For the longest time, I thought in his 1978 hit, “Bomba O Non Bomba,” Antonello Venditti was singing, “A Firenze dormimmo in un intellettuale,” playing with the word “letto” (bed) and intellectual. I always thought it framed one of the key differences between Florence and Rome. In Florence, Venditti the Roman was saying, they don’t just have “letti,” they have “intelletti.”
My theory was crushed, as was my respect for the songwriter’s poetic play, when I reread the lyrics and saw that he was actually singing “A Firenze dormimmo da un intellettuale” (“In Florence we stayed with an intellectual)”. Same gist, so much less playful. The song characterizes the political factions two young singer-songwriters encounter as they make their way back from Bologna to the Roman periphery they call home during gli anni di piombo, the years of lead.
The refrain, “Bomba non bomba, arriveremo a Roma,” was the song’s hook. “Bombs or no bombs, we will get [home] to Rome.”
If Rome were a woman — no, in keeping with the lens of fluidity of this second decade of the 21st Century, let me rephrase — if Rome were a human, they would be sexy.
My cousin recently sent me a text message I’ve yet to answer. It’s a simple question. “Where are you living now?” Even though I’ve been in Florence since last summer — nearly a year — I cannot bring myself to say I live here. I left Florence 24 years ago when I walked away from a stifling and, seen through the lens of the second decade of the 21st Century, abusive marriage. Rome had been my home when I was in my late teens, Rome welcomed me back and became my home as a young mother.
My dear friend, longtime resident of Florence, told me I have to kill the prejudice I have about this city. And maybe she’s right. It’s just a place. People have asked me since I first came to Florence in 1987 which I preferred, Rome or Florence. I’ve had a lifetime to ponder the question and compare the two.
If Rome were a woman — no, in keeping with the lens of fluidity of this second decade of the 21st Century, let me rephrase — if Rome were a human, they would be sexy. They would ooze sultriness like heat radiates off the asphalt. Florence would be the human to leave you spellbound by their intellect. If you are the kind of person who falls in love with the life of the mind, you might fall in love with Florence. If you fall for the dress or the playful, slightly malicious twinkle, Rome’s your girl. I mean your human.
Many years ago, upon hearing I’d taken my father to Carmignano and Artimino, a friend asked, “Did you show him the Pontormo?” Although I had, my father wryly answered, “No, she showed me Carmignano and Artimino”. My father loved Rome. And humans. And he had no time for the pretentious.
You won’t find garbage piling up on a Florentine sidewalk. At least not that I’ve seen. Nor will you find Florentines flinging their empty cigarette packs from their car window as if it were still 1984. Florentines don’t congregate at their local bar every morning solving the world’s problems over their caffé. Or loll about the square until dinner time. Romans say hello and goodbye to each other as if they’ve not seen each other in weeks even after just a few hours. They suffer from protagonism and never run out of things to say. But that, I dare say, might be a trait that unites all of Italy. There is always more to say.
The light in Rome is magical. When I’ve said that to Florentines, many have exaggeratedly rolled their eyes. But it is. One of the reasons it is called the eternal city is because it constantly changes with the light. It’s warm, dappled, rose, golden, soft, sharp. Someone once told me it’s no mistake that the movie industry is in LA and Rome, both cities where light dances.
Just last night, following a nearly 180-minute movie made in and about Orbán’s Hungary, where light was not dancing, we stood in the street in conversation about the film with a Hungarian woman who lives in Florence. Well into her 60s, her bright pink bob was streaked with blues and greens that glimmered under the streetlight. She was clearly moved by the movie and her voice cracked as she asked us our thoughts. We all had something to say about it, including how it foreshadows freedoms soon to be lost across our worlds if we’re not careful. That’s not a conversation I could see happening in the Rome I know. That’s the “intellettuale” di Venditti.
It is an hour during which thoughts might slow and crystallize.
This morning I attended Quaker Meeting at the English Cemetery Library, situated in the middle of a busy boulevard that passes through Piazzale Donatello. The nun who runs the meeting and oversees the cemetery (and lives there too) is 86 years old. Julia Bolton Holloway is a well- known scholar of Dante and Dante’s teacher, Latini. She has also written about the anchoress and mystic Julian of Norwich; immortalized Elizabeth Barrett Browning as the strong, independent woman she was; lived, taught, and protested in Berkley, California at the height of the civil rights movement. She’s a cousin to Samuel Beckett, a descendant from the original mustard farmers of Norfolk who sold their farms to Coleman’s. And she is full of life!
While we sat, I reflected on place. The place I was in, inside lined floor to ceiling with volumes of everything from sacred texts to the Bloomsbury set, outside graves overflowing with jasmine, irises, and rosemary; the place I’m renting with its terrace perched high above the first-Sunday-of-the-month flea market; the place I sublet in Rome, warm and homey, filled with my prized possessions and the bustle and banter of the streets of Garbatella.
Quaker Meeting is a moment to reflect in silence collectively. It is shared meditation. Led by someone like Julia, it becomes something of a lesson. It is an hour during which thoughts might slow and crystallize. This morning, this is the thought that formed itself: ultimately, we reside within ourselves. Best then to make it the healthiest, most welcoming, most exciting place to be.
