{"id":14,"date":"2009-05-15T16:25:04","date_gmt":"2009-05-15T20:25:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/?page_id=14"},"modified":"2010-02-10T13:02:26","modified_gmt":"2010-02-10T17:02:26","slug":"italy","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/past-fellows\/2009-fellows\/italy\/","title":{"rendered":"Dan Stone: Italy"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Wine-tasting in\u00a0Tuscany<\/span><\/h1>\n
\n

September 16, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

\"Tuscan<\/p>\n

One of my closest friends, Sebastian Zutant, is a sommelier at an excellent restaurant in Washington, DC \u2014\u00a0Proof<\/strong><\/a>. Last week he was touring Tuscany with his wife, visiting vineyards whose wine he features at his restaurant. I rode the train up from Rome to meet them for a couple days, and they took me to a private tasting at\u00a0Ambrogio e Giovanni Folonari Tenute<\/strong><\/a>, a gorgeous and massive estate in the Chianti region. The Folonari family has been in the wine business since the late 1700s, and they now own some 900 hectares of vines scattered throughout the area. The particular estate we visited is their largest \u2014 it dates back to the year 1300 \u2014 and is the place where their operations are headquartered.<\/p>\n

\"grapes<\/p>\n

Sebastian\u2019s Italian distributor helped arrange this private tasting, which included a quartet of Texans who happened to show up at the right time and beg their way onto the tour.<\/p>\n

\"tasting<\/p>\n

We began in the tasting room, sitting around a twenty-five-foot table, while our host (the woman you see at the head) presented four of their best wines. I\u2019ve gone tasting in California, but I\u2019ve never been part of such a formal and sophisticated affair. We sampled a Chardonnay from the Chianti Classico district, a Sangiovese from the same area, a Sangiovese\/Cabernet mix from a nearby region, and finally a Super Tuscan blend of Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Cab Franc, and Petit Verdot. Everyone took notes. I didn\u2019t even pretend to know what any of meant, so I just doodled and focused on my wine. I do know that it was bloody delicious.<\/p>\n

I have a soft spot for grappa, or perhaps I should call it a hard spot, but anyway I love the stuff. Sebastian\u2019s wife, Lauren, asked a few clever questions that convinced our host to bring out two of their reserve grappas at the end of the tasting. One was made from the Sangiovese wine we had in front of us, so we were able to sip them side-by-side and recognize their parallel qualities.<\/p>\n

\"grappa<\/p>\n

Later they took us to the barrel room and the cellar, and we convinced them to sell us a few bottles of grappa before we jumped back in the rental car and wound through the twisting country roads towards Siena, where we spent a night before returning to Rome.<\/p>\n

\"barrel<\/p>\n

\"old<\/p>\n

\"Chianti<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u00a0<\/p><\/div>\n

—<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n

La tua\u00a0luce<\/span><\/h1>\n

September 4, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

La tua luce<\/span><\/strong>
\n[poem by Guiseppe Ungaretti; translation by Dan Stone]<\/em><\/p>\n

Scompare a poco a poco, amore, il sole
\nOra che sporaggiunge lunga sera.<\/span><\/p>\n

Con uguale lentezza dello strazio
\nFarsi lontana vita la tua luce
\nPer un non breve nostro separarci.<\/span><\/p>\n

– \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – –<\/span><\/p>\n

Your light<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

The sun disappears, love, little by little
\nNow that long evening unexpectedly arrives.<\/span><\/p>\n

With the same slowness,
\nYour light becomes distant life
\nOf the sorrow of our drawn-out parting.<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n

September 1, 2009<\/span><\/h3>\n

September 1, 1939<\/span><\/div>\n

\n
\n

As you likely saw in the news, Germany invaded Poland seventy years ago today, marking the start of WWII. Not only did Poland\u2019s Soviet neighbors fail to come to their aid, but they joined in the invasion, revealing their pact with the Germans.<\/p>\n

