La Dolce Vita

(edited).

The Piazza Navona, Roma.

It’s the morning after the night before.

I stop in one of the many street cafes that line the Piazza and pause, to take stock, rest my weary feet and reflect on the week gone past.

The hubub of the milling crowds flocking to the square, staring at the mimics, reminds one that this is a slow day, a deliberate day, a day of standing still and thinking.

As I gesture to the waiter for a drink, the plinking sound of plucked strings warns of a rude interruption to my reverie however.

And sure enough the merest of glances revealed a troupe of weather beaten troubadours beginning to serenade us on battered guitars, not quite tuned. In fact their instruments look so worn and ancient one wonders whether they will hold a tune at all.

Their voices are rustic; simple harmonies dance with one another and one is whisked away from Rome in an instance to Assisi, crouched beneath the imposing Mt.Subasio where carpets of white cabbage butterflies spread everywhere.

The rise of the worried white winged flocks as your foot falls upon the ground as the butterflies scatter. If one looks behind quickly enough you can just see the impression of your steps by the absence of theses creatures before once more the gap is filled by the pouring in of the tiny fluttering insects.

But Assisi is another place and another time.

Back here in Rome, in the Piazza Navona it is Sunday.

The morning after some three million people voted with their feet to say no to war.

The sun is hot but there is still a chill snap to the air, and the shade is too cool for much comfort.

But Sunday is strolling day in Rome.

People watch people watching people; the centre of the piazza is a mass of easels and coloured chalkings, earnest paintings, sketches and etches. The hopeful Raphaels and Michcelangelos show off their works in the hope of selling a slice of their vision of the world.

One can see aspects of Rome somuch better pictured through the eyes of a soul and a paintbox than through the lens of a camera.

Pony pulled carts clatter by, the idle chatter of a lazy day fills the square and once more the broken chords of the guitar troupe draw ones sense back to the here and now.

Eating and drinking is a day long experience here. Wine flows as easily as the rushing Tiber, plate upon plate of foods are ferried by scurrying waiters dancing between the tables. The sweet scented mix of cigars and perfumes dresses the nose on occasion and everywhere there is a gentle drift of humanity, laughter, love and merriment.

Only dimly, and in the distance, and only if one pays any attention, can one hear the drumbeat of war.

But for the moment it is La Dolce Vita.

I have, in my many journeys to the Eternal City, never seen a Rome such as this.

Never seen so many carabinieri with machine guns standing outside every museum, temple, church, piazza. Never so many wailing sirens and rushing police wagons.

There is a deep menace here. Never before have I seen so many urchins and beggars and scarved women from Eastern Europe, Albania, I suspect, all with outstretched hands.

The menace is underpinned by the deep sense of doubt for the future.

While a small child dressed improbably as a tiny tiger cavorts near the Bellini fountain, with not a care in the world, I study the face of his mother, see behind the joy and smiles the faintly etched worry lines, the nagging fear for the world within which she has introduced her child.

I wonder what the West would do, if the ‘tired huddled masses’ of Eastern Europe, of the Africa’s, of those beset by wars not of their own making, of droughts over which they have no control, simply walked into our countries as one whole. How could we stop them?

Why should we stop them?

Everywhere one looks rainbow flags flutter from the windows and shutters of every balcony and shop front, draped over the narrow shoulders of every other youthful hope.

They bear the word ‘Pace’.

Peace.

In the eternal city it is hard not to be minded of Christianity, its beautiful ideal, its simple clarity and purpose so complicated and corrupted by man. It's easy to see that we have somehow lost the way.

Once there was a Testament, telling us to live life by a code, a set of simple rules for the benefit of all.

Then two thousand odd years ago a prophet arose and from his teachings and parables grew a New Testament.

One wonders that, if there is a God, why he does not grant us one last, Final Testament. A codex by which we can all live in peace and harmony.

Perhaps alive today there is such a thought somewhere.

Perhaps each and every one of us is that prophet.

Perhaps together, each and every one of us six billion odd souls can write such a Testament, the Final Testament.

Perhaps we can have a thousand years of peace if we would but will it thus.

Fiat.

Perhaps.

Clouds are now scudding across the hot sun and the day is slowly drowning in the creeping chill.

People begin to pull on their coats and the mood is quieter, more ponderous.

They begin to drift away from the Piazza; the moment is done, their hearths and homes now seem the right place to be, next to those they hold dear, those that they cherish so deeply, while the world runs wild.

La Dolce Vita...

Perhaps.

yechydda,