Evacuated to Rome
I had not slept in 48 hours; the stress of being stuck in the US Embassy in Tehran, surrounded by protestors, was overwhelming. When we finally were granted safe passage, by the provisional government in Iran, to get to our evacuation flight out, I felt a wave of relief move through my body. I knew I could finally get some sleep when I was on the airplane, ultimately setting off to safer lands. The aircraft took off, and I fell fast asleep.
Usually, sleeping on airplanes was never easy when traveling with my mother. She was a smoker at that time, and we always sat in the smoking section of the aircraft and try as I might, I could never sleep with the aroma of cigarette smoke permeating all my senses. However, this time I slept the entire flight from Tehran to Frankfurt and was only jarred awake by a particularly rough landing. Shaking the sleep from my eyes, I looked at my mother, she smiled and said, “we have arrived; we will go to the hotel, check-in, and have something to eat.” I nodded my head, leaned back into my seat, and turned my gaze to the scenes outside my little window. The aircraft arrived at the gate, and we soon disembarked. Our short time in a hotel near the Frankfurt airport was non-descript and uninteresting. Still, I did find it amusing that our mother had not booked anything for our continuation to Rome and, ultimately, to our boarding school on the outskirts of the city.
The boarding school idea was sprung on my brother and me in a similar manner as she did when she announced we would move from Marin County to a ranch in the State of Guanajuato, Mexico (Note: I have two other stories about my Mexican adventure). We had not planned on moving from Tehran because our mother was convinced everything would blow over and, also, she was getting a lot of work with news organizations. The decision was made for us when the US government announced they would only sanction one last evacuation flight for US Citizens. Upon learning this news, our mother decided she would get us to Italy and put us in a boarding school near our family in Bergamo so she could come back to Iran for more journalistic adventure. In her mind, we would be near family and, thus, looked after. My brother and I were told of the plan just days before we departed Iran.
Our mother’s intentions were good enough, but not well crafted. The twist in this plan is the fact Bergamo and Rome are not very close. Today, there are fast trains between Milano and Rome, but add in the Bergamo to Milano segment, a traveler is still looking at the better part of a day to make the journey. Rewind a few decades, and the trip time is easily doubled, but only if there isn’t some kind of strike (which often happened in pre-EU Italy). In my mind, I could easily see the plan was severely flawed, and in my fatigue at the time, I simply didn’t care, nor did I raise any questions about what was coming.
A flight was finally booked, and we embarked on our journey from Frankfurt to Rome the next day.
On the flight to Rome, I was not sure what the plan was, nor did I have any indication when our mother would return to Iran, so I sat in nervous contemplation, staring out the window and getting nauseous from the cigarette smoke. When it was announced we would be landing in about 30 minutes, I turned to my mother and asked her what the plan was when we arrive. I could see in her eyes that she was not quite sure herself, but she looked at me, smiled, and said in forced enthusiasm, “we will stay at a friend’s apartment so you and your brother can explore Rome!” I was not comforted by her words, but I was excited by the idea of experiencing the energy of this eternal city and feeling her history consume me. I chose to focus on that excitement rather than the abyss of our mother’s non-plan.
We landed in Rome to the usual loud clapping and cheers from the Italian passengers, and this Italian landing ritual made me smile. I felt reasonably ready to face the unknown adventure ahead. We got our bag, found a taxi and off we went to the apartment.
I don’t remember much of the ride in, other than there being quite a bit of traffic on the first leg of the journey. However, I distinctly remember when we closed in on the city of Rome itself. I started to see Rome’s ancient past all around me; small little ruins, the occasional column, part of the city wall, and, off in the distance, the tops of churches and cathedrals. All my anxiety from the past few months, and my worries about what was ahead started to become a fog as I was enveloped by history and art. The journey only became more exciting as we entered the city. I became transfixed on the Romans going about their daily routines and wondering how much has actually changed over the millennia? Did they still shop similarly, do they still have similar traditions, how much of the cuisine is still the same? All these thoughts rolled through my head as we drove by shop-after-shop, person-after-person, and I could not wait to participate in their daily life, to learn who they really are. As much as I have always loved history, I love experiencing different cultures much, much more. The idea that each culture’s story connects us to who we are as the human race is something I have believed since a young age and remains a core belief of mine. So here I was, in an ancient city, with an ancient culture that had a profound impact on the Western World, and I was fully ready to immerse myself in it completely.
