Rione Notes

Farnese Palazzo/Bridge/Fountain

            The Palazzo was built in 1514 by Antonio de Sangallo the Younger for Cardinal Alessandro Farnese (later Pope Paul III) as a gift from the current Pope, whose mistress was Farnese’s sister. However the building was only finished in 1589 due to frequent changes in the blueprints. For example the plans of the building were expanded when Farnese was declared pope in 1534 and an entire extra floor was added. Michelangelo and Giacomo della Porta both acted as chief architect in turn during this extended time.  Michelangelo was commissioned in 1546 and alternated plans to add triangular and segmented pediments on the windows, garlands, individual flowers in the eve coffers and largest coat of arms in Rome. The builders also reused some stones stripped from the Coliseum.

When Alessandro’s heir, Odoardo, died in 1624 the palazzo stood uninhabited.  The pope then used it as a rental, however when he allowed Queen Christian of Sweden to live there she left after only a few months and took with her the silver, tapestries, paintings and sections of the bronze roof.  It eventually passed to the French Bourbon family of Naples and then to French Embassy.

The opera Tosca is partially set in Palazzo Farnese, deemed the headquarters of the evil chief of police Scarpi during Napoleonic control.  Also, the tubs in the two fountains in the piazza outside are originals taken from ancient roman baths.

            The bridge behind the palazzo is also by Michelangelo, originally connecting the Palazzo to another family building filled with art by famous artists.  That building was eventually destroyed but the bridge remains.  Several pieces are now stored in the Church of St. Mary of Prayer and Death next door.  The original plans show the bridge was made with intent to span river to gardens which eventually became Villa Farnesina.  Although clearly impractical, this concept only further exemplifies the riches of the Farnese family.

            Fontana del Mascherone, aka the “Big Mask Fountain” or “Grotesque face of Via Giulia” was commissioned by the Farnese family and crafted by Girolamo Rainaldi in 1626.  The fountain actually combines two ancient sculptures and is topped with the Farnese family’s giglia (fleur-de-lis).  Originally the fountain could be filled with wine for parties, although after centuries the plumbing has corroded and the flowing water is no longer suitable for drinking.

Palazzo Ricci and fresco

            Architect Baldassarre Peruzzi built this palazzo in the 16th century for Cardinal Giovanni Ricci, the personal secretary to Cardinal Farnese.  Its best-known resident was Costanza Farnese, who allegedly had an incestuous affair with her father Pope Paul III, the first owner of Palazzo Farnese.  The exterior frescoes were designed by Polidoro da Caravaggio (not to be confused with THE Caravaggio, painter extraordinaire).

            Today Palazzo Ricci houses the Accademia Europea di Musica e Arte di Palazzo Ricci, a prestigious musical academy.

Via Giulia

            This road was named after Pope Julius II, who commissioned it in 1508.  Via Giulia was the first straight medieval road in Regola and one of the first in the city, however it follows the path and uses the foundations of an ancient Roman road.  Master planner Donato Bramante also oversaw some of the building at Basilica of St Peter.  Julius II’s interest in creating Via Giulia was a very early example of Renaissance interest in urban renewal. 

The position of the new road made sense for several reasons.  First, it linked the Ponte Sisto, built by Julius’s uncle Pope Sixtus, with Ponte Sant’Angelo.  It also connected the government offices (concentrated in a palazzo that has since been taken down but stood catty-corner to Campo de’ Fiori) with the papal mint.  The most extensive plans also included a new palazzo along Via Giulia to house all judicial offices but the concept ultimately fell through. Finally, the new and well-cared for road provided a safe and clear route via Ponte Sisto from the Ripa Grande river ports in Trastevere to the heart of commerce in Regola.  Via Giulia became one of most important roads in Rome.

Due to the reasons above, Via Giulia revived the area, which had fallen into a slump along with the rest of Rome in the preceding centuries.  The easier access of Regola increased business in the rione and attracted the affluent who built the tall, thin residential houses with ground-floor shops that now characterize the street.  However the palazzi scattered throughout the area all have their grand facades facing piazzi rather than this narrow street, making it much less lively than its history suggests.