\"September<\/p>\n

As night fell in New York, the British emigrant W.H. Auden sat in a dive bar \u2014 or so his poem begins \u2014 realizing along with everyone else that a world war was inevitable. Here\u2019s his poem about that infamous day. (Arguably one of his best works, Auden had mixed feelings about the poem, even trying later to suppress its re-publication.) The final two stanzas, full of a sort of dark hope, are particularly moving.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

September 1, 1939<\/span><\/p>\n

W.H. Auden<\/p>\n

I sit in one of the dives
\nOn Fifty-second Street
\nUncertain and afraid
\nAs the clever hopes expire
\nOf a low dishonest decade:
\nWaves of anger and fear
\nCirculate over the bright
\nAnd darkened lands of the earth,
\nObsessing our private lives;
\nThe unmentionable odour of death
\nOffends the September night.<\/span><\/p>\n

Accurate scholarship can
\nUnearth the whole offence
\nFrom Luther until now
\nThat has driven a culture mad,
\nFind what occurred at Linz,
\nWhat huge imago made
\nA psychopathic god:
\nI and the public know
\nWhat all schoolchildren learn,
\nThose to whom evil is done
\nDo evil in return.<\/span><\/p>\n

Exiled Thucydides knew
\nAll that a speech can say
\nAbout Democracy,
\nAnd what dictators do,
\nThe elderly rubbish they talk
\nTo an apathetic grave;
\nAnalysed all in his book,
\nThe enlightenment driven away,
\nThe habit-forming pain,
\nMismanagement and grief:
\nWe must suffer them all again.<\/span><\/p>\n

Into this neutral air
\nWhere blind skyscrapers use
\nTheir full height to proclaim
\nThe strength of Collective Man,
\nEach language pours its vain
\nCompetitive excuse:
\nBut who can live for long
\nIn an euphoric dream;
\nOut of the mirror they stare,
\nImperialism\u2019s face
\nAnd the international wrong.<\/span><\/p>\n

Faces along the bar
\nCling to their average day:
\nThe lights must never go out,
\nThe music must always play,
\nAll the conventions conspire
\nTo make this fort assume
\nThe furniture of home;
\nLest we should see where we are,
\nLost in a haunted wood,
\nChildren afraid of the night
\nWho have never been happy or good.<\/span><\/p>\n

The windiest militant trash
\nImportant Persons shout
\nIs not so crude as our wish:
\nWhat mad Nijinsky wrote
\nAbout Diaghilev
\nIs true of the normal heart;
\nFor the error bred in the bone
\nOf each woman and each man
\nCraves what it cannot have,
\nNot universal love
\nBut to be loved alone.<\/span><\/p>\n

From the conservative dark
\nInto the ethical life
\nThe dense commuters come,
\nRepeating their morning vow;
\n\u201cI will be true to the wife,
\nI\u2019ll concentrate more on my work,\u201d
\nAnd helpless governors wake
\nTo resume their compulsory game:
\nWho can release them now,
\nWho can reach the deaf,
\nWho can speak for the dumb?<\/span><\/p>\n

All I have is a voice
\nTo undo the folded lie,
\nThe romantic lie in the brain
\nOf the sensual man-in-the-street
\nAnd the lie of Authority
\nWhose buildings grope the sky:
\nThere is no such thing as the State
\nAnd no one exists alone;
\nHunger allows no choice
\nTo the citizen or the police;
\nWe must love one another or die.<\/span><\/p>\n

Defenceless under the night
\nOur world in stupor lies;
\nYet, dotted everywhere,
\nIronic points of light
\nFlash out wherever the Just
\nExchange their messages:
\nMay I, composed like them
\nOf Eros and of dust,
\nBeleaguered by the same
\nNegation and despair,
\nShow an affirming flame.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\"Auden\"<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n


