My Rome, in beauty

This is Raffaello's School of Athens, can you spot the angel and tell me why it is there?

This dirty Rome is not my Rome! My heart aches when, during my silent walks in the sweet golden slumber of a september morning, I go to my morning mass in the white church of Santa Caterina, that overlooks the Magnanapoli aquare, right beside the Quirinal. Today, for instance, the Madonna dei Monti square was full of bottles, but not the happy ten green bottles of the Nursery Rhymes...oh no, bottles, bottles everywhere, left overs from a mad night of alcohol and what else I do not know nor want to know. So I close my eyes and walk by, and down I go, in little steps, along the Madonna dei Monti street that is dark and pretty and has, as a gate, the Augustus Forum. I walk and walk, singing to myself, while all around me Rome cries in utter abandonment. How can it e possible? When did all this start? I wonder. I might have been asleep or elswhere. But all the same, in the blue bag that I always carry with me, I pick up bottles here and there and Rome, my darling, sweet Rome, seems to smile in bliss and thankful salutes me to my happy day... 

If you want me to guide you in my beautiful Rome, please send me a mail:
bennidv@libero.it
Bennedetta 

An amazing adventure with you and thank you so much

It was super inspiring and we will see you again I feel 

Peter 

Peter walked with me and this is what he wrote to me and I was delighted...

Tour of Rome with me

If in Rome, join me on a three hours walk in the Eternal City for a deep insight into the spiritual and everyday life of the ancient Romans and a plunge in the holiness of Christian life and mystic. Join me for a reading of the symbols and signs of the unseen that can open your eyes, hearts and souls.
For more info: bennidv@libero.it
 What people said after the tour:

"Vicki (Sydney): "Just wanted to take the time to say a big thankyou for the wonderful tour you gave us in Rome.  It was one of the highlights from our European tour.  Just back at work this week, but still feeling the glow of the holiday.

You were inspirational, very informative and showed a great love for your city".

Chris and Angela (New Zealand): ".I just wanted to say thank you again for the wonderful tour you took us on. Your stories were so interesting. Yesterday we went to The Vatican and also had the tour of St. Peter's Tomb. The guide was telling us various stories and Angela and I smiled at each other on more than three occasions remembering the lessons we had from you. We knew the stories and the history because of you".

In the bliss of Filippo

bennibag the colour of a spring Roman sky, to buy it (15 euros) send me a mail!

On march the 16th, every year that God sends to us in this strange world in its topsy turvy ways, in rain or shine, the beautiful Palazzo Massimo alle Colonne, masterpiece of Baldassarre Peruzzi, that looks on the savoiard street of Corso Vittorio Emanuele, opens its doors, with valets dressed up, to the Romans who want to visit the baroque chapel dedicated to the great Roman Saint Filippo Neri. He, Filippo (Pippo for us Romans…) was the darlingest and loveliest of saints, simple, beloved, loving, he lived in the XVI century and dedicated his whole life to the young children that roamed the Sacred Eternal City in dire poverty. But all the little ones, abandoned and unloved, found in Pippo a friend and a father. Also Paolo Massimo, the little prince who lived in the beautiful Palazzo alle Colonne…

One sad day, one very sad day, on the 16^th of march of 1584, the little prince laid in his deathbed. Pippo was summoned, but could not come in time. The child, a fourteen year old, died and when the dear priest arrived, it was too late… Yes, but not too late for a man of God. Pippo sat beside the little dead boy and asked him to come back to him. And Paolo did! He talked to the priest, received his Sacraments and eventually said that he rather be in Paradise with his dead mother and went away again. So the story goes. The room where this wondrous facts took place is now a beautiful baroque chapel. And this year, walking through the dark rooms of the Palace and up the stairs to reach the second floor and the chapel, I was there too, to remember the miracle of a great Saint, to pray where it took place and to live an ancient Roman tradition that I brought back home tied to my heart, together with Filippo's bliss.

Like a Barbie doll

My brave ibiscus in prayer...

