So, the first thing you have to realize about nightlife in Rome
–especially this summer–is that there is none. Well, none in the traditional American sense of the word. But that`s little matter because there are no Americans in Rome anyway.
The Via Veneto is deserted. Harry`s Bar is empty. So, too, are the nearby touristy nightclubs such as Jackie O and Club 84. Clubs such as these overpriced, glitzy, `70s disco chrome-and-glass joints have either shut down completely for the summer or attract only a sparse crowd that one night included what appeared to be two Oriental escort girls accompanying a couple of wild and crazy guys in plaid pants, open shirts and gold chains.
Even the Falcon, a private club for English-speaking expatriates, has closed its damp, dark, smelly basement bar for the summer.
The larger, more expensive hotels that cater to Americans have shut down entire wings. Meals in these hotels` restaurants can become ”Alice in Wonderland” tea party affairs where it`s not unusual to see a lone figure seated in a room filled with fully set tables.
The bartenders and waiters sit glumly with chins in their hands, cursing Gadhafi and declaring this the worst summer that they can remember.
They get no relief from the Romans, who have also deserted this city during August–the traditional holiday month for Italians. It`s amazing how an entire major city with millions of people can just close up, shut down and leave.
Yet it happens every August in Rome.
If you want to make a midday purchase, it`s not unusual to have to hunt down the shop`s proprietor taking a three-hour lunch break in a nearby bar or cafe. But most of the shopkeepers have simply closed up and joined the mass migration out of Rome, allowing the city`s narrow, now relatively uncluttered streets to become demolition derby strips where you can easily spot up to a dozen accidents in a day.
It seems the traffic jams during the rest of the year act as a sort of control for the careening, speed-demon Italian drivers, who can now get up a good speed on the open stretches and don`t pay much attention to the traffic lights anyway during the day, and never at night.
For the few remaining souls there are outdoor festivals and concerts held on the bank of the Tiber and the Isola Tiberina, the city`s central river island.
And Rome is perhaps the only place you can buy books at midnight with an angel peering over your shoulder. For in the summer, the Ponte San Angelo comes alive with lights and jazz and booksellers who line up their stalls on both sides of the bridge under the watchful eyes of the huge stone angel sentries.
Caffe e gelato
But in Rome at night, the really hot action consists of getting dressed up to stroll around and buy a caffe or gelato.
The Italians call it nightlife.
Americans call it getting dressed up to walk around the block to buy a cup of coffee or a dish of ice cream.
The closest thing Americans have to it is cruising in cars, a la
”American Graffiti.” The difference is that Americans don`t have magnificent piazzas filled with Bernini fountains or an abundance of sidewalk cafes.
But more than that, Americans don`t have proper appreciation for the bella figura. Literally that means beautiful figure, but bella figura really means strutting your stuff. And strut they do. To see and be seen. It`s the favorite Italian pastime–after eating, of course.
In order to obtain the proper bella figura you must first carefully coordinate your clothes–matching belt and shoes, a scarf just the right shade of yellow–and then add an attitude of casual indifference as if your ensemble had magically come together without any effort on your part.
Then you set out for an easy stroll up the street. Down the street. Stopping here for a coffee, there for a chat with friends.
On your way you might pass the teenagers who can`t afford the cafe cover charges and congregate on the steps of the large piazzas such as the Piazza di Spagna, the Spanish Steps, where they drink Cokes out of waxed-paper cups from the new McDonald`s.
If there are any Romans in Rome in August, they`re in the ”in” piazzas. For Italians never, never, never do anything alone. And during the summer they never, never, never go inside. What`s the point? Finding an air-conditioned building in Italy is about as easy as finding a telephone that works.
Once at the spectacular baroque Piazza Navona, you strut past the palmists, the tarot card readers, the Gypsy children selling single roses.
You might stop to take in Bernini`s Fountain of the Four Rivers. Opposite it stands Borromini`s Church of Santa Agnese in Agone, completed in 1657. Romans will tell you that Bernini and Borromini were rivals and had a fierce competition to win the commission to design the church. They will tell you that the famous fountain figure that is crouching and covering his head with one hand is Bernini`s editorial comment on the church. The figure, shielding the church from his sight, appears frightened that it might actually tumble down on his head.
Second city
Some Romans will also tell you that the best pizza to be found in Rome is at the cafe across from the church. Nothing, however, comes close to Chicago pizza. The Italians may have invented pizza in Italy, but they perfected it in Chicago.
Around the tiny pizza place hidden from the tourists behind the Piazza Nanova the streets are crowded and cramped (just as the Italians seem to like everything). The locals gather to gawk at each other: the artists, the musicians, the chic, the elite and an occasional couple of punks who draw wolf whistles from groups of four or more men who stand in the middle of the square wearing felt party hats and leaning on each other as if they were posing for photographs.
Nightlife in Rome is primarily a boys` night out.
Social mores dictate that if you are a woman you travel in quiet groups of twos or threes or have a single male escort. Now, if that escort turns out to be a distant cousin who has just moved to Rome from the mountains and has spent the evening consuming ”that new American drink, ruma e Coca-Cola,”
well, you could find yourself wandering the winding streets of Rome at 2 in the morning searching for the car.
And after an hour or so of such early-morning wanderings you could be lucky enough to encounter a helpful couple who are gracious enough to offer to drive you around in their car while looking for yours. Such a ride is sure to turn into a crowded, noisy, shouting, pointing, brakes-screeching, hair-raising, you-just-want-to-cra wl-under-the-seat kind of a ride.
Ah, Roma in the summertime.
Too bad the Romans miss it. —