Name+Flooding

            The name Regola is a phonetical corruption of “arenula,” which translates to mean the soft and silty sand deposited by floods in area.  There is still a street named Via Arenula.  The problem of flooding was insurmountable until the late Middle Ages, when the tools were finally available to survive the yearly inconvenience.  Thus only then was Regola transformed from a swamp to an industrial center of the city. However it was 1875 before real embankments were built to entirely hold back the flood waters.

            The rione’s sign is gold deer on turquoise background.  Legend has it that once a golden head of a hind washed up on the shores of the rione during a flood.  A more likely story is that it is a reference to the many leather tanners in the area that specialized in deer hides.           

In ancient times Regola was part of Campus Martius, the Triga where the army trained 3-horse chariots.

Medieval houses (we skipped it on presentation day...)

            The complex is known as the Houses of St. Paul because the first century saint supposedly lived there. Paul was a Roman who persecuted Christians until, on his way to Jerusalem, he was consumed in a beam of light and touched by Jesus.  This immediately converted him and he became an effective missionary himself.  However when he returned to Rome he was put under house arrest.  He chose this location for his incarceration possibly because it was close to the Jewish Ghetto where he could continue his work.  However a church nearby claims to be built on the site of his house and the buildings on this site are actually from the 13^th century whereas Paul was a first century saint.

2/17 Multicultural Lit Notes

Vendettas by Carmelo Quijada

“get rid of one, get rid of all” (souvenirs) shows strong connection to old country, can’t afford to offend old friends

            literary award? Not as bad off as some immigrants

            are these only immigrant writings?  Or is he beating Italians?

            Very conscious of image, playing up rough/artistic side when dressing for award

            I’d like to know have he survives the award ceremony with pigeon shit on his shirt.

            Pigeons similar theme as in Elevator

            “he explodes” holy shit what kind of poison is this?

            Are the pigeon ladies Italian or immigrant? Has lot of implications for how punks react.

            “line up their heads” shit, can’t you come up with a more humane way to kill fledgling pigeons?

            “I defend myself by listing off all the places Italians have emigrated” wow, that’s turning into a really over-used argument

            “Don’t think you’re gonna get off so easy with us” no one here is thinking through their plans.  All sides are guilty.

            “mayor’s office, prefect, the chief of police” shit, this guy knows his shit.

            “Two days later” this guy doesn’t know when to quit.  He stops being a sympathetic hard worker who can’t get a break.  “It won’t be hard” leaves you with the image of a menacing sneer—he’s not going to stop until his small trespasses are repaid 10-fold.  He has everything an immigrant could wish for but that’s not the point anymore, change of perspective.

 

Leaving wih No Return by Ron Kubati

            Must be a student demonstration in a dictatorship (soviet?) run country about to be overthrown.  Just excuse for getting asylum in West Europe.

            Students use red bandanas so must not be fighting soviets.  On hunger strike? (faint, must be taken to hospital).

            Makes everything in the demonstration seem so easy—just pull the statue down.

            Did the govt really accept the request as the media is told?  If not, the demonstrators use just as sly tactics as the govt.

            Tirana=Albania, so this is the dissolution of Yugoslavia.  Also drink raki=Turkish drink so in the general Balkans area…

            The action parts of the story seem so dreamlike, it’s hard to imagine the scene of walking to the port.  Also too easy to get through police barricades, onto a free ship.  Is a good representation of confusing time when revolutionaries aren’t quite sure what they’re supposed to do.  “Our gaze registers everything that happens, but only transmits everything at the end of the adventure, in the form of memories.”

            Excellent ending line—“the city at our backs gets smaller and smaller, but in front of us, we can see nothing.”

            This is the least confusing, best psychological description of immigration experiences so far.

            

Writing Assignment 6

            In studying Regola I have found the most precise boundary this quarter.  The rione’s eastern border runs along Via dei Giubbonari and through Campo de Fiori.  I’ve run across that political boundary many times and noticed the difference in activity, foot traffic and even store hours.  I figured it was a tourism thing—where tourists invigorate the economy the locals must embrace their schedule to maximize profit.  Campo de Fiori is a good example of Americanized stores.  However where tourists are not drawn en masse by some landmark, local customs still rule and store keepers could conceivably not open any days they don’t want to.  I figured this was the sole explanation to the ghost-town qualities of Regola.  It still is—I’m not into conspiracy theories enough to read between non-existent lines—but knowing there are stacked borders is intriguing.