Rome, in august, is a lady in prayer, empty of men and full of charms. I like to roam, in the first hours of the morning when the sun is still in his pijamas, in the streets that are silver and white, in the absence of people, through the deep silence of thought. I like to roam, here and there, nd slip in one of the church that I love. This morning, just for the joy of bare facts, I was  in Santa Prassede, a beautiful church that stands, deep in solitude, behind Santa Maria Maggiore and that keeps in its holy womb so many beauties that I can hardly talk about them in this short note. All the angels of Paradise gather on its sidewalls and they are so solemn and tall and beautiful that if you listen carefully you might hear the flapping of their wings or the whispers of heaven…

There is a masterpiece bust of Gian Lorenzo Bernini that looks at you through his marble, empty eyes. But of all, in glory of gold, the Chapel of Saint Zenone where the loveliest Madonna, a Barbie doll of the Middle ages, smiles at you from up above, with her dear eyes twinkling in joy and the lovely veil the colour of zapphires. And peace, in the sprinkling of waters, is all around while the heart melts and dances in the cosmos regained.

Power in Rome

Wherever you live, whoever you are, one day or other, you are called to visit the Eternal City. Not only because of the beauty it contains, in the mash of different cultures and lives, but also – and most of all – because it is in Rome, in between these seven hills, the she wolf and the twins, that our western world was born and bloomed in centuries; here and nowhere else, the language of law (not the one of philosophy, which always belonged to the greeks) was spoken since the start. The Romans had four words to eplain power but only one word, the “imperium” was the real power, the power to rule and to punish put together. The power that Augusts avoked to himself to save the Romans and Rome from the decline and fall that was yet to come…

All this and more in my tours for you. I am here, feel free to contact me!

A message from Chris and Angela who walked with me last sunday, a lovely day!: Hello Benedetta.....I just wanted to say thank you again for the wonderful tour you took us on.  Your stories were so interesting. Yesterday we went to The Vatican and also had the tour of St. Peter's Tomb.  The guide was telling us various stories and Angela and I smiled at each other on more than three occasions remembering the lessons we had from you.  We knew the stories and the history because of you.  Thank you again, I will report back to Phil the lovely day spent with you.  Lots of love Chris and Angela xxx

Many tours, Roman walking tours for you

This is me under a greek moon, with my very first bennibag (see shop!)...
I am a journalist, a writer, a blogger, deep in Roman culture and history and art, and everyday life.
Spiritual tour: 4 hours together (from the Trajan Column to Sant'Ivo alla Sapienza) to see and understand with new eyes the silent flow of life that is hidden and obscure to all that run around with blind eyes and closed ears. Join me, have a unique experience in Rome!
I organize many other tours: food tours in the Esquilino, Church tours in the Monti area, shopping tours and whatever suits you best. I will be more than happy to make you happy, please give me a call, see you in Rome
Benedetta

Today, yesterday, always in Rome

Flowers in Sardinia

In the Suburra, where I live (being the first Rione of Rome)0, once upon a time Julius Caesar lived. Yes, the great general the dictator, the man who changed everything in the Eternal City used to live in the middle of the Rome of the people. Not in the Palatine (where August will later build his palace), not in the Aventine (Remo’s hill, the hill of the birds, which is nowadays one of the best places to live in Rome…). No: Caesar, being of a simple equestrian family (not a senatorial one) lived in the Suburra, meaning Sub (under) and Urbs (the City), a place where the crowds lived, where mishaps happened and everyday life just lingered in dark corners…

I happened to guide some people in the Suburra, just a few days and, oh, so many things to see that, living there, I had never,  so to speak, noticed!The Suburra, the Rione Monti, is home of the last Roman artisans, mostly carpenters and, on the 19^th of march, day of Saint Joseph, the ancient spirit of Catholicism rises and the Rione is crossed by a procession of people devoted to the earthly father of Christ. A little piece of tradition that starts its way through the Rione from the Chuurch of San Lorenzo in Fonte, a church so small a cosy one would like to live in it... A church that was nothing more than the house of the centurion who arrested Lorenzo and then became converted and a Christian…After the mass, at eleven o’clock, the snake of people following the holy statue of Joseph and the Child, twists and twirls through the little streets of the ancient Rione. Something a visitor should not miss: today, like yesterday and always.