\n<\/span>\u00a0<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n

The Meditations of Marcus\u00a0Aurelius<\/span><\/h2>\n

September 1, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

\"Marcus<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been reading Marcus Aurelius\u2019s\u00a0Meditations<\/em>, the personal reflections of the great Roman Emperor who served from AD 161 to 180. Here\u2019s one I came across this morning [Book 2.4]:<\/p>\n

Remember how long you have been putting this off, how many times you have been given a period of grace by the gods and not used it. It is high time now for you to understand the universe of which you are a part, and the governor of that universe of whom you constitute an emanation: and that there is a limit circumscribed to your time \u2014 if you do not use it to clear away your clouds, it will be gone, and you will be gone, and the opportunity will not return.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n


\n<\/span>\u00a0<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n

Back-alley Feast<\/span><\/h2>\n

August 7, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

\"Da<\/p>\n

with a visiting friend from new york, i went out for an incredible meal last night. a bartender up near the piazza navona had told us about the place, claiming it was arguably the best spot in town. Da i 2 ciccioni is an unlicensed back-alley restaurant where the owner cooks out of his kitchen and serves meals on rickety tables just outside his door. there are no menus \u2014 you just eat whatever the gianni happens to be cooking.<\/p>\n

that bartender at the piazza navona had mentioned that national geographic listed it as one of the best restaurants in italy, and the new york times raved about the place this past march. here\u2019s an excerpt from the times review:<\/p>\n

\u201cYou could live in Rome your whole life and never find a place like this restaurant. On a street the width of a Mini Cooper, Da I 2 Ciccioni is marked by a graffiti-scrawled metal door and the boom of men\u2019s voices thumping out on to the cobblestones. When you first find \u201cDue Ciccioni\u201d (translation: \u201ctwo fat guys\u201d), you may think it is some guy\u2019s private kitchen where he hosts parties every night. You wouldn\u2019t be far off. The owner is a round man named Gianni with a bushy mustache and belly laugh, who doesn\u2019t speak a lick of English, has no restaurant license and would rather not give his last name. It\u2019s only quasi-legal, but Gianni will cook for anyone who happens by.\u201d<\/p>\n

they delivered some deliciously crisp, house white wine, and then the meal began with three antipasti, pictured below \u2014 bruschetta with tomatoes; spicy mashed potatoes with onions, chili pepper and tomatoes; and some tasty beans. [sorry about the quality of the photos; it was a fairly dark alley, which made it difficult to get clear shots.] \u00a0 \u00a0between courses, gianni\u2019s super-goofy and well-fed dog, aldo, stopped by for some affection. more likely, he was just looking for table scraps.<\/p>\n

\"ciccioni<\/p>\n

they kept the wine flowing during a short lull, then we choose between three primi [first dishes, usually pasta]. we had the cacio e pepe, which is a simple sauce of sharp pecorino cheese and fresh black pepper; our other pasta was a traditional carbonara, tossed with pancetta, oil, and spices.<\/p>\n

\"cacio<\/p>\n

then we had secondi, the main course. one dish was tender calamari over peas; the other was an amazingly succulent mound of chicken, saut\u00e9ed with white wine, garlic and rosemary. \u00a0at the end of the meal, they set a couple bottles of grappa and limoncello on the table for us to help ourselves. we did \u2014 generously. as the night grew late, gianni got rowdy. apparently, we weren\u2019t the only ones enjoying the grappa. he sang bits of opera and italian folk songs at a nearby table of his friends, and later he serenaded us personally with his arms spread wide and his head thrown back. damn good voice. before we left, i slipped into the tiny kitchen and took this photo of gianni in his element. he prepares the entire meal on that little stove.<\/p>\n

\"gianni<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

—<\/div>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n
\n

more concert photos<\/span><\/h2>\n

August 3, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

\"concert<\/p>\n

\"concert<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Levant<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n
\n

