We'd been hitchhiking through Europe when finally made it to Rome after having spent a sleepless night of hidden camping in the burned, yellow grass beside an Autogrill.
A rugged, curly haired, hippy guy picked us up in his battered old station wagon and helped us catch the bus going to San Lorenzo. I remember seeing some pictures that were stuck to the dashboard of himself and a young girl and wondered whether it was his daughter or girlfriend. He threw his hands in the air and shouted “Mamma-mia”. I couldn’t stop laughing.
San Lorenzo is a boho, lefty, student-filled neighbourhood just outside of the Roman walls it had been bombed during the second Wold War. Everything was quiet enough on that hot, blue June afternoon we arrived.
We headed for Iguana’s music studio – Iguana, or “Iggy” as his rocker girlfriend Graziella called him, was the Roman thirtysomething rock-blues musician we were going to be staying with.
He was nowhere to be seen so we left our bags with a very friendly girl who was hanging outside his place and went off to explore Roma.
I’ll never forget the roar of Rome, around 50 sunglass-wearing Italians sped off on their mopeds as soon the traffic light turned green. The buildings were high and white and the ground was black and hot. We were near the Bocca della Verita ( The Mouth of Truth) when I almost walked on top of an old man lying on the ground; I wasn’t sure if he was dead or not as I stumbled over him but nobody seemed bothered by him so I traipsed on, it was sweltering.
Gasping of thirst I leaned over a street fountain to wet the top of my head and suck up a refreshing jet of water.
Back in Iguana’s studio, the delicious smell of cooked tomatoes drifted out of every window but by the chat that ot going, they all sounded like they were going to kill each other. “This is the real Roma here in San Lorenzo, in there – is just another piece of America,” raged Iguana. Things mellowed when two beautiful black- haired, Sicilian girls arrived at the door strumming guitars and singing “Hey Jude, don’t be afraid.” Smoke and laughter were thick in the small red room.
After dinner we all headed to Trastevere (across the river). Iguana, who only wears red clothes, drove his old Peugeot across the cobbles like a mad man; we were giddy in the back from being jostled from side to side. On the steps of Piazza Santa Maria fountain, listening to some gypsies playing accordion, we gladly guzzled down beer from large Peroni bottles.
Just then I knew it, there in the summer night’s heat, I knew that I was back in my eternal home.