Please contact me if you happen to come to Rome an would like a very special tour guide! Feel free to write to me t this address: mbennidv@gmail.com I will be happy to answer and very happy to make the best for your stay in Rome...

Paradise regained

Bennibags of my heart, send a mail if you want one!

I do not know why,and it is – believe me - sheer mistery to me, people think that the Middle Ages are a dark period of history and something that altogether scares deep inside, leaving the shadows of the devil somewhere hidden in the bush... But no, no, absolutely not! During the Middle Ages, the great, luminous saints of Catholicism were born and bread: Saint Benedict, Saint Francis, Saint Dominic and many many more that can replenish a big book. So many are the saints and martyrs of the Cathedra of Saint Peter that a huge book (that I am reading right now and that belonged to my grandmother)does not tell the story of everyone of them. Today, for instance, is Saint Anastasia (Anastasis meaning in greek resurrection), but many othe saints are cherished today: Saint Paterno, Saint Leonida and other ones that I do not know. And not only saints but great artists worked and dwelled in those long lost days: Giotto, Pietro Cavallini, Arnolfo di Cambio andnd witers like Dante and Boccaccio and Petrarca and Cecco Angiolieri...

In Rome, the Middle Ages, breathe and prosper in every secluded angle, in every church and in the deepest deep of everyday life. They smile, just to mention one thing, from the beautiful mosaiques of the Christ Pantocrator in many churches (Saint Clement, Saint Mark, Saints Cosma and Damian and on and on in a neverending line), but there is a place, a sacred, golden place where the Middle Ages are so very much alive and palpitating that one could stand in all that beauty for hours on end and the place is the Zenone Chapel in Santa Prassede. Up above, the angels, in golden silent, pray for us on earth, a deer drinks the water of life (the Word of the Father) from a happy spring, Mary is as beautiful as a beautiful doll and all around us is gold like gold is paradise, Paradise regained.

If you want to walk with me for a unique Roman tour, send me a mail: mbennidv@gmail.com

Numa, the great

All throughout its long, long history Rome had its heart divided into two. On the one side: gates open to the east, the Greeks and its Gods and Goddesses and philosophers (how far from Romans were these theorethical fellows from the lawful, practical Romans…), and Egypt with its mysterious and mistycal charms; on the other side, the culture of the Sabins, where the true roots of the Roman seed came: grain and sheep and olive groves and vinyards in the rich countryside that stretches inland, toward the Adriatic sea. It is there in the lands of the Sabins (Sabo meaning sacred) that I spent some of this long, hot, sunny summer. It is there, in the silver hills that I could trace back on the flight of thought where everything began.

It is there that I met, let’s say it in a methaphorical way, the great king Numa, who came after Romulus, and was consacrated to the Gods of his silver lands. He was the one to organize the priesthoods in Rome, he put together Romans and Sabins (after the famous rape of the beautiful sabin girl) to build the future grandness of the Roman venture. He used to talk, for counseling, with the Nymph Egeria, who helped him in the difficult art of ruling his people. He listened to her wise words and ruled in wisdom for many, many years. As I read about him, I could see him come alive in the lands where he always lived, even as the King of Rome. There are no Numas, now in Italy, but the memory of this great King still lives in Plutarch and sometimes, in my sabin nights, I could just hear him wisper in my ear the true story of the forgotten sabin roots of the Roman Empire…

Do as the Romans do

In the heart of the Roman centre, while cars and motorbikes and buses roar their neverending roar and people come an go, in everyday frenzy, as it is in every other city in the world, in the beautifully simple Palazzo Venezia, the Palace of the venetian cardinal Paolo Barbo, who was to become Pope in the end of the Fifteenth century bearing the name of Paul the II,  a lovely garden sleeps its peaceful slumber, hidden in all its renaissance grace in the heart of hearts of the Popes once house, now a museum.