Poem by Giuseppe Ungaretti (1888 \u2013 1970)<\/p>\n

Translation by Dan Stone, \u00a02009<\/p>\n

Levant<\/span><\/p>\n

La linea
\nvaporosa muore
\nal lontano cerchio del cielo<\/p>\n

Picchi di tacchi picchi di mani
\ne il clarino ghirigori striduli
\ne il mare \u00e8 cenerino
\ntrema dolce inquieto
\ncome un piccione<\/p>\n

A poppa emigranti siriani ballano<\/p>\n

A prua un giovane \u00e8 solo<\/p>\n

Di sabato sera a quest’ora
\nEbrei
\nlaggi\u00f9
\nportano via
\ni loro morti
\nnell’imbuto di chiocciola
\ntentennamenti
\ndi vicoli
\ndi lumi<\/p>\n

Confusa acqua
\ncome il chiasso di poppa che odo
\ndentro l’ombra
\ndel
\nsonno<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

LEVANT<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

The vaporous
\nline dies
\nat the distant circle of the sky<\/p>\n

Heels clack hands clap
\nand the shrill arabesques of the clarinet
\nand the ashen sea
\ntrembling sweet and restless
\nas a pigeon<\/p>\n

Syrian emigrants dance at the stern<\/p>\n

A young man is alone at the prow<\/p>\n

On Saturday evening at this hour
\nJews
\ndown south
\ncarry off
\ntheir dead
\ninto the snail’s funnel
\nwaverings
\nof alleyways
\nof lights<\/p>\n

Churning water
\nlike the racket from the stern that I hear
\nwithin the shadow
\nof
\nsleep<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\"giuseppe_ungaretti011\"<\/p>\n

Click for Guiseppe Ungaretti Video<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n
\n

Quiete<\/span><\/h2>\n

August 1, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

Quiete<\/strong>
\n[poem by Giuseppe Ungaretti; translation by Dan Stone]<\/em><\/p>\n

L\u2019uva \u00e8 matura, il campo arato,<\/p>\n

Si stacca il monte dalle nuvole.<\/p>\n

Sui polverosi specchi dell\u2019estate
\nCaduta \u00e8 l\u2019ombra,<\/p>\n

Tra le dita incerte
\nIl loro lume \u00e8 chiaro
\nE lontano.<\/p>\n

Colle rondini fugge
\nL\u2019ultimo strazio.<\/p>\n

– \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – \u2013 – –<\/p>\n

Quiet<\/strong><\/p>\n

The grapes are ripe, the field plowed,<\/p>\n

The mountain emerges from the clouds.<\/p>\n

The shadow has fallen
\nAcross the dusty mirrors of summer,<\/p>\n

Between uncertain fingers
\nTheir light is pale
\nAnd distant.<\/p>\n

With the swallows escapes
\nThe final anguish.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Click for more video of Giuseppe Ungaretti<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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The Non-Catholic Cemetery in\u00a0Rome<\/span><\/h2>\n

August 1, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

\"writ<\/p>\n

Yesterday I hopped on the 75 bus to the Non-Catholic Cemetery in Testaccio, a neighborhood just south of the Circo Massimo, most known these days for its techno clubs and for one of the best delis in Rome \u2014 Volpetti<\/span><\/a>.<\/span> After eating far too much, I trudged past the shuttered nightclubs to the real local attraction: the resting place of Keats and Shelley.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve always had a special love for wandering in graveyards. I\u2019m not sure why. I guess it\u2019s for all the expected reasons \u2014 the tranquility, the aesthetics, an attraction to morbidity \u2014 but I also like strolling the aisles and reading the names and dates, inventing stories and situations for the deceased. I admire the simplicity of some markers and the shocking ornateness of others. I like calculating how close to one other an old couple died. And I\u2019m interested in the graves of children. [Hm. Reading over that last sentence, I don’t think I’ve ever written anything so creepy.] Anyway, this particular graveyard is reserved for non-Catholic foreigners who die in Rome. Both Keats and Shelley are interred there [even though Shelley died up in Tuscany], along with scores of lesser-known artists, archeologists, expats, and other decomposed citizens of the world.<\/p>\n

