ROME RUINED
Sebastian Cresswell-Turner says that the
Eternal City has lost its charm for those who want to escape the rat race
Rome 'ALL this efficiency — it's a disaster, mate,' said Kieran, as he emptied the bottle of white wine into our glasses, leant back in his chair, and stared balefully at the freshly repainted facade on the opposite side of the Campo de' Fiori.
'Yeah, a total disaster. And you know what? They're even laying fibre-optic cables in my street. 1 mean, where will underachievers like us go next? Turkey? Morocco?' A brand-new electric bus glided over the cobbled surface of the square and past the bar. He glanced at it and shook his head in dismay.
That was two years ago, and Kieran was quite right. Modernisation and globalisation have indeed made Rome impossible for the motley assortment of lotus-eaters who form the majority of the expat community here. If you are one of the 55 per cent of Britons who, according to a recent YouGov poll, say they wouldn't mind emigrating to some foreign paradise, then Rome — or almost anywhere else in Italy, for that matter — is no longer an option. Unless, of course, the financial aspect is not an issue.
Until ten or even five years ago, it was easy enough to quietly underachieve here. Sure, there's never been any industry in Rome, and most of the Romans have always worked in the city's shops, bars and restaurants, or have done not too demanding jobs in the various ministries that are the main source of white-collar employment. But the place was gloriously cheap, and somehow one got by. I thought, when I came here at the end of 1995 and set up as a translator, that I had escaped to somewhere that was immune to globalisation and the economic forces that have turned London into a city for the rich.
Unfortunately I was wrong. Over the last few years, Rome has become like London, with soaring property prices and unaffordable rents. Easily available mortgages (a novelty in Italy), low interest rates, and everyone piling out of the stockmarket and into property: the causes are readily identifiable. But at the same time the economy has remained stagnant, and the tidal wave of illegal immigrants, which Italy's government will not or cannot check, has swamped the lower end of the job market.
All this is bad news for English-speaking expats, for whom most Italian careers have always been off-limits anyhow. Almost the only readily available job left for them is teaching English. This is still fine for pocket money or to supplement a spouse's income, but for anyone who needs to earn a proper living it is no longer a viable option. Whenever I see a scruffy foreigner from the north with lustreless hair and a trodden-on expression scuttling along the street clutching a worn-out plastic bag (rather than the spotless leather briefcase that is de rigueur for any self-respecting Italian), I know beyond a shadow of doubt that I am looking at an English teacher who's been teaching English for too long.
Let's meet a couple of typical specimens.
Liz (or is she called Sue? I can never remember) is 37, penniless, propertyless, pensionless and boyfriendless. She looks and dresses like a down-at-heel student and lives in a squalid condominium on the slummy eastern fringes of the city. Here she rents a small, damp room in the basement; and she has just been given one month's notice to leave it. 'Know anyone who's got a place going spare?' she asks breathlessly, when you bump into her somewhere in the centre of Rome as she rushes from one lesson to another. 'But I can't pay more than 300 euros [£180] a month.... Oh, and I can't pay a deposit either.. . ' She seems strangely unconcerned about the seriousness of her predicament.
Or take Pete: 45, gay, single, the director of studies at some crappy language school. Not that this grandly named job enables him to live with even a modicum of dignity. He, too, rents a room in a flat furnished with the coffin-style furniture that lowermiddle-class Italians inexplicably go in for. He, too, has to leave his room; he, too, has no idea where to go, rents now being what they are; and he, too, asks you if you know of anywhere. When the bill arrives, someone has to lend him the money to pay his share.
So teaching English is out of the question financially, quite apart from being utterly, utterly passe.. It is no surprise that many teachers have reinvented themselves as tour guides. In doing so, though, they move out of the official economy and into the black one, and therefore even further towards the margins. None of them has passed the demanding exam (in Italian) that you are obliged to take if you want to operate as a guide, so they end up working illegally for the various tourist companies that pose — again, illegally — as non-profit-making 'cultural associations'. One of the many tricks of these outfits is to send their people out to pimp in the Forum, where they offer 'free' tours, at the end of which tips are welcome and the tourists are invited to sign up for a paying tour of the Vatican. Here different laws apply, the Vatican City being a sovereign state.
Then there are the self-employed tourist touts. Johnny the Irishman is a typical example. Here he is at the foot of the Spanish Steps, gathering victims to take on one of his tours while keeping a wary and red-rimmed eye open for the police. Early thirties, probably: unhealthy complexion, puny frame, round shoulders and a surprisingly prominent paunch. His hair, which looks as though it has been cropped by a
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