It is shaped exactly like a Roman "viridarium", hidden inside walls as the soul is hidden in the body. It is a dream come true, the loveliest gift for people who like to see Rome in its true face, not rushing from the Colosseum to the Vatican museum seeing too much and understanding little. I took there, during one of my spiritual walks, a little group, some time ago. And while, us four, happy privilegded four, were there in all that beauty, the bells of Saint Mark (the once private basilica of the Pope) started chiming, and ding dong, ding dong, in the silence and in that sweet green, as if time had stopped and we lived  for a long, long minute, in times that are forlon and that caress heart and soul…

Please contact me if you are coming to Rome. Spiritual walks, Food walks, shopping walks, doing just as the Romans do. I will find the right thing for you!. Benedetta bennidv@libero.it

In between pots and pans

On the top of the Esquilino hill, which was, in the days of the Divus Augustus, a cemetery for slaves (where the poet Horatius went to see the witches making their horrid spells)… in a little secluded street off Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore, there is the magnificent Basilica of Santa Prassede. I do not want to make the list of the treasures hidden in this shy but beautiful church, but only tell you the story of the saint to whom the church is dedicated. She was one of two sisters born of a senatorial family. Their father, Pudente, was a great friend of Saint Pauls and such a rich and important man was he that his home (full of gardens and even baths) sloped down from the Esquilino hill towards what is now the cool Monti area. It all belonged to him and to his two daughters who were slaughtered because Christians. Little of very little remains of their vivid memory and martyrdom (meaning being a witness), all saints, who knows why, become statues and bits of paper and loose life and light. What a pity! Where blood and the fire of love used to consume soul and body, only the dust of time has remained…

So very true this is that when, during my spiritual tours, I talk to my guests telling them the stories of, let’s say, Saint Teresa of Avila, their eyes open up in wide bewilderment when I tell them that the beautiful Teresa, while a kid, run away from home together with her brother to join the crusades. Her parents brought them back home and maybe, probably even, spanked her for running away… Yes, the great Saint, the Doctor of the Church was also a naughty little girl, as she said, yes a mystic, “in between pots and pans".

This masterpiece by Lorenzo Lotto shows Mary in the fright of becoming the mother of God. Pleae note the terrified cat running away,  in awe, while God enters Mary's room

Angels in Rome

When in Rome, you might like to look out for the angels that, here and there, open their flauncy, white wings on the City of the Pontifs to envelop and enbrace us all and bring us up towards God and our salvation, back to the gardens of a Paradise now lost in this topsy turvy world we are living in. Yes, angels are everywhere in Rome. The one on top of the Castel Sant’Angelo is, I migh say, the highest one of all, ready to fly away, back to where he belongs... There he is, little in the distance, yet powerful as he is towering the Holy City of Rome. He is Saint Michel, one of the three Archangels,  in the action of putting his flaming sward back in its scabbard. Why, you might ask? The reason is a terrible pestilence which had broken and devasted Rome and its inhabitants in the late VII Century (Pope Gregory the Great sitting on the Holy See…), disappeared as the Archangel appeared, in all its mystical glory, to Pope and Romans right on top of Adrian’s Tomb. The pestilence gone, the sward back home…

But you will not find Saint Michel in the beautiful church of Sant’Andrea della Valle, where a very special chapel sings the eternal mystery of the angelical creatures. One masterpiece, forgotten who know why, is Pomarancio’s picture telling the story of God giving Saint Gabriel, Archangel, the command to fly down to earth and tell Mary that she will bear his son. We are used to seing Gabriel in the act of performing his duty, with the sacred lilium, pure as pure can be and Mary in the act of accepting her divine fate. But, the before painted by Pomarancio is so sweet and glorious that one – me for instance - can sit in front of the picture for hours on end and still want to look again and again the everlasting mystery of God made true…

When in Rome, join me for a three hours spiritual walk, contact me: bennidv@alice.it I'll be happy to give you all the details needed.

