Pinacoteca

Thursday night I was invited by my contact at the embassy to an Art Gallery opening, an exhibition by a Sydney-based artist, so I could meet the Australian ambassador and his wife. Because it was nearby, I thought I’d go via the Trevi fountain, which, like almost everything I’ve found so far, I sort of stumbled across by accident, when I actually thought it was a few more streets away. It was dusk, and the blue lit water looked quite magical; I threw a few cents in but forgot to make a wish; in fact, I thought it was just for general good fortune, until I saw a Japanese man close his eyes and concentrate extremely hard before he threw his coins in.

I then got lost, which is not fun when on one’s own in Rome. All of this teething stuff is starting to get to me… but pain means gain, I suppose. I really do feel like a virgin, wandering everywhere for he first time with no real understanding of where I’m going. I can see how one could get very low when not versed in the tongue of the country they’re in; it’s like studying all the time, with no respite. You simply can’t keep trying to understand a language you know about one or two percent of, without it taking its toll. But it’s a matter of simply (or not so simply) riding it out, seeing off whatever darkness threatens, knowing somewhere deep down that it will pass, and that all is well.

I finally found the street, by the Piazza Barberini, and eventually, the gallery, or pinacoteca. I’d dressed up, and was terribly nervous, but the Ambassador was relaxed, and I’d worked myself up over nothing really. He told me that he is now president of the ‘non-Catholic’ cemetery across the river from me, which I didn’t know about. He told me that both Keats and Shelley, and many others are buried there – I’ve since done some research, and will make a day of it sometime soon.

The paintings were of Australian landscapes, and the clouds were particularly good, stained with a murky, khaki-grey indicating imminent thunderstorms. Those recognizable, wide open spaces, foreboding yet rife with possibility, together with suitably Raymond Carver-esque titles were like a little piece of home. I met some people about my age, all visual artists, mainly locals and one guy from New York who’d come here four years ago on a scholarship and decided to stay. The artist Jason Benjamin was also relaxed, though he said he was feeling severely jetlagged.

As the evening wound down, I took my leave. I ventured a different way to the way I came, and managed to wander straight into the Piazza di Spagna from a side street, without intending to. Keats died in the house right on the corner, by the Spanish Steps, but the museum was closed as it was late. Another time. I left via the Via Condotti, which, for those fashionistas out there, must be the street for shopping, with all of the famous designer stores here one after the other, Gucci, Dolce & Gabana, Armani… you get the idea.

This was really just a lazy stroll back to the Largo Argentina, where you get the tram to Trastevere. I strolled down the Via del Corso, but didn’t get to Goethe’s former abode, which I think is down the far end. I went past the Palazzo Venezia (from which Mussolini addressed the people below), took some photos at Il Vittoriano (“The Typewriter”) then headed back to the tram stop.