After Party
Know the feeling when you walk into a place after the party is over? The air of dissipation that hangs over it? That’s exactly how it feels when you land in Rome these days. After years of non-stop partying and high-jinks under Silvio Berlusconi’s infamous ‘bunga bunga’ regime, Rome looks like a vast clapped-out post-party set redeemed only by the sweeping majesty of its historic ruins. I had heard stories about Rome’s decline, post the European economic crash, but seeing is believing. When I last came here some ten years ago, the party was still on and Rome was on a roll. The Italian notion of la dolce vita was alive and well. That’s all gone. Today, people talk about the ‘old days’ as though referring to some imagined past.
Italy’s longest post-war recession has left the Eternal City looking like a ghost of its old self. The signs of decay are all too visible: grubby streets, half-empty shops and an overwhelming sense of desolation. Businesses are struggling. Banners and placards screaming, ‘Saldi!’ (bargain sales) are a common sight. Despite heavily slashed prices, there are few buyers. Even upmarket districts such as Piazza di Spagna, home to the likes of Prada, Gucci and Versace, look ragged. And where has Rome’s youth gone?
With youth unemployment running at close to 42 per cent, Italy’s highest in recent memory, the young have fled for greener pastures abroad. Consequently, Rome is now predominantly a city of elderly people, a far cry from Hollywood’s romantic image of a Rome where young lovers zipped around on their Vespas. Once starry-eyed Londoners would arrive in Rome and surrender themselves to its charms while sniffy Neapolitans teased them about their dowdy jumpers and bland English food. Now, a visitor from London is more likely to be found grumbling about Rome’s cigarette-strewn pavements, seedy metro stations, and dull night life. As the French would say, ‘Ce qui s’est passe a la dolce vita?’ Well, it’s the economy, stupid.
Bangla Avanti
Suddenly, a man springs from the midst of the crowd at the Trevi Fountain, the famous ‘wishing well’, and dramatically thrusts a rose into a young woman’s hands. “Madam, this present from me to you,” he says in broken English and goes down on his knees in filmi style, as if about to propose. The woman, both slightly startled and amused by the sight of a short Asian man with a rose, tries to shoo him away. “No, no, go, go.” He persists, “Madam, this present from me to you.” Upon which the woman loses her temper and tells him to “get lost” or she would call the police. The threat works.
A little later, I witness a similar scene featuring a different man and a different woman. But this time, it has a happier ending. The woman sportingly accepts the rose and gives him money to “go and get yourself a coffee”. He tells me his name is Shoib and he is from Bangladesh. A college drop-out, he came to Rome six years ago on a family visa ostensibly to visit his brother. And stayed on. He has no regular job and survives by his wits hawking stuff to tourists and good-naturedly conning women into buying flowers. Rome is full of young Bangladeshis living life on the edge. But despite the hardships, they say they are better off here than back home, where there are no jobs. There are few Pakistanis in Rome and even fewer Indians. And the ubiquitous Indian restaurant is a rarity. Indians follow the money and, therefore, tend to gravitate towards Milan, the hub of Italian commerce, I’m told.
Faking Future
For a city whose future is so uncertain (even if the past is so secure), Rome seems to have far too many self-styled fortune-tellers who, for a few quids, would tell you all the comforting things you wish to hear about your future. They come in different guises—as astrologers, palmists and tarot card readers—all claiming to be cleverer (“Come, me very good.”) than their rivals. You find them at major tourist spots and in shopping centres: scruffily dressed men, with their charts and cards laid out before them, ready to pounce at anyone foolish enough to look their way, only to be greeted with a dismissive laugh. Business is so bad that they have a special offer for couples—they can have their future predicted for the price of one! One offers to read my palm for “only ten euros” because I am an Indian and he loves Bollywood films. I promptly head for the exit.
Roman Flavour
Hats off to Rome for managing to escape the scourge of global fast food and coffee chains. After London’s soulless, clone-like streets dominated by McDonalds and Starbucks, Rome is a breath of fresh air, with its own distinctive local ‘ristorantes’ and pizzerias, offering authentic Italian food and espresso coffee.
Small Mercies
“There’s no charge for turning the next page!” gushes the in-flight shopping guide of Ryanair, the notoriously stingy Irish low-cost airline.
London-based Hasan Suroor is the author of Indian Muslim Spring; E-mail your diarist: hasan.suroor AT gmail.com
