A Foray into Italian Street Theater:
Sets and Libretti

Nothing of consequence happens under a roof in Italy. People fitfully sleep; government ministers rubber-stamp reports, carabineri lose your paperwork. Italian apartments are small and cluttered, filled with odd-shaped rooms, and almost always empty. Even the most marginally significant of public meetings, such as the sessions of the Italian Parliament, are conducted in vast chambers that seem in size like indoor piazze.

More important business, such, as, say, opera and ballet, push the envelope even further: Palladio’s Teatro Olimpico is painted to look like an open-air Greek amphitheatre, while often the whole pretense is dropped and Pavarotti sings amid the ruins of Verona’s mini-colosseum, exposing himself to the equally Italian threats of rain and stray cats.

The truth is, given the plein-aire spectacle of life here, nobody would want to stay indoors much. Opera pales next to some of the extravagant coincidences that form the plot of even the most quotidian al fresco stroll. I had one of those crazy Italian theatrical moments the other day, when I ran into, out of all of Rome’s millions, my parish priest from home, dear Monsignor S.C.

He’d just gotten into town for the beatification and was on a stroll with another priest friend, Fr. F., from my diocese who knows Rome like the back of his hand. We’d been hoping to grab a coffee or lunch, though given the quality of my cell-phone reception, I was concerned he would be unable to get in contact with me. So, there I was, hurrying to a field-trip assembly point, dashing towards the Ponte Sisto down a narrow alley and I looked up to see a couple of priests. In Rome, one hardly gives a Roman collar second notice; Benedictine black, fluttering Norbertine white and the endless bizarre variety of nun headgear get a glance or two, but diocesan priests are everywhere. But I looked up again and realized there was a pretty darn familiar face there. I was ecstatic.

It was glorious, and almost hilariously cinematic, with the sun streaming down at the far end of the alleyway beyond them, the dip and buckle of the uneven cobbles paving the surprisingly empty street. Even my response, my loud cry of “Father!” and the overjoyed run towards him and Fr. F. harmonized with the overwrought backdrop perfectly. Italy does this to you. Sooner or later, you’ll be singing Vesti la giubba when you fold your laundry.

And enjoying it. Of course you are. You’re part of the spectacle. I guess it’s a way of giving back. Coffee the next day with Monsignor was like that too; I imagine the sight of three Americans gesticulating with loud familiar laughs on just another corner in the Borgo Pio just blended in seamlessly with the daily parade of nuns in full habit strolling past. It's a great show. We even spotted a cardinal, his scarlet fascia tassels peeking out from beneath his black overcoat. It was just another typical Roman corner, but it could have been the wings of a theater, so many colorful figures were skirting past as we enacted our own version of the “friends reunited” scene that caps off a dozen dramas and comedies.

Even funnier than that was I recognized a couple of the nuns, having met them a week before. Rome, as one would expect for a city of actors, is truly crazy, and I’m not sure anymore I want to be sane here.