I’m in Rome for the weekend, basically crashing after a couple of days in gloomy, rainy, chilly Paris, and just before meetings in Spain next week. This is the time of year when Rome goes dead, as the Romans take to the hills and beaches, and leave the place to the mercy of desperate tourists looking for an open restaurant, pharmacy, or, in my case, barber shop. It’s a pleasure in many ways, however, because there isn’t much traffic and so you can actually see what the street looks like instead of worrying about your would-be executioner zooming around the next corner on a motorcycle or in an overpowered and, nowadays, oversized vehicle. Mostly the streets of Rome date to the Counter-Reformation, and the architects of the 17th century really didn’t foresee SUVs. The broad avenues came later, and were generally designed for either military purposes or for political celebrations.

At the moment I am suffering, because just outside my window is a beggar who, insread of quietly begging, is playing (very badly) his accordion. He doesn’t have a vast repertoire, and I have heard the lot half a dozen times by now. So I am going to take a walk, ending at his stand, and if he hasn’t gotten enough, I’m going to try to pay him off…