            As for the area itself, I’ve said the main things: it’s quiet, almost barren of life and packed solid with nigh indistinguishable buildings.  The Farnese family has some theoretically spectacular buildings in the area—two palazzi and another art gallery, including Boromini’s perspective arches.  However besides Palazzo Farnese (the French embassy) none of these are outwardly exalted.  One has barely a piazza at its entrance.  I wouldn’t have even known it was a venerated building had I not researched it.  There is also one of two remaining churches in Rome decorated with human bones (it originally housed the organization that brought peasant bodies from Trastevere and beyond inside the city for proper burial).  That faces straight into a street with not even a grand staircase to draw attention to its door.  In between these are classic medieval buildings with few windows on the first floor, even fewer signs to denote shops, and absolutely no allyways.  However, there is plenty of grafitti—and not the artistic kind.  It’s a less friendly version of Trastevere, in other words.

            From the background research I’ve done this is mainly a Renaissance part of town because before the late Middle Ages there wasn’t the technology to deal with the constant floods.  In fact, Regola is the corruption of the name Arenula, still seen on many roads, which is the name for the silty, fine sand deposited in the area whenever the river flooded its banks.  (Going back to my post about the Jewish Ghetto—see? You’re not special, non-Jews got flooded yearly too and didn’t get their walls until the 1880’s).  The Via Giulia, the main road through Regola, was a Medieval endeavor and was one of the first straight roads in the city.  

Writing Assignment 5

            I actually have already spent a lot of time over the course of my life contemplating the effects of changing perspective upon returning to a place.  When I was four, my family moved to Manihiki, an atoll in the Cook Islands that sustained 700 people in two villages.  We lived there for close to a year and in the allotted time I grew extremely attached to that hunk of coral; I am still influenced by events that took place there.  However, two relevant things happened upon leaving the atoll: 1) I did not consider Hawaii home for a very long time, insisted on using Manihiki-Maori pidgin and was shocked by the wasteful excesses of Kona—which are minimal now that I look back with still more perspective—and 2) Manihiki was struck by a hurricane that leveled both villages on the atoll five months after I left.  Therefore I still am afraid to return to Manihiki, knowing it will never be the way I left it.  Instead I have turned it into an abstract concept and filled it with all the childish and pure memories I can muster, then labeled it ‘historical fiction’ and filed it away deep in the left brain so those perceptions cannot be tainted by cynicism of mature logic.

            More recently I’ve been part of the UW dance between Rome, Florence and Prato, which is a much less dramatic version of rearranged perspective at work.  I never realized how guarded I was on Roman streets before going to Florence where I suddenly had no impulse to clutch my purse at all times.  Although this is not a change in perception it is a realization of unconscious bias.  I think that still counts.  Florence also gave me a chance to practice being a traveler in a much safer environment so that Rome now seems much more manageable to interact in.  Before this side-trip I was hyper-aware of insulting Italians in the process of exercising my limited knowledge of the culture during interactions.  But in Florence, since everyone expects you to be a stupid tourist anyway, I was able to push the limits of my practice much more than usual (also the people were much more open to interactions in general) and now have returned to Rome ready to try again.   I feel now like I have a right to project myself into society.

            As for Prato, even the small stint we took in that town has reminded me of what non-ancient cities are like.  That reprieve from aesthetically pleasing, story-laden buildings gave me time to fight the desensitization to history; I am no longer jaded to fantastic works of art and mysterious ruins.  I stepped back down to the streets of Florence and sighed with relief as the artistic family crests stared down from every corner and the cobble streets wound out of sight in ancient disorder.  Only the day before I had been unimpressed by Verrocchio’s David because it wasn’t quite spectacular enough.  Prato’s industrial nature revived me to appreciate the romantic past of the ancient cities.

            However, there are other places I’ve recently experienced that influenced my return to Rome as well.  I was among the group that went to Cinque Terre for the weekend after Florence.  While there, I fell in love.  That countryside is the most idyllic combination of Nisyros (an island in the Grecian Dodecanese) and Kealekekua Bay, my roots and home once I reconciled myself to the change in venue after leaving Manihiki.  I was honestly more ecstatic wandering those terraces at sunset than running amuck among the Ostia ruins.  And that says a lot.  After 36 blissful hours among those warm, pastel-colored houses delved into the hillside and taking my first hike in five weeks through olive groves and marble boulders, touching back down on the dead rock streets of Rome (even cobblestone) was a disappointment.  Although I’ve pined for leafy green stuff many times since coming to this city it was never as sharp a pang as when that countryside was freshly burned into my memory.