As we slowly edged our way across Rome, my mother finally revealed that the apartment we were going to stay in belonged to her journalist friend named Jim Bitterman (now CNN). That made me a bit more comfortable because I had met Jim when he interviewed all of us for a CBS piece on US families living in Iran during the revolution and I liked him, he was very nice to my brother and me. Feeling more comforted by this news, I turned my gaze back to the living Rome moving by the taxi window, when we turned a corner, and it appeared out of nowhere. It was Saint Peters, with its grand dome and beautiful Rennaissance architecture. I stared in stunned silence as I could feel its history as well as all those who walked through her doors, and this experience hit me for only a few seconds but felt like an eternity. I was feeling more and more the history of this amazing city, and I wanted to jump out of the taxi to absorb it immediately. But we had to get to the apartment first.
The taxi finally stopped and were told we had arrived at our destination. We exited the cab, grabbed our luggage and made our way up to the apartment. The apartment was not large, one-bedroom, and one bathroom, with quite a few windows letting in copious amounts of light. The kitchen was small, but I didn’t care because I know our mother would be taking us to restaurants every night. There was a huge sofa where my brother and I would sleep, and Jim had a fantastic stereo as well as a great collection of vinyl that included several Led Zeppelin albums. I hurried my mother and brother to refresh so we could go out and experience the city. My mother wanted to take a shower, and my brother fell asleep, so to neutralize my impatience, I put on Led Zeppelin II and cranked the volume. My brother never awoke, when he slept he could sleep through a nuclear attack, so with loud music and too much energy, I danced around the room while I waited. Almost to the end of side one on Led Zeppelin II, my mother finally emerged, yelled at me to turn the volume down, woke my brother and started to get ready to venture out onto the streets of Rome.
We exited the apartment building through a large wooden door and on to the street. As we were now embarking on our adventure, I could entirely focus on the sights, sounds, and aromas of where we were. I could hear the Romans loudly speaking to one another in their dialect, which I had a difficult time understanding, automobiles speaking to one another in a rhythmic cacophony of beeps and honks and the light aroma of coffee floating through the air. My senses were enveloped entirely, and the weeks of trauma before were drowned out of my psyche by the life around me. I felt genuine happiness for the first time in months.
Our mother took a map out of her handbag and handed it to me. She said, “you have always been a map expert, we need to get to the Collegio Santa Maria. We are going to visit two Catholic Brothers I know, and we will have a meal with them.” I took the map and was ready to lead the expedition through the streets of Rome and to uncertain adventure. Studying the map for a couple of minutes, I found our route. It would be about a 5-kilometer walk. Knowing my mother would opt for a tram or taxi, and considering I wanted to walk the streets, I told her the journey was only about 3-kilometer. Map in hand and route plotted, we ventured into the wilds of Rome.
The streets of Rome, at that time, were not clean nor well kept, but one was easily distracted away from that by the beautiful building, the history, and lively conversations at different coffee shops along the route. I loved watching the body language and facial expressions of the Roman as they were very different from my family in Bergamo. Much more expressive and much more passionate that the mountain people of the north. After about one kilometer, we came close to Villa Borghese and decided to detour through the park. The short climb to the villa was quite beautiful, and the lushness of the gardens struck me. We meandered through magnificent gardens, getting lost on small pathways, and always trying to move up to the top of the small hill. We finally arrived at Villa Borghese, an understated yet lovely Renaissance villa. I was transfixed on the beautiful building in front of me, studying every square centimeter of the arches of the windows the carved decorative external fixtures when my mother said, “turn around and look.”
I quickly turned to find myself staring at a stunning view of Rome. The city was growing out of the hills like an ancient redwood forest, breathing its ancient history, and kept alive through her people. I stood transfixed and speechless. The sunlight was diming, and the lights of the city were starting to peek through like a shimmering river of stars. All is wanted to do was stand there until I fully absorbed Rome’s energy and beauty. I was out of my body, floating through the waves of time still permeating this incredible city. However, the moment was not to last. My brother, becoming fed up with the walk, started to complain that he was tired and hungry, and I was sucked back into my body, forced to march onward. Our mother decided she too was tired of walking and we went to fetch a taxi.
