On childhood, ice cream, and writing

I was not that problematic as a child, I’m told. I was one of those ‘reserved’ children (that’s the word on my report card in fourth grade) that talked only when necessary, and rarely resorted to crying, shouting, and fighting (this perhaps until my sister started walking). My mother still reminds me that she would’ve preferred my childhood to any other phase of my life.

The best part of my childhood was spent here in Italy, where I lived during my last years before adolescence. Perhaps this is the reason why some experiences in Rome uncover some of the memories and forgotten feelings I had as a child, and similarly why I feel like a kid walking down some of its streets…

That same feeling occurred today, while I was walking joyously down one of the side streets in San Lorenzo, gulping down a cone topped generously with “stracciatella”. (That is my childhood favourite, especially along with coconuts)

My joy was closely followed by the feeling of guilt, as my mother would probably have forbidden me to ever touch that ice cream, taken from a gelateria, and in the middle of November.

Still, when I’m in a hurry I tuck my shoelaces in my shoe  instead of tying them…

And sometimes a smell of fresh pizza margherita takes me back years… Seeing a Super-Santos plastic ball which we used to buy for 10.000 lire reminds me how I was always the goalkeeper in street matches.

After seeing in Google Analytics that my blog hadn’t attracted visitors for a time now, I thought about Seth Godin’s condition to a successful blog. “Only blogs which lead tribes are successful”

I don’t think I will be leading any tribe with my ice cream in hand and walking down one of the streets off  Termini. But somehow, I feel an urge to write about my ice-cream, my ball and childish guilt.

Turkey’s only Nobel-laureate, Orhan Pamuk said in his Nobel lecture: “I write because the only way I can partake in reality is by altering it […] I write because I am afraid of being forgotten”

On politics, sovereigns and the temple

I was surprised to find the Pantheon open at night, while walking through the historical area of Rome last week. We went under the great dome and circled the floor in awe, once more our gazes on the many frescoes, tombs, paintings and carvings of the ancient temple.

Pantheon is a two-millennia-old temple originally built by Agrippa in 27 B.C. As the name suggests, it is a “temple of all gods”, and was intended to be the greatest temple in Rome at the time. It is the largest remaining structure standing to tell the story of pagan worship. (Of course, the Papacy was clever enough to establish a small chapel which is part of its decoration today, along with commissioning portrayals of the annunciation, crucifixion etc. Featured left is “the Annunciation” by Melozzo da Forli.)

The Pantheon is also the tomb of two great “Kings of Italy”: Vittorio Emanuele II and Umberto I. For this reason, Pantheon is the temple of the few remaining monarchists and noblemen of the country. It is one of the last places where the House of Savoy coat-of-arms is bannered publicly and for many, it is where monarchy is buried. (Unlike Turkey where nobody knows where the last sovereign was buried.)

(For those of you interested “Vahideddin” Mehmet VI  died in San Remo, Italy (nice place), and was interred in Damascus, Syria)

Once out of the temple, however, we were surprised to find Walter Veltroni, head of Italy’s main opposition -the Democratic Party, crying a merry speech to a small crowd of Italians. He was standing in front of a giant picture of Barack Obama titled “Il mondo cambia” –the world is changing.

That day marked the accession of Barack Hussein Obama to the most powerful seat in the world, and it seemed that Veltroni was delighted to hear the news. His speech was parallel in many ways to the tagline flashing behind him, and he seemed like the world had suddenly given him too many things to say in a speech, including the financial bust.

As I also noted in my previous posts, politics is everywhere in Italy: on billboards, street corners, buses, fire cabinets, phone booths. I have had many encounters with such posters that put a smile on my face, such as the one with three men of the Esercito (Army) flashing RayBans; “Grazie ragazzi!” –Thank you boys!” written below. Signed by none other than Silvio Berlusconi.

When Alitalia was “bailed-out”, his partisans chose to thank Berlusconi publicly, covering Rome with posters: “Thank You Berlusconi!”

