Epifania

Befana, the gift-bearing witch of Epifania

It was the eve of Epifania, and all of Rome would be heading to Piazza Navona to celebrate. All well and good, but I had a busy day of chores and errands ahead -- Befana would just have to wait.

I put the espresso up and threw open the shutters, pleased to note that the sun was finally out in earnest in what had been a grey, misty week.  I started a laundry, now fully conversant in all the Italian instructions on the knobs and dials (thank goodness many are English cognates: cotone, delicati, misti). I hung the clothes out on the wire rack on the balcony, tempted  to call out to my imaginary Antonio! down below to remind him that Thursday is gnocchi day.

Next I sat with La Repubblica, a cup of espresso and a bit of breakfast (sorry, still doing my Atkins-y, sadly un-Roman scrambled eggs -- I'm saving the cornetti for when the mister comes).  I wasn't sure if the stores would be open the next festa day, or even how late they'd stay today, so I made a quick list, grabbed my adorable two-wheeled Roman shopping cart, and headed out.


It's been a week now, and my naive, newcomer befuddlement at the town's labyrinthine layout has given way to blithe self-assurance. I also discovered that, whichever way you walk in Trastevere, you eventually meet yourself coming around the other way.  This meant that the uphill, business-center trudge to real-people town to my left, and the easy, picturesque stroll through and around my neighborhood to the local Piazza Santa Maria toward the right, all lead to the same point.  I feel a bit wimpily disloyal, but I have abandoned the former for the leveler, more charming jaunt-- even if I'm charmlessly grocery-shopping.

My first stop was my neighborhood farmacia, which resembles nothing so much as a church, complete with green pharmacy cross to further blur the distinction. I had cut my finger, my busybody right index. Pharmacies in Rome are much more relaxed than in the U.S. -- people go for medical advice and liberally dispensed pharmaceuticals.  A la moda locale, I showed the pharmacist my finger, and was able to tell him, "Ho bisigno di bende, e aspirina."  "Si," he answered, "e antisettiche, no? La bottiglia grande o piccolo?"  I opted for the small bottle of antiseptic, and practically levitated out the door.


My next stop was Billa Oviesse, the supermarket in the department store basement.  My exchanges there are getting similarly smoother. "'Giorno!" I greeted a shelf-stocking clerk.  I was able to ask, in Italian, if they would be open tomorrow, and even appreciated the clerk's blasé, no-eye-contact nod.  When the checkout guy asks, "Avete qualche cambiamento?" when I hand him €20 to pay my bill of €11.17, I know to fish in my pocket   for coins. When I told him, si, I would need una busta, he   kibbitzed with me about whether I might even need four, five or six bags for my small load, and I chuckled with comprehension. As I emerged from the market basement and out of the ground floor clothing store, a passer-by asked me, "Dov è il mercato di alimentarietà?" and I pointed to the staircase down.


I have arrived!

After a few more errands, I started home. At Santa Maria di Trastevere, I felt my energy flagging, and the sun a salutary embrace, so I stopped at a cafe for a cappuccino.  How simply joyful it felt, how accomplished yet pampered, to take a break, after a morning's chores, on a Roman piazza!  As I basked in the atmosphere, a passing young woman took a spill, and remained motionless on the cobblestone.  A man called out, and soon a sizable crowd had rushed to her aid, shouting and gesticulating, with water, chairs, stroking comfort.  They lifted her into the chair, and as she gathered herself and massaged her ankle, I took my leave.  On the way home, I ran into a friend -- Dermit, the Irish owner of the charming local English language bookstore.  I ran into a friend!  We chatted for a few minutes: about the weather, the wonderful, cheap Chinese restaurant I'd taken his recommendation on, the upcoming holiday, and my husband's imminent arrival, and said our good-byes. I headed home to put my packages away, practice Italian, and prepare for the evening's festivities.

Mario had recommended that the best time to head to Piazza Navona for Epifania (or Befana, as it's known locally) was tonight, on the holiday's eve. Each January 6, the feast day of Epiphany when the Magi brough their gifts to the Christ child, the Befana, an old lady with a long nose and black shawl, arrives on her broomstick bearing gifts for Italian children. Like Santa Claus, she delivers her gifts when the children are fast asleep. She enters each house through its chimney and silently fills each child's sock with either dolci or carbone -- sweets, or coal. The size depends on how often they've misbehaved. The legend has its roots here in Rome; a huge fair with stalls selling candy, coal and sweets is held in Piazza Navona each year from Christmas to the Epiphany. On the eve of Epiphany, Mario advised, the Piazza Navona fair explodes in joyful conclusion, with much noise and rowdiness to encourage the old witch.


I was a bit apprehensive about making the trip at night.  I'd been assured that the best way to get there was just to walk from my little hamlet across the Tiber River, through the Jewish Ghetto, and into Rome's centro storico, less than a mile away. I'd been to the Ghetto, though, with my husband several winters ago, and just this last Sunday morning -- the narrow, grimy streets there can be isolated, a little gloomy during the day, even with a companion. I really wasn't sure I wanted to navigate the dark alleys alone, at night, but this holiday is bigger than Christmas in Italy, so I gave myself a shove and was on my way.

I needn't have worried.  The little walking bridge at Ponte Cisto, over the Tiber, glistened and twinkled and buzzed marvelously in the night -- with the reflections from the river, the ice-crystal holiday lights strung all around, and the crowds of families, couples and teens making their way excitedly to the fair.  The streets of the ghetto were thronged with revelers, a sea of Romans with whose flow I had merely to let myself go, through narrow vias and across il Campo di Fiori -- klezmer accordionists keeping the tempo -- to the truly exploding Piazza Navona.  

It seemed, almost literally, that the entire population had spilled, cheek to jowl, into the massive plaza, completely filling it. Along with the crowds were game and crafts stalls; chestnut and giant balloon peddlers, performers (even one Native American troupe!), Befanas and Santas, both human and crafted, and a brightly lit carousel in the center, right near (and not really at odds with) Bernini's wild, baroque Moor with Dolphins statue.

I was told that on Epifania, dolci were obligatory good luck, and that a doughnut iced with Nutella was the favored dolce to usher in the best New Year's tidings.  I strolled around, ushering in a pleasant belly-ache as well, as I noshed and snapped and smiled at Roman tots, both wild with anticipation and groggy with over-stimulation.


It was a joyful evening.  But my mundane shopping trips, laundry, language development, home cooked meals, and a simple good night's sleep in my little Roman flat -- all beckoned joyfully as well. I headed home, thrilled to have had a wonderful Roman holiday, but just as glad that "Epifania tutte le festa porta via" as they say around here -- Epiphany takes all the holidays away.


Viva la (fantasy) vita reale!