Finally, arriving at the Collegio Santa Maria, we exited the cab and made our way to reception. We had been waiting only a few minutes when two charming men came walking towards us and with big smiles on their faces. One was rather tall, older, with gray hair, a little stout, and looked quite jolly. The other was slightly shorter, very dark hair, serious eyes, and an old blue knit sweater. The taller of the two was first to introduce himself to my brother and me, and in a heavy Italian accent said, “very nice meeting to you, my name is Brother Carlo.” The first introduction was quickly followed by the other Catholic Brother jumping straight in, but with only a slight Italian accent saying, “I am Brother Giuliani, and I am Brother Carlo’s side-kick.” His introduction was deadpan and unexpected, and it make me laugh loudly. Our mother then explained to my brother and me that she had met the two of them when she was a student at the University of Grenoble in France, and they had become friends when she stayed in Rome back then. She then walked over and gave them both big hugs.
Brother Giuliani asked if we were hungry, and we all nodded our heads eagerly. Our mother, Scott, and I followed Brother Carlo and Brother Giuliani down a long corridor, and I took that time to find out a little more about our hosts. Brother Carlo was teaching theology, and Brother Giuliani was teaching history. As I love history, I dove into my millions of questions about the history of the different buildings and places I had seen thus far in Rome. Brother Giuliani was delighted to teach me. However, I could see Brother Carlo struggling to speak with Scott, and he was having a hard time pronouncing his name. When we finally arrived at the doors of the dining room, Brother Carlo stopped, turned around to Scott and said, “I call you SkyLab, it makes easier for my memory.” Again, the comment was unexpected, and I laughed out loud.
Brother Carlo opened the door, we walked into a large dining hall with about 30 long tables and could see that almost all who were seater were Catholic priests. Brother Giuliani took us to some free seats and sat at the table. About 20 minutes after we sat down, a prayer was said, and the first course came; focaccia, cured meats, and marinated vegetables. I could taste everything was freshly prepared; the sweetness of the marinated peppers, the salt and cumin on the focaccia, the savory flavors of the different cured meats, and the peppery olive oil I liberally applied to most things on my plate. I have had freshly made Italian food before when we would visit our family in Bergamo, but this was an entirely different set of flavors in Italian cuisine I had not experienced before. I was delighted. Then came the pasta and it was spaghetti. To my surprise, the pasta was in a marinara sauce with fresh rosemary finely chopped into the sauce and is a dish my aunt would make for me (one of my favorites). Through the entire meal, Brother Giuliani was giving me history lessons about Rome, giving me anecdotal stories about certain sites and keeping me quite entertained.
When the meal ended, we were taken to a sitting room that had a wall of graffiti. My mother and the two Brothers sat down for an after-dinner grappa and catch-up conversation, while another priest brought my brother and me over to the well and encouraged us to draw whatever we wanted. My brother and I were given paints, chalk, and markers to put our print on the wall. My brother was the first to jump in, and he started to draw a UFO (possibly influenced by Brother Carlo’s SkyLab nickname). It took me a while as I could not think of anything interesting to draw on the wall, but I finally decided to write a poem our mother would read to us about travel. It is a poem by Mikhail Lermonov called “The Sail.” I could not remember the whole poem, but I had the first passage firmly etched upon my mind:
Amid the blue haze of the of the ocean
A sail is passing, white and frail.
What do you seek in a far country?
What have you left at home, lone sail?
The poem seemed appropriate, considering my life journey to that point. Brother Giuliani turned and saw the poem, smiled, and completed it in Italian. I was supremely happy. We stayed late having more conversations about history, politics, Iran, and I even took a few minutes to try and teach the two Brothers how to speak Bergamasco. The evening was one of those times in life you wish you could stretch for 100 years, and I can remember every second of it like it was yesterday.