Ok maybe tomorrow

On this coldish Thursday of may, with the wind sweeping cats and stripes of tattered clouds in a sky that is the colour of a torquoise, off I went together with two delightful irish ladies and a lovely chinese girl (who has lived in Ireland for the last fifteen years) for one of my very special walks in the Eternal City. I will not, of course, tell you what we saw and what I said (this you might discover one day, joining me for a two hour spiritual tour…), and how Augustus came to life and seemed one and all with us, walking in a City that was his and is no more. Up we went on the Capitol Hill, threading on Michelangelo’s magnificent staircase, made for happy human feet, and, oh, the beauties of the Forum seen from up above, under the sacred presence of the Roman twins, one and all, the first king of the little town hich would be great! There, yes, there, the Palatine, where Augustus lived in simplicity, loving as he did the “antiqui mores” of his ancestors… Here, right here, the arch of Septimius Severus, the African emperor who lived in Leptis Magna (its pink remains in Lybia I always craved to see and never did and maybe never will…), and while I am there, telling how Tiberius succeded in being Augusto’s successor against the will of the great Pontifex Maximus, through the charms and bets of his great mother Livia, my cellphone rings. I answer. It is Mrs G., the lady who keeps my bank account, and she goes on merrily: “Hellò! Do you have a daughter? Have you ever thought of having a supplementary pension?”. Ok, maybe tomorrow.

To contact me for a two hours walk in Rome: bennidv@alice.it or mbennidv@gmail.com  I'll be more than happy to give you all the details.

Spring in Rome

Summer in Cala Gorgolu /Sardinia), the place I love

I do not know what spring is; if it is solely pure breath of life waking up after the white chill, in the breast of the ancient earth, I hardly know. It could be the everlasting  dance of life and death, concealed to most and showing itself in the sparkling white of the little daisies and in the dimple blue of the forgetmenots that bloom overnight colouring the green patches of grass in the Eternal City. I do not know what sacred spring is, but I did see it freeing her pink ribbons in the pale blue sky some days ago as I was walking down the Fori imperiali to catch the 85 bus. I saw her softly loosening the pony tails of a group of young flowery girls and in the pic nic that a couple of oldies was taking in the midst of the Colle Oppio park. I saw spring in all her beauty, inviting all creatures to dance at her lovely, scented rhythm. I saw it as the ancient Romans used to see her, picturing her in a lovely goddess of flowers and beauty, a goddess who, as the months passed, flourished and bloomed to become the Goddess Vesta…

She was the one to whom the vestals, the only nuns that ancient Rome ever had in her old days of love and splendor, kept the fire burning for, the fire, Ermes, the link of love that unites heaven and earth. The head of the Vestals was so powerful in Rome that she only could stroll in the Eternal City, lying on a cart. Just like the emperor, who was the Pontifex Maximus. He who builds bridges with the Gods beyond. The Pontifex Maximus and the mother Vestal together followed the rituals, being one and all, together, the great way that lead to the divine. And Vesta gave her lovely name to the Italian noun for summer: Estate. Spring is now knocking on the door, young Vesta (in the flowery dress of Libera), will soon become Vesta, the lady of the golden wheat, smiling to the sun, in the deep blue skies of a new summer…

A taste of paradise and beyond

If coming to Rome, do not, oh please, run around in a crowd, skipping from the Colosseum to the Vatican Museums in pure unconsciousness, taking pictures and selfies of yourself before the Vittoriano. Do not be prey of fret, that kills thruth and shuts your eyes to beauty and to the uncountable symbols that tell the real story, hidden and sacred, which can be told and understood in simplicity and wonder, with few words in the life of the eternal river. When in Rome, plan to see, of course, the Colosseum and the Vatican museum but find the secret thread that will lead you to understand what lies beyond, what can be seen as a revelation of the past as true and as alive as your everyday life back home. In the living symbols of our forefathers, that are here and there in churches and monuments, you will find, if guided, the answers to your quest...
So, for instance, why not linger in the Aventine hill, the hill of Remo, the twin that was killed by his Brother Romulus, the first king of the Eternal city.? Do you know, why, the Aventine is called Aventine? Birds is the answer (avis meaning bird in latin) From the Aventine hill, the roman augures used to watch the flight of birds, which gave answers to their prayers. On this hill, the twins decided where to build Rome. And Rome itself, bearing such a sacred name, is a mistery unfolded which I will keep to myself and give as a gift to those who might want to come with me on the Aventine Hill to discover the secluded garden of Sant'Alessio. A taste of paradise and beyond...

