There's a cafe within viewing distance of the Asia-and-Africa side of the Fountain of the Four Rivers called the Cafe Domiziano, perhaps named for the remains of the Stadium of Domitian we passed on our way to the Piazza Navona. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths are everywhere, tables shaded by a white canopy, and through the street separating the cafe from the square clusters of tourists linger and crowd around for minutes at a time, juggling their cameras or staring up at the Fountain's tall obelisk. In this cafe, a man sits in the front row, the sole inhabitant of the establishment, while an eye-catching number of policemen (polizia) and soldiers mill about in the side street beside the cafe. This man sits sprawled in his chair, sunglasses on despite the shade and a cigarette dangling from his right hand as he leans against the back of his seat and crosses his leg. His pink polo shirt, complete with popped collar, stands out brightly in the shadowy exterior of the cafe, and beyond his table in the open space in front of the door a waiter stands looking out at all the tourists, lightly tapping a menu against his thigh as he waits to be necessary.
To the left of the cafe (from my vantage point), two policemen wander the alleyway, their uniforms dark blue, medals on their chests, smart collars flanked by copper-colored rectangles. Their hats are white with a dark rim, and the slightly shorter one stands close to a middle-height, rather portly man, conversing with him as the taller detail wanders back and forth along the street. The conversation ends quickly as the portly man walks away and through the doors of the cafe: perhaps the owner of the establishment, though his dress isn't too elaborate. Maybe the man had been upset by the presence of the policemen—asking why they were standing there, attracting attention, when there were even more policemen in the middle of the square, doing a good job of ignoring the tourists who crossed over the fence surrounding the Fountain. Or maybe he's asking about the so-called workers' strike, wondering where his customers are if the transportation is apparently still running.
Meanwhile, the pink-shirted cafe customer, still enjoying his solitary coffee, is joined suddenly by a short-haired woman, who seats herself familiarly in the chair across from him. They exchange a word or two, and then she leans over something, sunglasses hiked high on her head and periwinkle shirt wrinkling as she stairs at the table —a map, perhaps, or a guide book. The sight of them sitting alone in the cafe, as tourists mingle together in swirls of sneakers and shorts and camera lenses and awkward hats, seems odd; at some moments they seem Italian, completely at ease with the way the piazza slowly fills up, while at other moments the woman's dedicated perusal of her papers makes them seem like tourists. It is clear, though, that she is doing most of the work, as the man continues to lean back against his chair, yawning widely before turning his head to look out at the square and the merchant tents. His hands link together behind his head, his body language relaxed and disinterested, while his companion —a lover or wife —scribbles something down.
Maybe they're on their honeymoon. Or a renewal of their wedding vows. The man, content with his surroundings (and his coffee, from the way he takes a sip every so often and smacks his lips), busies himself with the sights of Rome just as we Romekids have, no concept of time on his mind as he sits in a cafe earlier than is decent. He lets his wife plan the trip, because she's kind of a control freak anyway, from the way she keeps her hair boyishly short to the way she exercises every day to maintain her slim physique, and he doesn't really know where to start. He's just here for a nice vacation, nothing too stressful, enjoying the more visceral pleasures of Rome while he can.
No comments:
Post a Comment