Rome, Spanish Steps
While signorina preen and pose on Rome’s Spanish Steps, older women can expect the effusive attention of Italian men of a certain age.
Rome in summer is almost a cliche. The gelati in ripe fruity flavours is too delicious. The sun is too bright and buttery yellow. The crescendo of the crowds rises to operatic levels. Police in tight black uniforms patrol the squares, where pickpockets are up to ever more inventive push-and-grab tricks. The Italian men of a certain age, perspiring in creased linen suits, have their hopes crushed as beautiful young women swipe them aside as if swatting at flies. The signorina are too busy pouting, preening and posing on the Spanish Steps in an orgy of selfie-taking.
That leaves the older and less nimble signora, such as me, to be courted. I am a Nonna on the loose, still sprightly and reasonably shapely (black is such a flattering colour), and with Mediterranean ancestry that gives me the look of a local. I’m an easy mark. Alone, not young, hardly intimidating, undoubtedly kind to children and animals and chaps down on their (romantic) luck.
Paolo, my guide for one morning, kisses my hand. “Everyone loves a Nonna,” he assures me. Nonnas, he continues, are always cooking and have “candy” in their pockets. Oh, so those scoundrels eyeing me off really just want me to produce, say, a plate of pasta from under my skirts and ply them with lollies.
“The Nonna is the queen of the family,” Paolo sighs as he disappears off to his next client. I wander the Villa Borghese gardens, where men with walking sticks are lounging on benches, all well attired, some with straw hats. The urge to rattle a tin of pastilles in their direction is almost irresistible.
Paolo’s brother, Ricardo, arrives to drive me to my hotel. He has marriage problems. I dish out advice from the back seat. “You are a mother saint!” he cries. “Did Paolo tell you I am a Nonna?” I ask. He swivels around. We narrowly miss three pedestrians and a cyclist. “This is impossible!” he cries. “You are too young, too beautiful, which country is now poor without your presence?”
I produce my iPhone with its screensaver of granddaughter Mia Susan, aged 3½. Ricardo takes it, gasps, and we mount a kerb. “Molto bella! She is too beautiful to be possible! She is exactly like you! This is too much!”
It is all too much indeed. He weeps. I laugh. Surely somewhere in the wings of Piazza della Repubblica there are angels singing and celestial Nonnas harmonising. We stop at a cafe. Ricardo takes my iPhone and places a finger on Mia Susan’s cherubic face. Then we order espressos. The waiter sees the picture of my granddaughter. Ricardo explains to him I am a Nonna. The waiter kisses my hand. “Salute, signora!” I have been blessed.