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he first days of our first trip to Rome were typical. The
initial excitement of the new city, adjusting to the strange
surroundings, the feel of a new place, new sights, unfamiliar
smells, always the breakneck pace and people speaking their
native tongue. The language barrier is always a shock to
us Americans. We think the whole world speaks English. It
is only when we are in a foreign country and are trying
to order our first meal that we realize how deficient our
education is, that is unless we are multilingual.
The Coliseum, its massive, and cavern-like interior, surrounded by the exterior walls built by slaves so long ago; the Spanish steps, with the spectacular view of the piazza below after the long climb to the top; the beautiful and expensive shops, so attractive to the eye if not to the pocketbook; the seven hills of the city; the Vatican walls; the forum which was the town gathering place; the Circus Maximus where they held the races (I half expected to see Charlton Heston riding by in a chariot), all with our guide's running commentary including facts, dates and marvelous descriptive narrative had been a wonderful but frantic introduction to this great city.
On our second night we decided to break away from our regular tour itinerary and go to the outskirts of Rome to the ancient ruins of the Baths at Caracalla. They had long ceased being functional as public baths where the Romans, indeed Caesar himself centuries ago, attended and actually did what Hollywood depicted in movies the QuoVadis and its ilk, complete with an orgy thrown in now and again.
The site had recently been restored and converted into a huge amphitheater with a seating capacity of perhaps six thousand for concert and opera performances. My companion on this trip was a devoted opera addict and the performance was to be Aida. This seemed too good to pass up and we enthusiastically made arrangements to go, although the ticket prices reminded me of home.
The bus picked us up at the Cicerone Hotel at about six p.m. with the heat of the afternoon still lingering. We embarked, in our finest travel attire to an evening of opera. It was a sellout. The crowds were enormous as we approached the gates. We realized that, for whatever the reason, security or safety, all the patrons had to pass through one or two turnstiles, where upon inserting your ticket, which was clipped off, you gained admission.
The crowd was very well dressed, mostly Romans, although tourists like us were in ample evidence. We made our way up the flight of stairs that led us onto the main seating area. For an outdoor musical event the setting had no rival in my memory. Sitting among the ruins, with the backdrop of the hills of Rome, let us imagine we were part of the performance. The arriving patrons, women most beautifully quaffed and dressed, and their male counterparts, attired in their continental best, well groomed and perfumed, set the stage in the audience for a magical evening. The actual performance was almost anticlimactic to the panorama just described, and while I love opera I found the environs and setting equally overpowering.
The complete rapture and joy of my companion at this whole state of affairs added to my delight and gave me a sweet sense of satisfaction. Since there was no curtain on stage, the scenery changes between the acts became part of the performance and the movement and exact placement of the heavy sets, accomplished with much difficulty by scores of stagehands, elicited spontaneous rounds of applause from the delighted audience. The familiar stains of the Grand March in the second act and the accompanying majestic parade of riders on horseback, and the soldiers in their shiny breastplates, spears very much in evidence, together with dancing maidens in the diaphanous costumes sent goose bumps through us. It was grand indeed.
In the final act, with Aida joining her doomed lover in the seal dungeon, we were so rapt up in the drama that in this massive outdoor arena, with a sky above as clear and as high as the moon, we felt the claustrophobic feeling of the lovers on stage. It brought to mind those hysterical words the great author Kurt Vonnegut Jr. put into the mouth of one of his characters, Elliot Rosewater. While attending the opera and in a similar circumstance, he leaned over and yelled at the performers, “You'll last a lot longer if you don't sing.”
At the end of a four-hour long performance, we made our way out amongst the throng of music lovers and felt as though we had just had a vacation from our vacation. It was difficult to believe we had been in a place where so much beauty, talent and sheer enjoyment had electrified the atmosphere and charged our batteries for the rest of our trip.
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