Denis Lehane: Rome's love of the Irish farmer
Only So Answer Prayers Gotten Farming Were I That Figured Had Rome And The Bad
I went to Rome last week. Farming had gotten so bad that I figured Rome and prayers were the only answer.
I went there in the company of my two young daughters, Gracie and Emma. Both of whom had never been to Rome before, so I figured we'd make a holiday out of it and ease back on the prayers a little too.
We had a fantastic time. Rome is very historical. Every building in the city is half falling down. I felt right at home.
Unfortunately, I never met the Pope over the three days, but I did meet a woman who looked remarkably like Sophia Loren.
It was on the Thursday morning of our vacation, I had taken a break from all the prayers and was reading the in a restaurant only a stone's throw from the Colosseum.
As you might expect (given my fame) I was quickly spotted. This heavenly creature, a lady like Sophia Loren appeared at my table.
"Scusa signore," says she "but aren't you Denny Lehane who writes for the Farm Exam."
"I am indeed my good woman," says I, before wiping a coffee stain from my shirt and offering her the hand. I was as charming as ever, offering her a warm seat and half of my boiled egg.
Anyhow she told me she was a big fan of the paper. Which, I told her, didn't surprise me in the least.
She then spoke about her life. She was a widow in black who owned a huge vineyard down the lower half of the country. The wine flowed but alas there was no man to enjoy the fruits with.
"Well I'm married already, so I'm well spancelled in that department," I told the goddess in Rome.
"Oh I know that," she giggled in reply. "But you surely know of one man back home in Ireland who would be willing to come out here to Italy and share their life with me."
"One man!" I roared down the historic street. "I know one hundred men."
"Men," I said "who would willingly crawl through a bog on their belly for such an opportunity."
I promised that the following day I would have a list as long as her arm. "Make it as long as my leg," says she.
"Meet me by the steps at noon, tomorrow," she whispered before disappearing into the warm midday sun. I promised I would.
Anyhow, I spent that evening making calls back home to Ireland and making a list of fine single men.
All were in their golden age, but what they lacked in youth they made up for with unbridled enthusiasm. All would be willing to travel to Italy at the drop of a hat.
The following day I made my way to the steps, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember rightly what steps she meant. Was it the Spanish Steps or the steps that led to a million places of worship?
If Rome has one thing in abundance, besides dodgy ticket sellers, it's steps. The place is riddled with steps.
Needless to say, I couldn't find her high up or low down. She must have thought I had let her down.
So today my black-haired goddess, if you are reading this article in the out there in Rome, be assured, that I have your list, I didn't forget about you.
And should you fancy your chances with an Irish bachelor, be assured a thousand of them await you here in Ireland. Snow might be forecast here in Ireland right now, but the warm glow of romance and Rome prevails.
