “Bingo!” involuntarily erupted from my lungs. My eighth EVIIIR and the third one I found completely by surprise: another one in Brum (#6) and one in the Hertfordshire suburbs of London, the other (#5).
Just another sign that we’ve chosen the right neighbouthood for us.
On frequent runs past these large concrete abutments I’ve never given them a second thought. On Sunday, a kid was using the one on the left like a sofa whilst snacking and watching traffic. On my way back from the Asda nearby, I spotted the remains of the marble marker placed by the Lapal Canal Trust.
Our area was once known as California for reasons that know one who claims to know seems to have strong evidence to back up. It was definitely named for a pub but the pub’s name’s origin is in question.
The path of the canal, long since filled in, runs out to Selly Oak Park and is quite pleasant if you don’t mind the litter and the dodgy characters you encounter (so, there’s another reason this could be called California).
We bought a box of Goody’s powders our first morning in the States. The packaging has changed and, while the formula is still the same, the entire Goody’s powder experience is ruined. A metaphor for this visit to the Fatherland as a whole…
↑ This sign’s text should be tattooed on my forehead. ↑
Speaking of signs, the first signs of the impending war with Iran came in the form of two C130 ‘s flying through the Sequatchie Valley a few days into our stay on the mountain. Our host (a former Marine aviator) said they are doing radar evasion training. The last time the Valley was used this way was just before the abortive Tehran rescue raid during Carter administration — the landscape is strikingly (no pun intended) similar to that of Tehran.
I put on weight at places like this buffet set up in a former bowling alley (the skating rink is still operational)
Paranoia and fear permeated the populace. I found myself more alien in my homeland than ever before as I watched people react to all strangers with suspicion and at times hostility.
In one store, I was browsing through some disarray at a counter when the ambient music’s lyrics seeped into my consciousness. It was a typical and inoffensive country music melody but the words were along the line of “we’ve got to get back like it used to be…when you didn’t have to worry about your kids getting taken from the street and murdered.” [Note…I don’t think I’m exaggerating these lyrics, merely paraphrasing.] Then, I started listening to other songs more attentively and they were all this hireath, nostalgia, and longing for an America of 50 years ago that, to my 57 year old memory, did not exist.
Perhaps the beefeater needs to step away from the Beefeater.
This was all a bit stressful, so we massaged our discomfort with alcohol and pot. Stoned as I was throughout the visit, I was never so paranoid as the random person-on-the-street that we encountered.
Budweiser seems to embrace the sexual liberation that might foment some of the national fear of change. I found this butt plug shaped beer bottle in a charity shop in Dunlap, Tennessee … Buttweiser — when you say, “plug,” you’ve said it all.
We also stuffed ourselves with foods that the proper preparation of has eluded the Brits. We had four pizzas and enough Mexican food to have our children put in detention.
BBQ also featured prominently.
This 1950 Studebaker Champion is The Shit:
Just. Fucking. Awesome.
If I had it to drive, I could have taken it out to the far end of Window Rock Road to see how it handles the terrain:
Granted, whilst running the road was a challenge.
At the more civilised end of the road, the actual Window Rock sits:
On my return, some colleagues wanted to discuss the trip but, as you can see, I’m still wrapping my head around the depressing situation that is the present day United States. Gun culture came up and that led to coppers shooting people in the back. “To be fair,” I argued, “the police HAVE to shoot people in the back because they are too fat to chase anyone.”
“Is that really true?” challenged one of the grad students.
“I have photographs,” I countered.
Shadows of curtains on the wall of T’s house.
All nightmares end and we packed for our escape. Each of us padded a liter bottle of tequila in our laundry and immobilised it with books we picked up (that’s atheist Jackie’s Bible and Auden collection, if you must know; mine is the Marcella Hazen cookbook).
While arranging and clearing out the stuff at T’s for the big yard sale, this jug of Platte Valley Straight Cor Whiskey turned up. The Navy Mess sticker dates it in the late-60’s or early-70’s.
I cut the seal after getting the go ahead from the owner. Bubbles emerged around the cork that remained behind when the stopper crumbled in my hand. I inserted a corkscrew and the remaining cork disintegrated, some of it shooting out and the rest falling into — or sticking to the neck of — the jug.
The corn whisky was pale and a bit musty and I was the only soul brave enough to have a few glasses.
Neither me nor Jackie had ever been to Dayton, TN despite the historical importance. Inherit the Wind, the movie, would probably be a better introduction to the Monkey Trial than this article but since you’re here….
We went into the old courthouse — which is still used — and passed through the metal detector successfully. The Sheriff’s Deputy working the door told us we could go have a look at the court room where everything happened since the court was on a lunch break. The room is very impressive and looks like the one in the movie. However, there were already family members of the people on trial that day (we heard the defendants getting marched in from the jail next door shortly afterwards) and a couple of attorneys chatting near the dock so we chose not to linger.
The trial was kind of set up to force a constitutional showdown between people that believe in evolution and, on the opposing side, morons. Scopes was actually just a replacement teacher and volunteered to violate the law against teaching Darwin (said law being enacted a year or so earlier with the intent of protecting the souls of students, as so many laws are). The trial descended into a media circus of the sort so frequent today but, at the time, unprecedented.
Jackie’s grandfather, Bill, was named William Bryan Cordell after William Jennings Bryan (above) who, despite this fiasco that stains his reputation right up to today, was a statesman and orator of incredible importance in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
The museum exhibits on the Monkey Trial are extensive, interesting, and worth a visit if you just happen to be passing through. Instead, I took one photo of the old clock mechanism … unrelated to the events for which this courthouse is famous.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 