The next day I was sent into laughing fits seeing what the Italian youth had to say for Veltroni. (see below) I told you, they’re too creative…

Now, I will continue listening to the Mamma Mia! soundtrack (my latest addiction) while reading my magazine (featuring Obama on the cover, like half of the magazines available to the Italian reader today). Meanwhile, Robert Oxton Bolton will give you something to think about, about churches, temples and however educated you are, your political views:

"A belief is not merely an idea the mind possesses. It is an idea that possesses the mind."

On lifelines and deadlines – II

To make my way into university I had to study a clean three-hour shift in addition to my schoolwork every day. To make my way out of it with good grades, I need even more. I am barely trilingual, and I can only admire Felipe who speaks four languages and aspires to start learning French one of these days.

My former manager at my last internship, a Roman, had grown a hobby of mocking me for seemingly “never having fun in life”. In Rome, I have been to a handful of nice parties and had good time; but frankly I never had “fun”.

“Two parties in a month are enough for me” says Felipe, “… and we could always throw parties here with a bunch of nice people… I prefer talking to partying anyway”. Me too, I’d take talking about stuff and learning a thing or two to “partying” any time… That doesn’t mean I don’t get to swim in booze, or try to catch the stars; but I have more fun when actually talking… (It is also strange to note how developing countries’ local drinks are a lot harder than those of the developed west… See vodka, rakı, rakija, the stuff they make in Latin America)

All my life, I watched as the only times when my father was having fun were dinners spent with friends and family. The chat would be about soccer, and generally over a glass of rakı. Only when asked, my father would start not only talking but lecturing about international relations or public administration. These were a part of his job, and never did I see him come home without the burden of his duty visible on his shoulders… I still like to think he is the main reason I turned out like this.

I came to one of Italy’s top universities expecting world renowned professors and a crowd of bright, young, visionary Italians… Those who have been to La Sapienza may, at this moment, be laughing heartily since the story is nowhere near that.

Until now, I’ve been to classes in which old-school professors regularly interrupt the lecture talking about how the new statute cuts into their wages. The students are a creative bunch, but apparently the majority’s only collective activities are to invent new ways to deem someone a fascist, complain about a law, or just complain about the government. (Actually, I really enjoyed one of their posters in which a chopstick guy was depicted throwing a swastika into the trash can…)

Felipe, 25, is a really fun guy… Before taking off to Italy he was already managing a private banking portfolio in Brazil’s biggest bank, not to mention those four languages...

I believe I am right. The West is going down. Here is the latest from HarvardBusiness writer Dr Marshall Goldsmith: “We in the West are just beginning to understand what globalization really means. It means that people across the planet are: competing to buy our products; producing products that we can buy for less money; and competing for our jobs.”

On lifelines and deadlines - I

No sign of life was audible throughout the staircase of Via Nomentana Nuova 25 as I hauled my weight up to the seventh floor, lighting the stairs with my cellular phone. Even now, my apartment feels empty and dark, with no lights on, no distant rumbling of a TV, no computer screen shining, no sound of water heating… Only the clock ticking in the kitchen assures me that time still is, and the usual ambulance rolling with its sirens declares that a lifeline of Rome is still open, and the fight for life is still out there.

We’ve been without electricity for almost two days now. Our food in the freezer is already rotting and we are out of hot water. The bus drivers are on strike so walking to the university which is approximately six kilometers away is as good an option as waiting for the bus which is bound to arrive packed full of Romans.

The pizzeria and the small coffee shop in front of my block have been out of business for the same two days, so I walk to the next block to have a tramezzino and a caffé macchiato for breakfast.

After that, I walk back and climb once more to my flat. This, it turns out, is my first blog entry written with pen on paper.

This morning we sat down chatting with my flatmate Felipe, a Brazilian and a former banker, to discuss how in Italy deadlines are never met. When I bought my phone line, I was promised it would be activated the same day; but it was activated in four days at the end of my third round with the guy at the phone shop. My internet was a similar story with three days. We were promised we would wake up to this day with electricity, only to be disappointed.