On sundays in Rome

bennibag flowers and owls

Churches are about everywhere in Rome;  and even more, as many as the stars up above, in the center where I happen to live, being the privilege of my life. So, on sundays, as you might understand, I have more than one choice to pick a mass in time and place. I can either go to Santa Maria ai Monti, that is my parish church and listen to Don Francesco or, why not, choose the franciscan church of the Saints Quirico and Giulitta, child and mother, killed as martyrs, during the persecutions of Diocletian. In which case Padre Antonio will be behind the altar, celebrating the eternal sacrifice of our Lord. But, but, but, I have many other chances, believe me, I have at least once been in all and every church  in the surroundings. I know all they have inside, mosaiques and pictures and the way the Fathers tell the story. At eleven o'clock, on sundays, for instance, I might decide to listen to a mass in latin in Santa Maria Maggiore. Oh the glory of the gregorian chanting! My soul is lifted to heaven as the priests sing as angels migh sing...

In any case, one way or the other, I am sure to meet, at the bottom of the stairs, a "signor Marini", one who is more than Roman, meaning an ancient Roman citizen. He seems to sprang out of history, somwhere from the troops of Caesar, one of the tenth legion maybe. And when he speals the Roman of real Romans it is a pure caress to my soul. His low voice comes straight from mystery itself. And every and each time he performs for me one of the sonnets of Gioacchino Belli, one out of the hundreds, one that is perfect for the day and for us two. And then I laugh and then he laughsback and we jolly well laugh together and then, in peace and quiet, we are both off to mass... 

On the Celio hill

This is me in my eternal search

There are places in Rome that are lost in time and space, as if in touch with a mysterious thruth beyond; one is simply walking in between cars and traffic, maybe eating a slice of pizza, all in one with our crazy modern horizons, when all of a sudden, the Middle Ages seem to be back, with all their majestic struggle to reach eternity and God in heaven. A silence that is unreal spreads from the skies and eveything seems still and perfect, in the sublime search for holiness. 
All of a sudden, meaning it, the world is back to its premieval cosmos, lost and faraway all the turmoil of the City. This happens, for instance, to people, like me, that strolling  around the beauties of the Celio (one of the Seven Hills), reach, all of a sudden, a wondrous church called "Santi Quattro Coronati". It is entitled to four martys - that is to say witnesses - who, being marble sculptors refused to carve pagan idols for Diocletian. Thus, they were sentenced to death. To be forever remembered in the slumber of this magnificent church, as holy and perfect as if built in paradise...
You might want to peep at the beautiful Oratory of San Silvestro, asking for the key to the nun kept in claustration that sits, silent and still as a statue carved by the martyrs, behind a grate, or maybe just walk into the church itself to see, up high, the crown of saints and consecrated, that seem, dancing in a golden sky, to look at us, poor people downstairs, waiting, one day, to be up there in glory. One can just sit and stare at all that beauty or, why not, play the game of recognizing saints: each one  is painted together with his symbols. Let me end here and let me keep my score for myself, in glory up above.

In the Ara Coeli

Like Saint Francis in this wonderful El Greco (Dublin)

When walking to my library (the Rispoli on Via della Gatta),  coming down from the Monti area (where I belong) I must cross Piazza Venezia, right beside the green lawn, on a slice of pavement, where tourists of all kinds stand, shoulders to the Vittoriano, taking pictures (and selfies) of the big white “wedding cake” (as the Romans called the gigantic building that the piedmontese Savoy built when they conquered the City of the Pope)  which dominates the large Via Lata (now Corso), as a big memento of the shift of power that happened in those lost faraway days… King Victor Emanuel the II, on his majestic horse, martial as Marcus Aurelius on the Campidoglio, seems ready to stride along the Eternal City, prey, conquered and humiliated. This is the deep reason why, I think, Romans do not like that huge marble monument, beloved by the tourists who might think the Vittoriano an old temple coming straight from Augustus times…

