Evening star., 1961-08-28
jim BISHOP:
REPORTER
Rome-TimeIess
But MoVino

stands still, and yet every
thing is in motion. I've been
here before, and always I go
to St. Peters and the Col
osSeum and the tomb of
Caesar Augustus, and the
same sense of history falls
across my shoulders, uplifting
and depressing at the same
time.
ROME is THE MOST
beautiful of them all, and is
conscious of it. It's a city of
contrasts. There are 2,400
churches here and about the
same number of wild orgies.
The men hoard women as
philatelistS do stamps. On
the Palatine Hill, where Nero
stood to watch the city burn,
beatniks in tight jeans pass
the bottle around as they
make wisecracks about the
ancient Roman senate.
The best place to sit and
watch people is at Doney's
sidewalk cafe. 1t runs across
the front of the Hotel Excel
sior, where the rich Ameri-
cans stay. The tables are
small, and they line both
sides of the sidewalk. The
tourists sit here for a late
drink and a good look. In
time, everyone in Rome
passes under the bright lights
of the hotel.
The women. in word, are
the best dressed in the world.
The diversification of style
makes the eyeballs drunk.
The dresses are brilliant in
color, and range in style all
the way from the waist
across-the- hips of the 1920s
to the new high hemline,
which makes some women
look as though they are
wearing long blouSes with
out the skirts.
The men wear ultra short
jackets, no ties, shirts un-
buttoned almost to the waist,
no undershirts, hands in
trouser pockets, and stare at
the ladies. They stare hard
and insolently. Their reason
ing is that there is no use
wasting time on good man
ners when time is so short.
Kelly and 1 spend our days
driving around the city, and
our nights at Doney'S, watch
ing the crowds. There was a
time, only six years ago,
when Gayle and I were here
and we could not get spa
ghetti. Rome frowns on
pasta. The headwaiters re-
fer to it as a peasant dish.
When Gayle insisted on
spaghetti. the chef cooked a
small dish of it and put a
pat of butter on top. Now,
times have changed. The
Americans, who love spa
ghetti, have forced Rome to
alter its opinion.
One of the items which
has not changed is the driv-
ing. The people kill each
other with mad gusto. The
taxi drivers love to barrel
down the middle of that
white line. This isn't so bad,
except that they do it in
both directions and the Rome
Daily American keeps a box
score of the deaths.
AS they approach each
other at high speed, the
drivers do not use horns be-
cause horns could not be
heard. BY day and by night,
they flash the headlights at
each other, and then wait
to see which one will chicken
out. The best way to ride a
taxi in this city is to relax
with hands over both eyes,
murmuring some suitable
prayer for the dying.
Morning in Rome is al
ways a special treat. The
pale curtains lift inward on
the breeze, and fall back into
place. The sun is bright and
there is a sweet odor in the
air.The grass spangles with
dew and the beds of growing
flowers lift their heads a lit
tie higher, to get a good look
at the people.
TRYING TO GET a wait
er to understand me is some
thing else. I like breakfast
served in the room and this
man is short and correct and
practically sings "Buon gi-
orno!" to us. He insists that
he speaks English. If he does,
I've been working so years on
another language.
After much pantomine and
kissing Isl 81" at each other,
. he grins until his gums show
and says: "Ah, corna flax
kess-uf cuss!" Or How you
Ikea de ponna cakes-hot?"
Then, much bowling, much
self depreciation, and he
backs out. Fifteen minutes
later, he is back with a tray,
triumphantly producing
something he likes to eat.
1t is possible. in time to
forget any city but Rome.
Copyright, 1851
King Features Syndicate, Inc.