No matter what part of the city I may have traveled to on any given day, it always seemed as if I were returning to the Hotel dei Portoghesi through this same small piazza and always between 5 and 6pm. At that time, the skies would darken with thousands of birds creating a loud cacophony of dissonant song. What set them off each day? (Was it me?) Look up. Though this photo hardly does justice to the phenomenon, I knew I must try to document it somehow. Googling to find the exact location on the map just now, I was unsuccessful. But not really, because instead there appeared the names of so many other memorable Roman moments nearby: Ristorante da Pietro (wild strawberry risotto, spinach gnocchi that we still call “little poems”), Via dei Prefetti (my beloved Pizzeria da Pasquale, home of potato pizza straordinaria), Via dell’Orso (L’Orso ’80 and its superb, endless assortment of antipasti that keep being brought to the table.) Ah, the Eternal Città. No wonder all roads lead to it.
Back when Reaganomics was spawning job layoffs where you and I worked, and everybody was frantic with fear, I remember you shrugged and said, "Oh well, whatever happens -- there'll always be potato pizza!"
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