No, the Romans do not like the Vittoriano, calling it the wedding cake or the typewriter. And, please, if you have time, walk around it (note how it gives its strong shoulders to the Campidoglio) towards the magnificent paleochristian church of the Ara Coeli, the altar of the skyes. Up there, on top of the ripid staircase that leads us to the entrance of the church that is (and has always been) kept by the holy Franciscans (being Francis a second Christ on earth). And there, in holiness, enter the Church as if in the womb of Mary. Sharpen your eyes and look for the chapel where the holy Bambino is kept. It is not the original one (the one, I mean, carved by a Franciscan monk from an olive tree of the Holy land, which was stolen years ago), but, in its ieratic beauty this new little bambino, in gold and pearls, is as beautiful as the original; please, in focus and concentration, listen to his silent words: one must be a child again to enter the world of the skyes, in the Ara Coeli.

On the slopes of the Campidoglio

Roman spiritual walks with Benedetta. Get in touch: bennidv@alice.it

On the slopes of the Campidoglio, where the glorious temple of Jove used to stand in all its might and beauty, one can still find, walking on the winding drives of the Via del Monte Caprino, the ancient flare of the holy Lupercal where the twins were nourished  by the she wolf (Acca Larentia). Down below,  on the busy Via Petroselli, the furious turmoil of the never ending flow of cars coming and going in the nonsense of everyday life. Up there, the cosmos of beauty and perfection, in the sweet chanting of birds, while the wind, graciously, rustles branches and leaves, and one might catch a glimpse of the ancient nimphs and satyrs that used to live here in days forgotten by the crowds. In the glow of autumn, the sacred mother earth seems ready for her annual sleep to come to life again in spring, full of colors in never ending glory...

I was there, yesterday, and all alone, in the sweet company of birds and groves, cleaning up the gardens from modern litter, and bottles and packets of cigarettes and all the trash of these unholy days. I was cleaning up, I say, and all of a sudden I was not alone any more. I felt, and saw, with my third eye wide open, the ancient luperci priests running, dressed as wolves, and beating up, with goat skins, young women in order to make them conceive. No doctors could have been more effective than those luperci waking up, in nature, sleeping wombs… The vision finished, back to work, hands in green gloves. All of a sudden, a man springs out from nowhere: “Please, can I throw away my bottle?”. Ok, I answered and before I could say more, the bottle popped inside and he gone.  

The eye of the cat

When walking towards the Collegio Romano, at a stone throw from Piazza Venezia, you might find yourself in a little, secluded street called via della Gatta, that snakes in sweet darkness on the borders of the Palazzo Grazioli (where no other than Silvio Berlusconi lives, when in the Capital…), well anyway, after a glance at the magnificent palazzo (that is still owned by the Roman noble family that gave it its patrician name, being Berlusconi only the one who is renting it), do keep your eyes sharp to catch a glimpse of the marble cat walking on the moulding. Its magical stare brings us back to the Egyptian times, for it does come from the enormous temple of Isis that once stood in the neighborhood. Isis, the Goddes of Earth, with Horus on her lap, was worshipped in Rome at the times of Caesar when Cleopatra arrived in the City of the Caesars, in golden chains…

No more Egypt now, but look at the greatness of the Collegio Romano, that was the University of the Gesuits (Pope Francis being a Gesuit, actually the first Gesuit ever to be Pope…). The University is now a school where someone dear to me attends his “Liceo”. The Gesuits have a new University in piazza della Pilotta (Università Gregoriana), as big as imperial as ever.

And now, before I forget, let me tell you a little Roman, traditional tale on the Gesuits that has something to do with, yes, with… the wind. I Will tell it, as Tacitus, the great Roman historian, would have done, that is to say: sine ira et studio. And now, the story. You must know that in front of the Gesù, which is the Gesuit’s most important church in Rome, on piazza del Gesù, the wind, being summer or winter, swirls and sweeps all day long. Well the story goes – and it was ever so popular in the 19^th century - like this: the devil once upon a time said to the wind: “Wait for me, I must go into the Gesù for a certain little bargain”. Off he went and the wind is still waiting for him to come out…