Brother Carlo and Brother Guiliani were very kind to us for the week we stayed in Rome before my brother and I went to the boarding school. They took us on a special tour of the Vatican, where we were shown some paintings not available to the public at that time. We saw works of art from Da Vinci, Caravaggio, and Raphael — some of my absolute favorite artists. The paintings were, of course, religious, but I didn’t care. The colors, the story they told, and the smell of centuries ignited my senses. The Brothers also took us up to the top of the dome of St Peters, and we didn’t go the usual way. We went the original route to the top of the dome: a staircase within the dome itself. Climbing those stairs was one of the most claustrophobic experiences I have ever had. The stairs started wide enough, but as we ventured further up the dome, the narrower the stairs became, and the staircase would start to lean to one side, hugging the contour of the dome. In the end, the claustrophobia was worth it because the view from the top of the dome was magnificent. The day was bright blue, not a cloud in the sky. As I looked across the city, I could see the sun glinting off of some of the golden spires in the distance, and the volume of the city life drift into the air. It felt like every square meter of the city was visible from the top of this magnificent man-made mountain. In addition to the tour of the Vatican and St Peters, the Brothers also took us to forgotten churches with incredible frescos and remarkable Catholic relics. Even though I was and have always been an atheist, I was nonetheless grateful for this fantastic experience through art and history. Brother Giuliani would come to visit my brother and me at the boarding school, which always made me happy because I knew there would be another history lesson waiting. Sadly, over time, we lost contact with the Brothers, only connecting when Brother Carlo passed away.
The day finally came for my mother to take my brother and me to the boarding school. The name of the school was “The International School of Rome” and was run by a beautiful couple, Mr. and Mrs. Harris. The Harris’ were from the United States originally and came to Rome because the Harris’ were in the film industry and came to Rome to film several movies. They never left.
We drove to the outskirts of Rome and finally got to a small dirt road that wound its way to the top of a hill where I could see a tall villa peeking its head out from a small forest of trees. We wound our way up the dirt road, through the villa gates and straight up to the front door where Mr. & Mrs. Harris were waiting for us. I was the first to get our of the car, and Mr. Harris came straight over and said, “my name is Mr. Harris, and that is mt beautiful wife, Mrs. Marris. We are very pleased to have you here and welcome you into our home.” Mrs. Harris came over and hugged us both and said, “are you hungry? I made some pasta with a cream sauce. I think you’ll like it.” Scott immediately said, “I will have some.” After all the pleasantries, I started to notice the aroma of pine and citrus. Looking around, I easily noticed the Roman pines that dotted the landscape around the villa, but I could not see from which direction the citrus aromas were coming. Then I saw them, to one side of the vila were several very tall blood orange trees.
While we were standing there waiting for our luggage to be unloaded, an older gentleman came walking over to introduce himself. He was quite tall, very slender, and when he spoke to us, he had a very distinctive British accent. He introduced himself as Reggie, and he was the groundskeeper. As it turned out, he was also a British veteran from World War II. He had served under General Montgomery during the campaign from North Africa to Rome, where he fell in love with the land, the city and its people. After the war, he left England behind and live the rest of his days in Italy. He would invite me to his one-room home on the villa lands to tell me stories of the war and let me drink an espresso or two (we will save those stories for another post).
The school had two hundred students in all, but only three, including my brother and I, were boarding. The other boarder was another kid from the United States named Arnold. Arnold was inside watching television. Mrs. Harris called out to him to come over and introduce himself. He was a very heavy set kid with blond hair and an ashen complexion. Arnold jumped up and said, “great! I have roommates now, and I think we are going to have a lot of fun together.” He grabbed one of our bags and led us up the staircase. Arnold told us that the room was at the top of the vila, and it even had a rooftop terrace the room opened up on to. We went up the three stories to the top. Arnold opened the door to the room, and it was massive. The room even had some frescos in varying states of decay on each wall. We put the bags down, and Arnold took us out to the terrace. There, in front of me, were three of the blood orange trees, and we could easily reach the fruit when it would eventually come. Just then, we heard Mr. Harris calling to us to go and say goodbye to our mother.
Scott and I ran down the stairs and to our mother to give her big hugs before she left. Mother had a flight to catch that afternoon back to Tehran. We could see she was in tears knowing this was the first time she would be away from us for an extended time period. To comfort her, I told her how excited I was about our room and the blood orange trees next to the terrace. She smiled, kissed us, got into the taxi, and disappeared beyond the villa gates. My brother and I were sad, but neither of us shed a tear. We were used to our mother disappearing from time-to-time on her adventures in journalism, and this time didn’t feel any different.
Mr. and Mrs. Harris brought us inside to the dining room, where we found Arnold and Reggie waiting. It was time to eat with our new family.