\"non-catholic<\/p>\n

Keats\u2019s grave was somewhat mobbed when I arrived, and my sentimental reflexes were acting up, telling me that I should wait for a lull in the action before stepping up to the famous tombstone for the first time. I didn\u2019t want the voices of heat-stroked tourists murmuring in my ear as I stood at the sacred site. I\u2019d scribbled down some lines from Shelley\u2019s \u201cAdonais,\u201d his elegy for Keats, which I had in my pocket and planned to mumble before the tomb:<\/p>\n

Go thou to Rome, at once the Paradise,
\nThe grave, the city, and the wilderness;
\nAnd where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise,
\nAnd flowering weeds and fragrant copses dress
\nThe bones of Desolation\u2019s nakedness
\nPass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead
\nThy footsteps to a slope of green access
\nWhere, like an infant\u2019s smile, over the dead
\nA light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.<\/p>\n

So I kept my distance for a while, steering clear of the other tourists, and went to find Shelley\u2019s resting place, which was surprisingly deserted. I guess poor Percy has fallen out of fashion.<\/p>\n

\"Shelley's<\/p>\n

Shelley drowned off the Italian coast, so his nautically themed epitaph is quite fitting. It\u2019s from Shakespeare\u2019s The Tempest, sung by Ariel:<\/p>\n

Full fathom five thy father lies;
\nOf his bones are coral made;
\nThose are pearls that were his eyes:
\nNothing of him that doth fade
\nBut doth suffer a sea-change
\nInto something rich and strange.
\nSea-nymphs hourly ring his knell.\n<\/p>\n

Finally Keats\u2019s tomb cleared out, and I claimed that corner of the cemetery. His epitaph is also Shakespearean, inspired by Henry VIII; the original lines read: \u201cMen\u2019s evil manners live in brass; their virtues \/ We write in water.\u201d Buried beside him is his buddy Joseph Severn, the man who drew the death-bed portrait I included in the post below. The best thing about Keats\u2019s headstone is that his name appears nowhere on it. Either he was arrogant enough to consider it unnecessary, or he was too humble. I like to believe the latter. Old Joe Severn, though, he couldn\u2019t wait to splash his famous friend\u2019s name on his own headstone \u2014 and in all-caps, no less. Now we\u2019re talkin\u2019.<\/p>\n

\"Keats<\/p>\n

Despite my indelicate tone, this really is an enchanting place. I plan to visit regularly while I\u2019m here. Oh, and if my travels take a wrong turn and I die in Rome, somebody please shovel me out a little plot of land in the non-Catholic cemetery. And keep my tombstone simple.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n

Keats-Shelley\u00a0House<\/span><\/h2>\n

July 29, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

\"keats_dying\"<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I spent yesterday at the Keats-Shelley House<\/span><\/a>, a haunted little museum where Keats exhaled his last breath while gazing from his window at the artists\u2019 models lounging on the Spanish Steps. Having been ordered to Italy by his doctor, he only lived here for three months before his consumption killed him. I stood for a while in his tiny room. There\u2019s a fireplace next to the bed where his friend Joseph Severn would often prepare meals for him. The blue ceiling must be twenty-feet high, which gives one the sensation of the walls closing in. It seemed a proper place to die. Beneath a window is Bernini\u2019s Barcaccia sculpture, depicting a sinking boat.<\/p>\n

At some point during the last century, they turned the apartment into a formidable research library, but now they\u2019ve locked all the books behind oakwood prison bars, so one can only stare longingly at the leather spines of the inmates. But I heard that in old days, they allowed writers, scholars, and other interested people to waste their afternoons in the stacks.<\/p>\n

