Back in Rome. Back on via Margutta, Pensione Forte, Taverna Margutta, back to blackened calves’ brains near the Spanish Steps.
I opened up the machine on the autostrada, and we sailed down here in one day. God, she had power, which she delivered so gracefully, with hardly a murmur or complaint. We were now sporting flashy Italian red helmets with visors, black leather gloves handcrafted in Florence, and racing goggles. We have a windscreen but, at 80 mph, raindrops can sting like bees. In this hot summer weather we prefer to wear T-shirts, but have learned to cover up. Big bugs impact like meteorites, can put an unprotected eye out. We wear bandanas to protect lower face and neck. In the evening, after the long ride, I lovingly caressed our goddess and cleaned her of road and bug spatter.
We are planning to stay here a few days, indulge in a little more Italian food, wine, and culture before heading south toward the flaming Sahara. Now that we are launched, we feel no hurry.
Also to detain us in Rome: my mother, stepfather, and sister are staying at the Grand Hotel. They have crossed the Atlantic before we head off into the unknown to check that we are not totally nuts. They don’t know where this adventure is taking us; nor do we. That is the deep-bedded passion of it.
Got dragged over the coals last night. Joe felt threatened by the seductive proximity of my family, whom he felt might contrive to put a stopper on our project. During dinner at the Grand my mother suggested that we escort sister Susie on a tour of Greece. Maybe she hoped we would all end up on some idyllic Aegean island rather than the Heart of Darkness. My sister wisely declined.
My mother had been in touch with Sam Small’s brother George. She went to the Oldfields School in Maryland and they had friends in common. The fact that both Sam and George went to Princeton and were in Ivy finally seemed to legitimize this experience in her eyes. It is all getting a bit weird: our grand adventure is turning into a social occasion.
We missed the boat to Palermo, but we didn’t mind. Maybe we’ll stay here a few days more. Back to alley cats and laundry lines. There is no rush.
Vesuvio. We climbed it. Huge, ugly black lava sculptures. Ground hot near the top. We could feel the heat through our boots. Smoke or steam pouring out of fissures. Stink of sulfur. Amazing view of the bay. Our guide said that another eruption is due any time now. Like a pregnant woman, the old girl is overdue. We hurried back down and raced away on the machine.
Pliny the Younger chronicled the devastating Vesuvius eruption of AD 79. The first sign that something was up: a narrow stem of smoke rising to a round plume above the mountain, which he compared to the outline of the umbrella pine, of which there are millions here. That simple description gives us a precise image of what that lethal cloud first looked like. Great literature—it instructs for centuries. This vivid description was contained in a letter to Marcus Aurelius. The point is: he wrote it all down!
After garaging the machine, we walked through the city looking for a fish restaurant. In Lerici we ate a lot of fish and we wanted more. We love seafood, and don’t expect to see much of it in the desert. Suddenly, a strong, brown, barefoot young man, naked to the waist, blue bandana wrapped around his head like a turban, trotted out of a side street with a huge silver fish over his shoulder.
We couldn’t tell, in the twilight, whether it was a shark or a tuna but, whatever it was, it was a fish—big, shiny, and fresh-looking.
Joe: “Let’s follow this guy. Let’s see where he goes.”
We followed. After a block or two, he dived into a restaurant with the catch over his shoulder.
We followed him in. A kind of dark, gloomy place where you imagine mafia men gather to make deals, decide who to rub out.
White tablecloths. The waiter brought the menu. Joe’s hunch had been right: it was all fish. And we had it all: sea urchins, which Mario had taught us how to crack open and spoon out the orange roe; grilled swordfish, freshly sliced off the monster we had followed through the door; a liter of house white, espresso, and cigarettes.
It doesn’t come much better than this. As we dined, the restaurant gradually filled. We were right: mafia types in brown suits muttering over shady deals; their wives in the corner sipping cocktails. Confident, flashy, but nervous. Worried their kids might get bumped off.