SVBURA

SVBURA

I have the strange and sometimes noisy privilege of living in the oldest of Rome’s original twelve rione. Just a few crooked narrow streets, less that one mile in diameter, inside the heart of Monti that is sometimes still referred to as Suburra (SVBURA in Latin).

For the last 2,500 years working class Romans (and now much wealthier ones, investing in the "shabby chic") have "abitata sotto la città" in this area that is not only a blend of Baroque, Rinascimentale, Medieval, and Roman architecture but a melting pot of cultures, classes, affectations and professions. And each day I come home dragging my weary laptop or overnight bags, I am left smiling and glad to be here…..a place uniquely Roman and with a history as colorful as it is ancient, and as original as the Roman bricks in the basement of my palazzo. It is a place that is as different as any I have ever had the privilege of visiting and yet, it has also begun to feel like home.

For it is within my network of narrow cobbled streets that I can find just about anything or anyone. The president of the republic has a house here, complete with security guards and scary men in fancy suits, sitting in black sedans wearing ear pieces. There is one of Rome’s oldest blacksmiths and the man who has made keys on Via Cavour for nearly 30 years. There is the mosaic artist who created the image in New York’s Central Park for the John Lennon memorial and despite being blind in one eye, still teaches his apprentice to cut the tile using the same tools and methods used since ancient Rome.

Suburra is also the place were Caesar sent his troops to unwind and get randy, where even Messalina and Nero were reported to have hung out, disguised in search of a little anonymous debauchery with the lower classes. Ask around, and you will hear the tale of Empress Messalina's challenge to a prostitute named Scylla for an all-night sex marathon. Scylla gave up at dawn when each of the women had taken on 25 lovers, but Messalina continued well on into the morning, stating that while she was exhausted she was still unsated.

Maybe it is for this reason that even today, you can still find brothels here, and the girls working them who smile at me and say "Ciao! Or "Che freddo!" as windy autumn sets in. I am tempted to invite them upstairs for tea, just to warm them and to understand better just how they do what they do, but I’ve already had to go one or two rounds to convince a few overly curious neighbors that no, just because I am friendly and speak to everyone does not mean I am for sale. Unlike Borgo, the Rione closer to the Vatican, the "cortigiane" here were never the elegant wealthy lovers of Popes, high prelates, or the noblemen long ago. Svbvra’s gals gave solace to tired troops and the sexually hungry of the middle and lower classes. They were even looked upon by the church as a necessary facet of every day Roman life. Even Thomas Aquinas in the Summa theologiae, stated "Taking away prostitutes from human affairs would stir up all matter of licentiousness." And as Aquinas graphically explained, "prostitution is like a sewer in a palace; if the sewer is removed, the palace will fill with filth".

I cannot say I agree with his assessment (girls in my neighborhood representative as sewers) but I do imagine for some of them , life would be infinitely more stimulating in some other line of work that didn't require them to sit perched on motorini for hours on end waiting for their next few euros.

But their presence here as well as their curious johns is a facet of life in the neighborhood, as real as the baskets some of the older folks still lower down on string to the waiting fruit vendors below and as colorful as the smells of minestrone, curry, Mexican and Chinese all mixed together with the paint of artists and the greasy muscle of repair shops.

From my front windows every afternoon I hear jazz, (one of the blessings of living near a jazz school), and at night the occasional refrain from an avant guard film playing at the near-by club. There is a classical pianist who practices arpeggios and the vendor hawking his knife sharpening skills and sometimes, infuriatingly at 7 in the morning, I hear the clickity clack of suitcases from the hotel just down the street.

From inside the maze of my building, I can hear Fabio yelling at his wife (proving once again why I think marriage is for the birds!) or Nina Simone, blaring from a worker’s radio as they refurbish the 4th floor apartment. I also hear the thump, thump thump, of another neighbor’s son running from one room to the next as it mixes with the sound of laughter from Probahker’s family across the courtyard. At night I hear the giggles and drunkeness of the twenty-somethings from the near-by hostel and have been known to shout myself "Aye!" to get them to be a little quieter when they forget that there are folks who have to get up for work in the morning trying to sleep in the nearby flats.

Last night I have walked home from a delightful dinner in the ghetto, past the Roman Forum and onto via Serpenti, turning again onto my own little narrow street. I had Rome almost to myself except for the couple holding hands whispering in "monticiani" the local dialect. Eavesdropping, I overheard him ask if they had bread for tomorrow’s breakfast, and her romantic response, "who needs bread, we have each other".

Ahhh Monti, I think I am in love.