            On my return from that weekend, Rome had changed only a little in my eyes.  Rather, it become more distinct in what I already saw.  I again appreciated how old its buildings are—even compared to the Renaissance town of Florence but especially to Prato.  I saw how few green places there are, although interestingly I don’t hold this against Florence (probably because I have not seen it since recharging in nature).  And I felt how much more real Roman life is than in that Florentine theme park.

After all that analysis, the next weekend I joined a large majority of the class in Venice.  This was a very different experience from Cinque Terre but just as invigorating.  The presence of water was almost as exciting as the presence of green stuff.  Again it was a very touristy town and due to Carnevale the crowds were singularly loud and colorful.  However, instead of making my return to Rome a relief, it made it just seem slow and dull.  I certainly don’t miss the tourist crowds but there was an energy in St. Marco’s Square that by far outshines the day-to-day kind of bustle in Rome.  Upon my return, the realness of Rome was again apparent in comparison to that tourism-driven city but from the opposite side of the spectrum. 

From all these trials I think I can definitively define Rome’s character as ‘real.’  I would have to return to those other cities to confirm the label plastered on each—not a job to complain about—but for now they must act as my measuring tools.  I now know Rome is not my end-all Italian city, however I appreciate the side of Italy it represents.

Caritas questions

1.  What rate of immigrants touched by Caritas are considered success stories?

2.  Who is most likely to be a success story? (Man? Woman? Edu level? etc)

3.  What percentage of the immigrant population (or the entire needy population) can Caritas support?

4.  What is the official opinion of Caritas on the protest/riot that has been brewing near the Pantheon?

Writing Assignment 4

            I actually have already contemplated this topic a lot over the course of my life.  When I was four, my family moved to the remote atoll of Manihiki, in the Cook Islands, for close to a year.  I grew extremely attached to that hunk of coral and am still influenced by events that took place there.  However, two relevant things happened upon leaving the atoll: 1) I did not consider Hawaii home for a very long time, insisted on using Manihiki pidgin and was shocked by the wasteful excesses of Kona (which are minimal now that I look back with still more perspective) and 2) Manihiki was struck by a hurricane that leveled both villages on the atoll five months after I left.  Therefore I still am afraid to return to Manihiki, knowing it will never be the way I left it.  Instead I have turned it into an abstract concept and filled it with all the childish and pure memories I can muster, then labeled it ‘historical fiction’ and filed it away deep in the left brain so those perceptions cannot be tainted by cynicism of mature logic.

            Now, as for the last week’s dance between Rome, Florence and Prato, this is a much less dramatic version of rearranged perspective at work.  I never realized how guarded I was on Roman streets before going to Florence where I suddenly had no impulse to clutch my purse at all times.  Although this is not a change in perception it is a realization of unconscious bias.  I think that still counts.  Florence also gave me a chance to practice being a traveler in a much safer environment so that Rome now seems much more manageable to interact in.  Before this side-trip I was hyper-aware of insulting Italians in the process of exercising my limited knowledge of the culture during interactions.  But in Florence, since everyone expects you to be a stupid tourist anyway, I was able to push the limits of my practice much more than usual (also the people were much more open to interactions in general) and now have returned to Rome ready to try again.   I feel now like I have a right to project myself into society.

            As for Prato, even the small stint we took in that town has reminded me of what non-ancient cities are like.  That reprieve from history-laden buildings gave me time to fight the desensitization to history; I am no longer jaded to fantastic works of art and mysterious ruins.  I stepped back down to the streets of Florence and sighed with relief as the buildings, packed characteristically tight with no alleys and little city organization, loomed up like a wall in front of me.  I was jaded to all but the most exquisite museums and architecture.  Prato’s industrial nature has now revived me to appreciate the romantic past of the ancient cities.

