Theo Says Poetry Smoetry

 For years when I visited Rome, I always wanted to go into the house that sits on the side of the Spanish Steps--the house which was turned into The Keats Shelley House, a museum dedicated to three English poets--all Romantics--who spent time in Italy.  

The story goes like this: John Keats, who is best known for his poem Ode to a Nightingale, is dying of tuberculosis when he comes to Rome for the last time in 1820 with a friend. They rent a room in the house, with a window that overlooks the Spanish Steps. He arrives in November when he is still able to ride his horse and see the sights. 

As his illness progresses, he's confined to a single room with a magic window. 

He loves to watch the tourists who go up and down those steps. After he dies at age 25, still a relatively unknown poet, everything in his room is burned, according to Italian Vatican law. 

The house is due to be demolished in 1903, but English and American diplomats and writers save it. The then Kings of England and Italy, the then President Theodore Roosevelt of the United States support the creation of a permanent memorial to Keats. Eventually the memorial includes Keats' contemporaries--Percy Bysshe Shelley (whose wife, Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein) and Lord Byron, who is best known for his autobiographical poem Child Harold's Pilgrimage, his many love affairs, his revolutionary spirit which led to his death in Greece and, in my humble opinion, his poem She Walks In Beauty. Byron is as popular as a rock star when he's alive.

Today more than 25,000 people visit the museum. 

Theo has no interest in going into the house. Poetry is not his thing. He'll watch a bird video or anything on National Geographic or Animal Planet, but he has no interest in the finer aspects of life. 

He sums up his attitude in two simple words: Poetry Smoetry. 

This presents a problem because I've been trying to get inside this museum for years. It always seems to be closed. But this time it isn't, and I can't resist. I spent part of my undergraduate work on the English Romantics. To see the house where Keats stayed and died is on my bucket list. 

Dan, my hero, comes in with me. There is a nice patio outside the house that overlooks the Spanish Steps. 

It is in the shade and the perfect people watching spot. We deposit Theo there, and he's happy. He perches near the railing and after he sniffs around, is instantly mesmerized by the tourists. Yes!

I am in heaven. Now I can explore. There is a welcome message at the entrance:

The walls that line the stairs leading to where Keats stayed are filled with photos and drawings, capturing their life back then. There is a drawing of the square with the Spanish Steps dating back to when Keats was alive:

There is a library filled with every conceivable imaginable book written by or about the three poets. It is an outstanding collection of 8,000 volumes and often attracts scholars who are doing research.  

There are excerpts from letters that Keats wrote--to his girlfriend Fanny. To his friends.  There are letters from Mary Shelley after her famous poet husband died.

There is so much to see and read. Every once in a while, Dan peeks out to make sure that Theo is still there. With Theo, you never know. 

This is how it happens. I am in Keats' room with the magic window, imagining this young man--who is so very talented and yet undiscovered living his last days on earth.  

Dan bursts in. "Theo is gone."

How can that be? We race to the patio, open the side door to the outside patio and look around. The patio is enclosed by a railing. There is nowhere to go. Except down. 

We lean over and see if it's possible. Could he have jumped down? No, Theo is not stupid. My backpack is still on the chair where I left it. 

No Theo.

Other options? Kidnapped? Not likely. He's a gangster cat, after all. 

"I know what happened," Dan announces. "Someone opened the door to the patio to look out . . ." He pauses. 

"Theo must have run into the museum."

We begin a frantic search to find him. We should have spared ourselves the effort. In the library, on a chair, Theo is cuddled up. 

"What the heck?"

And then we see the reason why. A small bowl filled with crocantini (dried cat food) is waiting beside him. A few morsels are left. 

There is a young woman, roaming around the museum, who keeps an eye on things. She is majoring in the English Romantics and spending her summer at the museum. We put two and two together and recognize a kind soul who spotted the "starving" Theo.

Unfortunately, although I could have stayed in the Keats and Shelley House forever, it is time to go back to the hotel. The gangster cat has had enough.

As we walk back, I read a few lines from Keats' To Sleep:

Oh, soft embalmer of the still midnight, . . .

Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole,

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,

And seal the hushed casket of my Soul.

Theo says, "Poetry. Smoetry."

Star Struck Theo at the Spanish Steps

 One of the most surprising things about Rome is that we see so few cats. There are dogs--big dogs, small dogs--especially Dachsunds--but no cats.

Until Theo spots an orange cat, who seems to come out of nowhere, navigating the narrow Roman streets, and heading toward the Spanish Steps. Now, there are a thousand reasons to visit the Spanish Steps, or as the Italians call them "la Scalinata:"

*It is the longest and widest staircase in Europe so it is a sight to see.

*Roman Holiday, that delicious movie with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck was filmed there in 1953.

*The fountain in Piazza di Spagna, the square in front of the steps, contains Fontana della Barcaccia (ugly boat) and was inspired by an ugly little boat that became stranded in that square in 1598 when the Tiber River flooded and the pope at that time wanted to commemorate the strange event.

*The 135 steps, built in the Rococo style, were funded by the French, believe it or not, and lead to Piazza Trinita dei Monti, to a church at the top.

*Italians and tourists collide there for the views of Rome from the top to the street below which is the premier shopping district in Rome.

*The steps host fashion shows and concerts throughout the year.

*There is no sitting on the steps. If you try to sit, for even a moment, eventually you will be roused to your feet by a loud shrill whistle from the police who patrol there.

Theo doesn't care about any of these facts. He sees a cat, the first one he's seen since he arrived. It is a revelation to him because he was thinking there are no cats in Rome. After all, at home, we have cats who visit our patio all the time, lounge on the pavers, stroll through the backyard as if they own the place. We arrive in Rome, and there are no cats.

Until Theo spots this orange big boned cat, who obviously meows Italian . . . I try to explain this to Theo. 

"He's an Italian cat. What will you two meow about?"

But Theo is nothing if not stubborn. So that is how we end up near the Spanish Steps. The first time. Well, actually we end up at the fountain, shaped like that of an ugly boat, with water spewing out from seven different points into the basin that surrounds it. 

The intrepid orange cat jumps up onto the edge of the basin. Is he actually going in for a swim? Isn't there a rule here that forbids cat bathing?

Several tourists begin to notice. This cat seems to have every intention of doing the unthinkable. He's leaning forward and sniffing. He's even bouncing a little, the way cats do before they take the mighty leap. People point and begin to chant. "Salta. Salta." Jump. Jump.

But that cat has no intention of jumping into the fountain and, perhaps, getting arrested and paying a fine. He looks around and then, as if he's not the cause of all the ruckus, jumps down and  saunters away.

I assume Theo will follow him, but he doesn't. Our gangster cat is star struck, like he can't quite believe what he's seen. Such bravado! Such nerve!

I pick Theo up and don't say a word. But we can't help but glance back at that cat. The brave boy is picked up and is now being carried out of the square by a beautiful woman with long dark hair. Probably by his Italian mama. 

Be still my heart. And then I think--that cat looks just like Chucky. It is as if Chucky has appeared to show Theo--this is what an adventure looks like. Go for it! 

Cool.

                                 In honor of Chucky, the rascal cat.