This is a post from Dred Scott.
i was to travel to italy for two days and was looking for an appropriate book to read and on my way to barnard college from the 96th st express stop – sometimes i like to walk instead of taking the local the extra 20 blocks – when i happened upon an old edition of a moveable feast and thought, ‘well, i’m not going to paris, but…’
turning it over and reading, ‘…candor that amazed the literary world…’
i had not read this very famous book and it was only $2, so i picked it up. and like the other book of his i had read (the spanish civil war one), i found the prose clunky and forced and the dialogue not the way people actually talk to one another. unless, that is, people in the twenties talked to each other in long, run-on sentences. i don’t think so. d.h. lawrence didn’t write like that. but i appreciated his efforts to recount the mundane and ordinary in a somewhat romanticized way. that’s what i try to do in my dispatches. i just prefer the way bukowski did it. or hamsun. except i liked him a whole lot less when i found out he was a big nazi sympathizer. so i will relate my brief (48 hours) visit to the great city of rome with the great specter of tatie hanging over me. i should warn you in advance, however, i did not go to the track or fish or watch men fish or make love every day or hob-nob with famous literary figures. but i did eat.
‘do you have your ticket?’
‘uh, yeah.’
‘what about your i.d., your phone charger, your laptop, your laptop charger. i’m just saying is all because if we have to come back for something i got to charge you extra. you wouldn’t believe what people forget on their way to the airport.’
‘uh, yeah. i think i’m good to go. thanks.’
‘just making sure is all. you know. you locked your door? turned off the stove?’
‘dude, you’re making me nervous.’
‘oh, sorry. i get that sometimes. we’re going to newark, right?’
‘yes, please.’
and we go along in silence. except for the faint sound of opera i can now here coming out of the speakers behind me. (note: i think here hemingway would insert some detail about which opera it was or who was singing it – i won’t front. opera is not something i know a great deal about.)
a truck cuts in front of us. on the back of it in big letters, U.S.A IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT GET THE F*** OUT! and it makes me laugh out loud.
‘did that say what i think it said?’ he says.
‘yeah,’ i say, ‘pretty ignorant, huh?’
‘what the fuck?! those people come to this country and get health services and then complain about it? this is the best place to live on earth!’
‘yes, but our job as citizens is to make sure our leaders are representing us. questioning authority is an important part of a good democracy. besides everyone comes from somewhere.’
‘yeah? well where they come from you get your hand chopped off for stealing a piece of fruit. i been in two wars. been shot, stabbed and blown up. i fought for their freedom and all they can do is complain. you know, people are dying to get into this country. mexicans in trucks and shipping containers, doing whatever they can to get here and they just sponge off the system bleeding us dry.’
now he has adjusted his rearview mirror so he’s looking directly at me. there’s nothing i can really say so i just look out the window trying to avoid eye contact as he mutters and i catch about every fifth word,
‘…fucking….go back……native americans…..blood suckers…’
i know. ‘native americans.’ not sure what that was all about. but he is getting pretty worked up and we are now weaving in and out of the traffic on 3rd ave under the bqe. i’m getting a little nervous again so i say,
‘hey man. can we change the subject?’
nothing. then,
‘yeah…….sure.’
so we roll along in awkward silence and as we cross the verrazano bridge i think he might stop at the top and throw me off so i say,
’so, do you like classical music?’
‘yeah! it’s the best for road rage.’
‘for sure. i want to kill everyone when i’m driving.’ (note: probably not what i said exactly. hemingway was friends with a mercenary soldier guy in feast. i’m just acting macho for the story. there will be those who have driven with me, however, who will dispute this and insist i do indeed want to kill everyone when i am driving.)
‘yeah, me too,’ he laughs. ‘you know after 1am they play the top-notch stuff.’
and we make it over the bridge so i stop talking.
we continue in still more awkward silence until we come to the other side of the goethal’s bridge where there is a fat racoon lumbering full speed against traffic up the side of the span we have just descended.
‘wow,’ i say.
‘yeah,’ he says. ‘must’ve took a wrong turn.’
‘man. one time there was a racoon in the tree next to my house trying to jump on the fire escape and get into an open window. right there on 17th st.’
‘oh yeah. they’ll just come right in the tent and go straight into your duffel bag.’
‘i know. i’ve camped some in california and you have to tie your food up in the trees or the bears will just come right in. people get killed.’
he chuckles at the thought of this and i imagine this guy rolling around with a bear in his tent. gutting it with a big knife, eating it and wearing the fur.
we arrive at the airport. i leave him a good tip and say,
‘hey, i’m sorry if i seemed rude. i didn’t mean to-’
‘what? never. no way. it’s cool.’
‘thanks for your service. i’m sorry it had to come to that.’