            However, there is another place I’ve recently experienced that influenced my return to Rome as well.  I was among the group that went to Cinque Terre for the weekend.  While there, I fell in love.  That countryside is the most idyllic combination of Nisyros (an island in the Grecian Dodecanese) and Kealekekua Bay, where I grew up (once I reconciled myself to the change in venue after leaving Manihiki).  I was honestly more ecstatic wandering those terraces at sunset than running amuck among the Ostia ruins (and that says a lot).  After 36 blissful hours among those warm, pastel-colored houses delved into the hillside and taking my first hike in five weeks (a record dry spell for me) through olive groves and marble boulders, touching back down on the dead rock streets of Rome (even cobblestone) was a disappointment.  Although I’ve pined for leafy green stuff many times since coming to this city it was never as sharp a pang as when that countryside was freshly burned into my memory.

            So, in conclusion, Rome has not changed much in my eyes, only become more distinct in what I saw before.  I again appreciate how old its buildings are—even compared to the Renaissance town of Florence but especially to Prato.  I see how few green places there are, although interestingly I don’t hold this against Florence, probably because I have not seen it since recharging in nature.  And I feel how much more real life here is than in that Florentine theme park.

Writing Assignment 3

More goes on in the marketplace than just the transfer of money for goods.  There is the interaction of consumers and producers, competing producers, and the inevitable clash of cultures in all these dealings.  Of course the American culture was inevitably mixed with each interaction I participated in, especially with the cheese merchant who spoke no English whatsoever.  He was probably in his 50’s, bald, and spoke rapid Italian without even trying to slow down or simplify the language for me.  On top of that I have very little idea of cheese culture and thus was overwhelmed by his overflowing display case marked only in Italian with no names I could definitively recognize (I think we were arguing over the provolone but it was call ‘provala’ in the case).  When we finally agreed on which one I was buying I asked for three euros worth and he gave me a bitter look before cutting four euros.  I was too overwhelmed to dive back into an argument.    Interestingly, most of the overtly immigrated workers were the best English speakers and also cared to pick me out as American—even when I was alone and not shouting to the other students in English.

Shopkeeper-shopkeeper interactions are best summed up by what went on in the fish section of the market.  Seafood is the only type of shop that was all organized into one area, undoubtedly because of the smell and need for cold conditions.  Although I could not understand their actual conversations it seemed like each threw verbal jabs across the open cement area like boys around the world.  I’d believe it since I’ve also seen this done, especially when the recipient is tending to a customer, in Russian and Rarotonga.  These were all friendly interactions, and I did not see any qualms even between opposing races tending the same shops, however there was an undoubted division among what people shopped at what store.  This is normal, based on personal taste embedded from a person’s upbringing rather than a conscious discrimination; not everyone was raised with couscous and is therefore not going to patronize the shop dedicated entirely to couscous-related dishes.

The market is a borderland on more than one level.  There is the Italian-immigrant border visible in what kind of shop is kept.  Most decidedly Italian-looking people were behind the counters at cheese stands and one or two bread stands.  European-looking immigrants took other bread and meat shops, but the majority of stands (produce, spices, canned goods, etc) were run by the huge mix of darker immigrants who I won’t even pretend to guess their origin.  However, as I hinted before, at least in the fish market even my untrained racism could pick up similarities among the shopkeepers (particularly their mutual knowledge of a non-Italian language) to suggest they came from the same mother-culture.  Then is the border somewhere outside of the market that distinguishes tourist and Roman living space as seen in the significantly lower prices at the Esquilino market than anywhere near Campo di Fiori.  Americanized areas get burned on prices: 2.5 vs 5 euros per kg mushrooms, 40 vs 100 euros per kg spices.  However it is a grey zone in how every nationality is drawn there to get the ingredients for its cultural fix.  I’ve never seen such a congregation of cultural Africans, certainly not milling around with so many Subasians.

Italy does not display the same identity in Esquilino Market as I have been offered walking through other parts of town.  The lady I talked to for the last Borders assignment would probably have a heart attack if the Esquilino image was superimposed on all of Rome; the market’s image is one of a melting pot filled with oil, water, butter and vinegar.  Some cultures meld together well, some never will, but all maintain a good amount of their original selves.  The market place is not a place of assimilating but rather reaffirming one’s original culture.  Italian culture is included but not dominant by any means.  It is not at all the image offered to me last week of a purely Roman city.