Fortunately, a caring Basque father came to the rescue and gave us and our luggage a delightfully comfortable ride to the airport. Eskerrak Jainkoari!!!
The flight out was yet another dehumanizing experience brought to us care of an industry given a huge cash award for their complicity in that 9-11 thing.
After we landed, we got on a bus. Once we got off the bus, I was given a tutorial on how to behave in cities, which is good, never having been to or lived in a city, least of all a "fourth world shit hole" like New York.
"Now I give you skills! Look down! Don't look stoned!"
Ha ha HAAAAAAAA! In Rome? AS IF!!!
ROME! What happened?
Pick pockets! (Virgil) Gypsy stabbings! (Ovid) Luggage theft at knife point then a stabbing! (Seneca) Mega Filth (Cicero)
Can you see the trajectory? Can you feel the trajectory? Can you stop the trajectory? Can you reverse the trajectory?
In the running for one of the least Irie places in the world, Rome did have it's charms. Civic pride sadly was not one of them. While it may be a "skill" to look at the ground when you walk, the damage that does to one's hope for human civilization, what with all the cigarette butts, dog shit, broken glass and soiled clothes covering those quaint cobble stone streets is a given, a known, and apparently, an inevitability--a pre-ordained destiny. A gypsy stabbing pick pocketing and luggage theft (preceded by a pepper spraying, followed by stabbing) is not a given, nor is it a known. It's a pretty sure bet, but not a certainty. I am a living testimony of this fact. Maybe I should have looked up more often? But then why bother? No camera, of which I was only reminded a mere 3 times.
And while heavy on the late-capital, fourth-world amenities, Lemon trees, undeniable Italian design, 24 hour sfogliatelle and very old Roman things--from their trains to their ruins--can be placed in the charm column.
Though I might not want to ever spend any time there ever again for any reason, the (impotent and ineffectual against the gypsy menace) cops at the train station carried their guns in white holsters. Snazzy!
Ethnic Chinese women sat at a pic-nic table laughing and smoking. (guess what they did with the cigarettes once they were done smoking them?) Multi-culti!
Lemon trees in front yards! Palm Trees growing through sidewalks! Plants ascending!
Fanfulla! A pretty great venue, and furthermore, a tremendous sound-man worth of the superman tee-shirt he wore! Not only did the sound check take 8 minutes and 42 seconds, he also bought us....Pizza!
Tremendous sound-man was also able to procure a keyboard for Virginia--something not everyone was able to do, despite promises to the contrary (and snazzy haircut).
On this night, Virginia played a "Rodeo 23", similar in appearance to the "Rodeo 49"
Again, what with my camera charger being carelessly lost by me (sftanza americanino boolshitter arounder) I had to take these pictures from the web. As for the device which takes many pictures in rapid sequence, so as to give a moving quality to the image, owned by not me, said device I believe was kept safe in a bag. Because I am a sftanza americanino boolshitter-arounder crippled dog, it may have been set up and put into action, but I can't say for sure. There is no mention of a video in my notes, but yet there is a vague memory of a camera on the corner of the most excellent and capable sound-guy's table.
Perhaps someone else was pointing a cellphone? Maybe one day it will appear on youtube? Alas, never in the history of human "civilization" have we been so powerless over our own documentation.
And then again, maybe I ruined the entire evening of music with some errant splish of piddle...I don't remember. However, I imagine there are a few people who do. Please feel free to castigate me in the comments section if you were a victim of my errant piddle spray.
Music over, the evening continued to soften and blur. People hanging out, listening to what was, for the americanino ignorant = dumb, a perplexing DJ set. No one else found it perplexing (perhaps because they all spoke the language of the guy prattling relentlessly on the 12"), everyone was chill, no one was on steroids, no one was in a hockey fight earlier that day...a real local, clubhouse sort of vibe.
While my hope is that similar establishments exist all over Rome, I was led to believe that this was one of the last places in that fair city where people can go and get their freak on.
Will Rome (or any number of other cities actively stomping down on the creative class like roaches) be a better place once all weirdo-friendly haunts have been removed and replaced by super classy steroids and botox bars where all music is chosen (if not made) by a computer algorithm?
The night ended with an appreciation of and for the brave artistic vision of this record cover:
In bed at 3am, on the floor of the patio, simply because there were a few cats living inside. Not that I have anything against cats per se--it's just some of them are able of choking me to death with their hair. I cared not one bit. Sleeping on the floor keeps you humble (and who knows, maybe it helps the pissing out of pot thing?) Besides, it was a lovely evening with cool breezes under a canopy of stars, next to the police station. One pillow for my hip, one for my head and see you in the morning!