Sycamores along the Tiber

Tripping through Rome: Impressions on trees, death, aging, and living to tell the tale

I’ve been in Rome since November 24—17 days—and while there aren’t many forests here to tell you about, I can offer my impressions, including that of the baby Sycamore trees clinging to the walls that channel the mighty Tiber River just steps from our apartment in Trastevere. These Sycamores are offspring of the ones above—the tall, stately, graceful parent trees lining the streets alongside the Tiber on both sides. On the side facing the river, their branches reach longingly for the river, casting a lacy screen through which to admire the tumbling waters. On the other, the branches have been lopped over the years to make way for endless streams of traffic. The effect is that these tender, calico-trunked trees are swooning over the river. Their babies, down below, spring from the roots of their parents, tenacious little things gripping determinedly to the cracks from which they emerge into the light. The river rushes by, dark grey and frothy, clawing at them as it does so. Yesterday, the river was several feet higher than usual, and only the top half of these babies was visible, their maple syrup brown leaves appearing to float on the water’s surface. It’s amazing what they can withstand.

Last week on one of my morning walks, several small teams of emergency personnel, one group holding an empty stretcher, were searching (not very urgently, I must say) these very Sycamores, and the bushes that cropped up near the bridge pilings. I watched them for a while. Many people did. It was clear someone had fallen, jumped, or been pushed into the river, a rushing Tiber river swollen with the nearly incessant rains we’ve been having and banked by slick vertical walls that appear to be impossible to scale. A churning waterfall is there too, for good measure. After about half an hour, the searchers gave up and returned to their vehicles with the empty stretcher.

Rome, ah Rome. Every morning, I’m woken by seagulls crying like babies and church bells pealing, one set after another, in waves, chiming little ones, sonorous big ones. A sea of red tile rooftops greets me when I fling open my impossibly long drapes that fall from a 30?-foot ceiling. The smallest church in Rome is next door, with a pristine Cosmati mosaic floor of green, black, red, white, and yellow. At this particular church, I spotted not one, not two, but—wait for it—THREE hot priests. I kid you not. I mean seriously sexy. When my son and I were there, we had just ducked in after hours of exploring, and I had to go to the bathroom badly. But as soon as I saw those priests, I settled right down. “I thought you had to go to the bathroom, mom,” said R. “I’m okay for now,” I said. “Look at these hot priests, Ryan! They’re so handsome!” “Seriously, mom?” He smiled tenderly.

My first morning in Rome, I watched an elegant woman bend over and drink from one of the many fountains in Rome, which amazed me. I have since learned how to drink from the hundreds of ancient fountains just as she did, and I even know how to gently place my finger over the spout of the “big nose” of the fountain like a true Roman to make the water re-route to a littler hole in the top of the fountain which then arcs up to my mouth for a perfect sip. As our tour guide Gastone said one day, it’s an art to get it right, and this I learned well when I tried to get a drink at a large fountain near the Coliseum and ended up dousing and choking myself, much to Ryan’s amused annoyance.

This morning, on my way to one of my favorite bakeries Giselda Caffe, notes of pure, beautiful opera aria filled the air. I followed the sound to a quiet cobblestone street behind our apartment. The sound stopped. I waited. Then, it began again. I scanned the windows above and gradually realized these heavenly sounds were emerging from the mouth of a round, dark-haired woman half a block away walking toward me. Silence. Then, as she neared me, her mouth opened, and out came the most beautiful bird of sound, warbling, full-feathered and free from her mouth, from her heart, through her mouth. I was instantly humbled and teary. I raised my hands in prayer to her and nodded. “Grazie mille,” I heard her say as she passed.

At the caffe, I found a table inside by the window. An African immigrant made and served my cappuccino and salty cornetto. I noticed a woman on the other side of the glass, seated outside, her hands folded over the purse in her lap. She had straight grey hair, round, tortoiseshell glasses, a quiet, resigned expression on her plain, round face. But it was her scarf that made me cry. Tied just so, too perfectly, with the triangle on her chest pointing straight down, I knew she didn’t wear scarves often, that maybe this was the first time ever she’d worn such a silk scarf, and it moved me to pieces. It represented for me her sorrow, her loneliness, her hopefulness, the futility of it all, the inevitability of old age and death, our sorry little attempts to stave it off and retain some dignity in the process.

And then I thought of George Saunders, and the class I’m taking from him, along with a few hundred other incredibly fortunate souls, and what he said in his post yesterday about taking two unrelated pieces of writing—in his case, two character sketches—and putting them together just because and then building a kind of bridge that ties them together. He said that’s how he created his story The Falls. Suddenly, it occurred to me like an epiphany that I could, maybe, simply put this lonely woman who I just knew was American on the same cobblestone street as that warbling Italian opera singer and just see what happens. Or even, put them on the causeway along the mighty, churning Tiber River, just as George did in his story. He knitted them together with a river.

And there you have it. My first post on Substack in months, and only because someone from George’s class signed up for my Forest Notebooks newsletter. Thank you, Alicia M. Kenworthy, classmate of mine! Thank you for the encouragement.