It was a common gesture of affection in the time of the Romantics to give someone a lock of hair as a sign of friendship and affection. They have on display locks of hair from the heads of Keats, Shelley, Byron, Leigh Hunt, Elizabeth Browning, and even Milton.<\/p>\n

Above is a portrait Severn produced of Keats on his death bed. Below are some photos of the museum in the Piazza di Spagna.<\/p>\n

\"Keats-Shelley
\n\"Stacks
\n\"Locks
\n\"Plaque
\n\"Keats's<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n

Un Concerto nel Teatro di\u00a0Marcello<\/span><\/h2>\n

July 25, 2009<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

last night i attended a concert of traditional italian music, an event associated with one of the many music and art series that fill the roman summer calendar. these concerts are staged outdoors at the Teatro di Marcello, an archeological site built in 18 B.C. the place looks like a miniature version of the Colosseum. most nights they present classical pianists, but last night they featured a duo of piano and accordion, playing traditional songs, as well as music from old film scores. i\u2019ll post some photos below. there\u2019s also a photo of the Tiber at sunset, as i crossed the bridge over the Isola Tiberina on my way to the performance.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\"tiber-at-sunset11\"<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\"teatro<\/p>\n

\"teatro<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\"pillars-at-concert1\"<\/p>\n

\n


\n<\/span><\/h2>\n

\u00a0\u00a0<\/h3>\n

\u00a0—<\/h3>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

arrived in\u00a0rome<\/span><\/h2>\n

July 13, 2009<\/p>\n

\n
\n

i\u2019m finally here in rome, settling into my new apartment, which is just outside the neighborhood of trastevere. i\u2019ve spent most of my first days unpacking, organizing, getting back to my writing, and exploring the area on foot. i went for a run this morning in Villa Doria Pamphilj, which is rome\u2019s largest park, and only a couple blocks from my place. lonely planet says: \u201cThe park was laid out in the 17th century for Prince Camillo Pamphilj, cousin of Pope Innocent X.\u201d much of it has the feel of an African safari, with long stretches of brown earth, spotted with twisted cypress and other dark trees. but as you descend into the lower section, you eventually come to an area with fountains and statuary and a beautiful crumbling villa.<\/p>\n

i\u2019ve posted some photos of the apartment \u2014 my writing space and the patio.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\"writing\"roman<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

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\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

the plan<\/span><\/h2>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\"dan-photo4\"<\/p>\n

Dan Stone<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em>I will be living in Rome from July until October 2009 \u2014 working on a novel, sampling the local wines, learning Italian, and exploring the Eternal City. I\u2019ve made arrangements to live in an apartment in the historic district of Trastevere.\u00a0 The flat is owned by a young couple, both artists \u2014 she writes detective stories; he\u2019s a sculptor. While there, I\u2019ll also engage in a scholarly study directed by BU\u2019s Rosanna Warren.\u00a0 The course will focus on American and British writers from the past few centuries for whom Rome has been an important literary capital.\u00a0 Not only will I read their works that were written in and about Rome, but I\u2019ll also visit the cafes, bars, piazzas, churches, ruins, residences, and cemeteries that those writers still haunt. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201c\u0093Go thou to Rome, at once the Paradise, \/\u00a0The grave, the city and the wilderness…\u201d\u0085\u0094 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u0096 (Percy Bysshe Shelley, from \u0093Adonais.)<\/p>\n

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Wine-tasting in\u00a0Tuscany September 16, 2009 One of my closest friends, Sebastian Zutant, is a sommelier at an excellent restaurant in Washington, DC \u2014\u00a0Proof. Last week he was touring Tuscany with his wife, visiting vineyards whose wine he features at his restaurant. I rode the train up from Rome to meet them for a couple days, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":320,"featured_media":0,"parent":1399,"menu_order":5,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/14"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/320"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=14"}],"version-history":[{"count":115,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/14\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":59,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/14\/revisions\/59"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1399"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/world\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=14"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}