‘hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.’
i was so looking forward to hanging out in the international terminal. free wi-fi. probably some good food. overpriced, but good. alitalia is now being run by delta and delta sucks, so naturally there was no wi-fi and no edible food items. fortunately, i ran into three jazzmen on their way to a gig off the coast of portugal and that more than passed the time. one of them i had played with but the other two i knew only be name. (note: h. hung out with gertrude stein in feast so here i should mention that it was marty ehrlich and pheeroan akleff and james zoeller.) we talked mostly about politics. specifically, whether or not bloomberg should be allowed to run for a third term.
the plane was an old 767 that groaned, rattled and creaked during take off. i was sure we weren’t going fast enough to get airborne, but we took off without incident. i was the only one seated in the exit row and after a totally forgettable meal (i honestly can’t remember what it was), i popped an ambien and settled down in the window seat. as i drifted off i could hear the wind whistling through the exit door i was leaned up against and i couldn’t stop imagining it flying off and sucking me out with it. so i moved over to the aisle, double checked my seat belt and crashed.
my driver, santo, was a young man, sharply dressed and handsome. i sat in the front seat with him and we chatted easily all the way into town – a long trip made longer by the bad traffic. it was weird to think of santo as a roman. but that is what he is. born and raised in rome.
rome does not reveal itself a little at a time like other cities where you sense the suburbs and the increasing density. we turned and suddenly the colleseo loomed large and breathtaking, the road we were on circling it almost completely. we were in rome and it seemed to come from out of nowhere. and i felt that thing about traveling that forces you to confront your smallness. your place in the cosmos which is nowhere and the significance of your existence which will likely be nothing. what you make of the moment you are here is totally you own.
we traverse the piazza venezia and head up the via del corso off of which is my hotel on the piazza san silvestro. (note: that sounds exotic. i can see why hemingway named every street and cafe he passed.)
i was hungry. so after i settled into my room i took a walk. within half a block i came across a fruit stand. it was only 11am and fruit sounded great right then so i got a cup of pineapple that was so great i got a cup of mango right after. i crossed the piazza and went into a cafe and got an espresso that came with four silver dollar size pizzas that were very tasty. there were three policemen standing next to me laughing and eating sandwiches with no crust. cops always make me nervous so i went around the corner and found a small cafeteria-style restaurant that was just opening. i hadn’t picked up a phrase book and had no time to practice my italian (of which i knew zero) so i was glad i could point. peas with pancetta and a steamed piece of salmon. i sat alone in an empty room in the back. it was delicious. i left the restaurant and walked around. picked up some presents. found my way back to the hotel and took a nap.
i was supposed to be at the museo borghese at 4pm but my wake up call never happened and the cell santo had given me from the people i was working for rang at 4:45.
‘dred, where are you?’
‘in my room. what time is it?’
‘almost 5.’
’shit! my wake up call didn’t happen. sorry.’
‘it’s ok. we’re running behind. just get here when you can.’
so i dressed quickly and found a cab up to the gig.
by then i was hungry again and was wondering what the food might be at the event even though i would not likely have time to eat any of it. soundcheck and rehearsal went smoothly. the piano was in fine shape so i practiced a bit and before i knew it, i was at the cocktail party having a campari drink that tasted like fruit juice and enjoying hors d’oevres that were molto bene. dinner was served during which i did my usual mix of jazz, classical and rock tunes plus all the italian songs i knew: santa lucia, a clemente sonatina, the theme from the godfather, the tarantella and bella ciao. this last tune is an italian anti-fascist song of the resistance during the second world war. yes, there was a resistance in italy. apparently, the mayor of rome was to come to this aids research fund-raiser but was a no show. well two newspapers printed in headlines that the playing of this song was a snub aimed back at the mayor for not coming. i don’t know why he should be offended (if he even was – my italian friends tell me the papers are full of shit mostly, anyway. sounds familiar.). the mayor may be a conservative but i doubt he is pro-fascist. although that is the party of berlusconi and one could make a very good argument his style of governing is a neo-corporate-proto-fascist dictatorship. coincidentally, thousands of people took to the streets the next day to protest his policies (education cuts among them) so it was a politically charged environment already. i only hope the work amfar is doing there will not be effected.
the after party. loud. i made friends with a talented (and hilarious) actor who had bit of weed. so i got some rolling papers from one of the bartenders and we got high in the garden next to some very old and naked statues. we hung around for a bit but i started feeling tired and a little drunk. i didn’t know campari was alcohol. it’s red for fuck’s sake. so i said my goodbyes and tried to walk back to the hotel. i got very lost and having all the bread i got paid for the gig in my pocket decided to grab a taxi. rome hardly seems like the kind of place where you could get mugged, but you never know. it was late and there were no people on the streets.