Felipe has been in Rome for two months now with his acceptance letter in hand, and his class schedule was approved only yesterday. “They always say ‘tomorrow’” he complains…
I took out a weekly newspaper subscription, but I’ve come to stop hoping it would one day arrive.

For our doorman however, our little “energy situation” is quite tolerable. “What can I do” he exclaims when asked about our electricity.

“If it were in Brazil, I’d be on the phone arguing” says Felipe. Quite true. If it were in Turkey, I’d be on the phone yelling complaints. But here, we’re strangers from “developing economies”, we’re undermined for our ethnicities, and we also happen to be strangers to a strange culture.

Coming from those “developing economies”, we’ve been taught to work very hard to attain an above-average standard of living. We’ve also been taught to compete hard at every step of our lives, thus we feel, in a much stronger fashion than Romans, that incompetency should be punished. Still, we don’t get any buses and the electricians are nowhere to be seen.

“You’re right man, Italy is going down” says Felipe “Nobody likes to work here”, in response to my comment. Public offices are open for five hours a day, and retail banking hours are nothing different. Nobody we have yet seen likes working…

I remember reading Anthony Doerr, who was awarded the Rome prize by American Academy of Arts and Letters: “Italy is the place where a forty-year-old man can still roll dough and not be considered a failure”

On the new kid, rock stars and fashion

If there is one recurring theme in my life, it’s being the “new kid”. On average, I was the “new kid” in a school every second year thanks to my father’s career.

It wasn’t enjoyable to be honest, and most of the time it was painful…

Being the “new kid” too often does not equip you with excellent social skills as some say. However it does equip you with a certain “armor” against being teased, and some intricate feats which are very useful when once more in life, you walk into a school totally alone, and totally clueless. Among these feats are finding the toilet, finding the canteen, judging other kids only with their looks and figuring if they pose a threat, et cetera.

Walking into a new country, however, is always fun as you get to know not only a new “culture” but a new set of social norms that are sometimes even entertaining to learn. One of these is the fact that, as an American I met on my first days in Rome put it: “In Italy, everybody dresses like a rock star”.

It’s true, in Italy everybody dresses like a rock star. Dolce&Gabbana, Armani, Gucci… These brands are naturally big in the city. Not only those, you can’t help noticing the gold and silver everyone wears, the Burberry’s pattern on everyone’s shirts, scarves, jackets… Half of the population seems to possess some eyewear that is capable of covering half their faces…

Walking through the streets, you run into policemen, soldiers and priests that wear D&G shades or RayBans along with their uniforms. Then you can’t help but face the fact that these people are the grandchildren of Michelangelo, Bernini, Emperors, or at worst the Harlequin from the Divine Comedy. It is in their genes to dress up and they’re loving it! (That was from McDonald’s)

In that light, it was quite natural for me, the new kid from Istanbul, to walk in stupor for a few days before noticing that somehow I wasn’t even close to the Roman stereotype in terms of clothing.

I never care about my looks. True. “Why do people care about their looks?” I now wonder every day walking through the streets of the eternal city. Why is it that even ninety-year-old Romans dress like princes on their way to church? As a symbol of status? Out of their drives to be remarkable? Is it some subtle sexual instinct? Ask me, and I’ll say no.

In my opinion, today, fashion people are not subsidized by the invisible hand of Adam Smith to come up with better-looking clothes. In our times, it is the job of the fashion designer to look for the perfect human being, with perfect looks, the perfect body, and perfect clothes.

This was the motive of Leonardo Da Vinci as he drew one of his most popular works, The Vitruvian Man, in search of the perfect human body. That was the goal of Borromini and Raphael as they carved the statues that would make history. Even Caravaggio, the rogue painter, looked for perfection in the bodies he brought to life in his paintings of savagery and cruelty.

Today, the geniuses of fashion are still at their pursuit and the rest of us are trying desperately to look, as close as possible, to the depictions of perfection they offer us.

"Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those whom we cannot resemble." Samuel Johnson

On barbers, ambassadors, and capital punishment

You move to a new city, you settle down, find the supermarket, the school, a nice apartment and figure out the bus lines among these. For me, what followed this list was the bookstore, the pharmacy, a good newspaper stand, a pizzeria, and a ferramenta –the hardware shop, to get a copy of my keys-. Next on the list, when you feel you need a haircut, is the barber’s…

It had been a while since I first felt I needed a haircut, but I was a little reluctant keeping in mind the prices for a haircut and the obvious fact that I didn’t command enough of a hair stylist’s jargon in Italian to tell him my “style”.

Of course I must now say that I have no specific style, and most of the times I tell my barber to prune my unhealthy bunch of hair however he feels is aesthetically pleasing. Of course, this habit has had me leave the barber’s shop with bizarre results; nevertheless I’ve come to learn there is no style that would make me look strikingly handsome anyway.

I went to a shop which a friend had recommended and sat down waiting until my turn arrived. The barber was a cheerful and handsome man, in his forties… After he invited me to the chair and asked me how I wanted them, I told him “come Le piace, ma non molto corto…”, however you like but not too short…

Although I didn’t screw up a single word, and was confident about the grammar; he probably picked up from the stresses that I was a foreigner and asked the first question to mark the beginning of our conversation: “di dove sei?”, where are you from…

I told him I was Turkish. He had to fake he was delighted to have a Turk in his shop before pompously commenting that the Turkish ambassador was also his client. Wow… In fact he stressed the word “ambasciatore” so musically, in a way only an Italian can, that I thought our ambassador to Rome must be an important, important man.

“He is the ambassador and he sits here, I have all the razors and everything…” he went on. I laughed where I thought was appropriate and commented a simple “Sì” every now and then. In fact, I felt so discouraged by his super-fluent Roman accent; I thought I might quit trying to speak Italian once and for all.

Still, it was a nice chat, him telling the subtleties of his profession, and me responding with sì. I felt at home, looking at myself in the mirror and thinking the ambassador might have preferred this shop because somehow it reminded those in Turkey with everything it had.

Right at that moment, the notizie –the news- started airing on TV and the first story was about a child molester caught by the Italian law enforcement. The smile on my barber’s face faded, and he broke into a series of cursewords… He turned to my reflection on the mirror, saying what I suspected was “child abuser” in Italian, but my guess wasn’t confirmed until I saw a five year old blond girl on the screen, carried away in a blanket.

“Pena di morte, via” said he. Death penalty… My part of the conversation had not changed drastically, but I replied strongly this time, repeating the same word twice “sì, sì”…

I’m not a big fan of capital punishment, although at moments like those you can’t help think of the people you love, and join in on his enthusiasm. It breaks the barriers of civilizations, languages and religion, and somehow two strangers strongly feel the same desire towards the death of another.

It’s a new city, a new country, a new existence. Some of your thoughts lose credibility, while others now lack rationality. Rome has already started possessing you.

Eugene Ionesco once wrote, "Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together."

On Italy: A Foreword

On Italy: A Foreword

Thousands of years of civilization, countless wars, the Renaissance, Popes, emperors, poets and generals… Italy is one place you may spend years writing about, but always feel what you have written is insignificant, useless and basically nothing compared to the ink spent on Italy, and it’s beautiful cities…

But even though fate has proven to me numerous times that I am totally useless in writing, I will try to take a shot here in Rome, where I will be living for six months studying as part of an exchange program.

Who am I? I am an engineering student from Istanbul who is basically insignificant a person as defined above. I have no special talents, no special looks, no special genious I may boast... I am just the next person, the person you might see on the street and feel absolutely nothing has changed in your life. I do have hobbies, phobias, a career plan that will probably never work out… But right now, I’m here, and you are there reading…

Well, the blog will be about Italy, mainly Rome, life in Rome and life in general, Italians, bits and pieces of what I’ve caught reading, interesting facts&figures, instances of my feelings and experiences in Rome… But probably my greatest contribution will be the viewpoint from which I will look at Rome: as I said I am from Istanbul, a city I value to be Rome’s counterpart and big brother in the East.

I’d like the reader to keep in mind that English is my second language, and I will sometimes be making humongous mistakes. I take the credit for all mistakes I will be making.