But the favorite element of our day at the villa was, like the subway, something Respighi hadn't contemplated: a balloon ride. Near the entrance was a gas-filled balloon called l'Ottavo Colle. (It took me a while to grasp the significance of that name: The balloon gets you up above the average terrain, thus, it is effectively an "eighth hill.") Tethered with a sturdy steel cable, the balloon ascends 500 feet, higher than the tallest pine.
Typically, my acrophobia kicks in at the height of the gutters on our house, but the air was calm, the sun was bright, and the gold and powder-blue sphere was too poetic to ignore. The ring-shaped gondola swayed a bit as we boarded and even more as we took off. Once we literally reached the end of our rope, though, it seemed no more precarious than the observation deck of a tall building, and I walked around its circumference, shooting top-down photos of the pines.
Rome's Janiculum, noted in the Italian poet's third movement, was thick with pines and views of St. Peter's Basilica.
(Jerry V. Haines)
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Although the day didn't correspond to Respighi's vision, it's not his fault that no children were scampering about during our visit. Anyway, the frolicking children in his imagination would be octogenarians by now, so maybe we did see them.
Second Movement: Pines Near a Catacomb. Lento.
"Suddenly the scene changes -- we see the shades of the pine trees fringing the entrance to a catacomb. From the depth rises the sound of a mournful chant, floating through the air like a solemn hymn, and gradually and mysteriously dispersing."
Respighi didn't specify which catacomb; there are several in and around Rome. We went to St. Callisto, a city of the dead established in the second century, with miles of underground passages and a half-million tombs.
There still are pines around the entrances to the catacomb, yet there are changes inside. The bodies in the publicly accessible portions have been relocated -- tourists kept helping themselves to bones.
Salesian priests watch over the sacred ground on behalf of the Holy See, and they guide tours to this part of the underworld. Hundreds of burial niches were dug out of the tufa (volcanic rock); some, the graves of children, are not much larger than jewel boxes. Except for a few popes and martyrs, the names of the buried are unknown, and they are identified only by assigned numbers. (I think about that now, when I hear the wistful longing in the solo trumpet's song early in the movement.)
Our priest/guide explained that, Hollywood-inspired myth notwithstanding, early Christians did not hide from Roman persecution in these tombs. They did gather here, but for worship. Not that being a Christian was without peril: Pope Calixtus, for whom the place is named, was killed circa 222 while saying Mass. Many other martyrs were buried here as well, including St. Cecilia, patroness saint of music. (She's since been relocated; saints' remains are in demand.)
I am not a botanist, but the pines of this area seemed to include more of the kind that one might find in a North American forest, although some of them had odd, berry-like seeds. (Umbrella pines have large cones, the size of hand grenades, that due to the distance of their fall often crack on impact.) We heard sheep bells in a neighboring pasture, a nice pastoral sound to go with the spiritual aura of the place.
Still, what I will remember most from our visit to the catacomb was the sight of a dozen scissor-wielding women attacking something in the grass not far from the entrance. What are they cutting, I asked one of them. "Chicory, for salad." They seemed delighted at the find, and some were filling large plastic bags with the stuff.
