Lorenzo il Magnifico
The first apartment I grew up in is known to our family as ‘the old house.’ Due to its location on the Via Lorenzo il Magnifico, the whole building would tremble whenever a city bus passed, which was quite often because the street connected the Tiburtina railway station and the bustling Piazza Bologna.
The street is named after Lorenzo de Medici, and the long name is quite a mouthful, but nobody ever shortens it. You never hear ‘See you on Via Magnifico!’ or ‘Do you live on Via Lorenzo?’. Perish the thought. Lorenzo maintains his dignity centuries past his prime.
The adjacent Piazza Bologna, a busy thoroughfare, is anchored by the imposing post office, built in the Rationalism style and thoroughly ugly in my eyes. Inside, high ceilings and infinite bureaucracy lent it a certain gravitas when I joined a solemn line for some postage.
The piazza itself was under construction for years - it took around ten years to build the Metro B, the blue subway line which takes you straight to the Colosseum in five stops. Within a few minutes, you go from a nondescript residential neighborhood to the Colosseo itself, standing proud directly across from the station as your eyes adjust to the strong sun and tourist groups wait obediently at the crosswalks.
By the time the city had completed the Metro line, we had moved to a larger apartment a few blocks away, still within walking distance of the open-air market my mom visits first thing every Thursday morning.
The old house had a decently sized kitchen but only two bedrooms.
At first, the boys in our family outnumbered the girls, so the boys got the second bedroom. My sister and I slept in the dining room, which also served as the living room and the space best suited for trouble whenever my brother S. and I were up to no good.
S. and I were inseparable for a few years. My earliest memory of our partnership is when we jumped on the bed/couch, and I fell hard on the floor, requiring medical intervention for what I remember as a hole in my head (I warned you I would be writing from a child’s perspective!).
My father drove me to the Pronto Soccorso, the emergency room, and I heard talk of butterfly stitches - the only word I understood was ‘farfalle.’ Thus, I became convinced that they had placed butterflies inside my head. The wonders of national healthcare!
My sister and I slept on the American high riser in the dining room, which doubled as the only couch. It had a striped cover in ugly 70s colors, browns and yellows, but no decorative pillows because nobody in those days was concerned with such frivolities in our house.
We usually had guests over for Shabbos meals, so on Friday nights, I fell asleep in my parents' bedroom and was transported to my pull-out bed in the dining room when the last of the guests had gone.
When my older sister was away for school (because our parents preferred to have us attend a Lubavitch school, and there wasn’t one in Rome), I had the luxury of sleeping in her bed, avoiding the pulling out and lifting of my trundle.
I distinctly remember drifting off to sleep while watching the tall Shabbos candlesticks on the other side of the room.
I never told anyone, but sometimes there were imaginary ants on the floor, and I had to find a way to leap from the bed out to the hallway without touching the dining room floor. It took some twisting, but I was adept at jumping and quite fearless, thanks to my built-in playmates: my two older brothers and two younger ones, partners in Lego and car talk, soccer scores and tree climbing, fire starting, and acquiring stitches.
One night I was lonely in the dark dining room and dragged some wooden folding chairs next to the creaky bunk bed in the boys' room, known as the kids’ room. I covered the slats with a blanket and brought my pillow for extra luxury. My makeshift bed was thoroughly uncomfortable, but I was happy.
We even have photographic evidence:
We moved to the new apartment, known, naturally, as ‘the new house,’ a short while before I left for school in Milan to start the second grade. It had 3.5 bedrooms and separate dining and living rooms - who knew people lived this way?
Our favorite new room was the ripostiglio - usually a utility room, but more of a pantry because it contained our two deep freezers, necessary items when you import your food or cook it from scratch in large batches.
If you felt like it, you could tiptoe in and sneak some cake before the designated 4 o’clock homemade brownies time.
The new house had a long hallway. The many rooms branching off of it confused my three-year-old brother, whose world had been previously confined to a much smaller space. My mother would famously recount this exchange, which took place in Yiddish:
M.: Mommy, where aaaare you?
Mom: In the kitchen!
M.:.... (pause)
M.: But where IS the kitchen?