i slept late. dressed and went straight to my fruit stand. back across the piazza for an espresso (no little pizzas this time) then went down along the via tritone to find the gagosian gallery a friend had told me i must go and see.
it was a beautiful round high space with just five paintings in it. very large paintings, all of a colorful figure with an oversized (by that i mean exaggerated) erect prick. something about the artist’s ‘meditations on war, time, presence, failure and possibility.’
it turns out the gallery was near the spanish steps so i walked up there and on the way ducked into a cafe for a limoncello and a sandwich of ham and cheese. that’s all it was – on white bread with the crust cut off – but it was amazing. down the steps and along this street where every store was a famous designer and i noticed there were no cars. it was saturday and most of the area where i was staying is closed to auto traffic. cool. and the romans were out. and dressed well. and walking slowly. i passed a basquiat show but didn’t go in. it was very crowded and i had just seen his stuff in the brooklyn art museum near my house. come to think of it, take a basquiat figure. add a bunch of color. a big dick sticking way out. and you’ve got that other guy. baselitz. i did check out his other stuff when i got back to my room and he is an awesome painter.
after a nap, i headed out to meet the people from amfar for dinner at st. ana’s – a little, overstuffed, basement restaurant off the piazza del populo down by the river. the appetizer course was served family style – mortadella, tuna, shrimp, proscuitto, cheeses and everyone got a charred artichoke. during this course we were all treated to the story about the reappearance of a pesky fistula on duncan’s ass and how glad he was to be in italy where there would likely be a bidet in his room. i then told of my fascination with the automated japanese ass-washer toilets and the women at the table considered how it was possible that all japanese women were not chronically yeast infected. the water must not come from the toilet bowl itself but from another separate line we all concluded. everyone was raving about the cacio e pepe so that is what i had and it was sublime. hard to believe it’s only three ingredients. during the pasta course there were more tales of mirth and hilarity. like the one alex told of getting shoved back into a rapidly rotating revolving door by fernanda and nearly being decapitated. good times.
after dinner we went across the street to the hotel locana and i almost got lured into accompanying the contest fernanda and duncan were having trying to remember every song from mame. but the piano was so wrecked all i could really do was play a boogie. i don’t know any songs from mame anyway. more good times. i left my new friends to meet a pianist friend of mine who had just moved to rome from milano. we were to meet at the fontana de trevi at 1am.
roberto showed up at the very surreal scene of the fontana de trevi with his girlfriend and another friend named roberto. they took me to a very nice jazz club called gregory’s. the band had finished but we sat in nice chairs and had some beer. talking and smoking.
‘it sounds good in here, but the piano is not so good,’ roberto says.
‘that’s too bad,’ i say.
both roberto’s were coming to new york in a couple of weeks and i discover the other roberto – he is a drummer – needs a place to stay for a week so i offer my basement studio and tell him he can stay as long as he needs.
‘i can give you some money, dred,’ he says.
‘we’ll work something out. can you cook?’
and the two roberto’s exchange knowing looks and roberto’s girlfriend is looking down shaking her head from side to side. like i have opened some big can of worms.
‘what?’ i say.
smiling humbly, roberto the drummer says,
‘dred, i am a very good cook.’
and everyone laughs.
i woke up like a shot. i had been hardly dozing since it got light. in that restless zone of knowing the call is coming but not fully trusting it to come. i must’ve actually slept for a second because i was suddenly wide awake - sure it was noon and my flight was long gone. i threw on some pants and a shirt and padded down to the lobby in my bare feet. it was 8:15 and santo was standing there next to the front desk.
’sorry. i didn’t get my wake up call,’ glaring at the clerk who appeared not to give a shit.
‘no problem. we have plenty of time. i’ll wait outside.’
‘thanks.’
it didn’t take me long to get packed up and i was out on the street giving my bag to santo.
‘let me just go down to this fruit stand real quick,’ i say.
’sure. no problem.’
‘do you want something?’
‘no. thank you.’
santo and i drive out of town. he wants to come to new york sometime so i give him my email and tell him to let me know. he drives fast and we get to the airport in under half an hour. again i can’t believe how rural and normal everything seems on the way. like rome was some fantasy land – romeworld. i say goodbye to santo. i have a lot of time to kill so i find a cafeteria next to the gate and get a salad of tomato, fresh (and i mean fresh) mozzarella, radicchio, frisee and kidney bean with a tiny bottle of valpolicella. i find a seat facing the windows and start writing. the planes land and take-off in the near distance. thick groves of trees line the far end of the air field. and the clouds roll on by.
Tonight:
rockwood music hall
the dred scott trio
ben rubin, bass
dan rieser, drums
‘Blending pop, bop, pulse, and clatter, they get to a place that swings on its own terms. And they entertain as well.’ Village Voice
dredscott
