Hi, Torvajanica Dreaming Stretching for approximately 8,5 km across the Roman littoral, at a brief 30 minutes drive from the Eternal city, Torvajanica is far from the idyllic Italian beach escapade etched into our collective imagination. The town appears to be stuck in a bad architectural era with outdated, underdeveloped facilities, sleepy cafés and a population that seems to be leaning more toward perpetual sleep than sleepless nights at the club. Maybe it’s because I arrived here in early October, when school is back and vacationers have already returned home, but it looks like this place has nothing more than quiet, uninterrupted beach walks to offer. Except, as I later learned, the history of Torvajanica is at once one of mystery and high life. Taking its name from Tor del Vajanico—a defensive tower built on request by the Catholic Church in the 1500s to deter Saracen pirates incursions—the origin of Torvajanica lays its roots in myth. As told by the Latin poet Virgil in the Aeneid, its foundation is attributed to the legendary figure Aeneas who, after fleeing the fall of Troy, landed precisely on these Lavinian shores. And, while barely any trace of the hero’s presence or Ancient Roman ancestry remains, this meek seaside village has not ceased to attract and enchant people. In fact, the tourist boom of Torvajanica dates back to the 1950s, thanks in part to the uproar caused by the violent and murky “Montesi case” and the widespread national media attention surrounding the ensuing trial. Wilma Montesi was a modest 21 year old woman from Rome, whose body was discovered by a labourer having breakfast by the beach two days after she went missing. But it was perhaps nearly a decade later, in the 1960s, that the attraction to this unspoiled oasis, unique for the richness of its Mediterranean scrub and the wild backdrop of fine sandy coastal dunes, reached its peak. The fortunate alchemy of natural beauty, proximity to the capital and the Roman Castles, the near presence of the De Laurentiis film studios during the era of epic movies such as Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, catalyzed by the unrepeatable social and cultural momentum of the economic growth of that era, consecrated Torvajanica as a leading tourist destination of immense potential. In the 70s, the nearby secluded and sheltered Capocotta beach began to be frequented by the LGBT+ community, whose members were marginalized and stigmatized to an even greater extent than they are today. Naturists soon followed, and the area emerged as a safe haven for those individuals looking to live in symbiosis with the environment or freely express themselves away from the judgmental gaze of bigots and families. By the end of the 1980s, Torvajanica’s beach had become the go-to spot for counter-culture, with queer parties and raves taking the center stage. As in all good tales, though, the golden age of Torvajanica seemingly reached its final act in the 1990s. A sharp decline in wealth and vacationers, juxtaposed to the arrival of immigrants from Eastern Europe, turned what once was a mecca for fun and vice into the unassuming, lethargic town I found myself in. However, in an unexpected turn of events, Torvajanica’s saga didn’t actually end back then. Its fire only remained dormant, waiting to be ignited and bring this old Cinecittà star back on the scene once again. This time the catalyst would be the local priest. Father Andrea Conocchia was transferred to the parish of Torvajanica in September of 2019, a few months before the first wave of the novel COVID-19 virus unexpectedly hit and threw the world into a frenzy. Up until then, his priesthood had been quite orthodox, nothing out of the ordinary. His parishioners were regular church goers in search of spiritual nourishment and enlightenment. This all changed in the March of 2020, when a group of South American trans women joined the large queue outside the gate of the vicarage, asking for food and financial support during this hard time. “At first, it was maybe 6 of them,” he recounts, reaching for a bite of pizza, from the other side of the small wooden table of a humble diner we decided to sit at, right across from the church. “But as the rumor spread, approximately 150 girls showed up on the prowl”. Don Andrea, as he’s known locally, fits the description of a small town Catholic priest. He wears inexpensive eye-glasses, speaks in a monotone yet upbeat tone of voice and hand-spells the Sign of the Cross every other sentence. His words carry a sarcastic undertone and, in his presence, you feel compelled to show reverence even when you’re not avidly devout. He simultaneously has the demeanour of an authoritative figure and the uncle you refer to when you fuck up. He is the embodiment of mercy and, despite breaking quite the monumental glass-ceiling for an archaic institution such as the Catholic church, he is laid back and incredibly available. “Tomorrow morning,” he tells me, barely lifting his nose from his smart phone, “I organized meetings with three girls. In the afternoon, I will take you to visit more”. According to a (now outdated) study carried out by Freewoman—a Rome-based NGO dedicated to supporting foreign individuals who break free from exploitation—as of 2010, approximately 40,000 trans women lived in Italy. One fourth of them (60% of which come from South America) survive by working on the street, a forced decision cast onto them by a misguided journey to Europe and a discriminating society where anyone who doesn’t fit the preconceived mould struggles to find a place. While comprehensive data is scarce, more recent reports suggest that the business of transgender prostitution in Italy exceeds 20 million euros per month, a figure that reveals how, even when denied visibility and opportunity, these women continue to move an economy built on their exclusion. Both Peruvian, Coqui and Camilla showed up to the parish together at 10AM sharp, like a grandma with her granddaughter in tow, taking her to her first day of Sunday school. The former, a stocky 70 year old who has been living in Italy for the past 35 years, was wearing an ankle-length floral skirt with a sleeveless, black puffer jacket and a bare face hidden behind reading glasses. Camilla, on the other hand, is petite, her sinuous body covered by a grey tracksuit. What stuck me the most about her is the sharp black eye-liner and hot pink shadow combination decorating her lids. Both greet me with an embrace; there’s a veiled shyness about them but they seem eager to tell their story. They took a seat on the plastic orange chairs normally reserved for religious or charitable services, clutching their bags as if an imminent threat was to pounce from behind a door and steal it. “I arrived in Italy as a man in 2008,” Camilla reveals to me. “I wanted to transition in Europe because at the time it was easier than Peru.” Her voice is calm, and she never breaks eye contact. At the time, she was in a relationship with a man from Brescia but the romance didn’t last long. Disillusioned, she moved to France where she lived for a few years before finding her way to Rome. Here, she met another man whom she married and stayed partnered with for years until the flame dimmed and they decided it was better to part ways. “We aren’t divorced. We still have a great friendship, but our love just declined,” she continues, with the aura of a teenage girl reminiscing her first love. No mention to her work on the street emerges from our conversation, nor of a particular struggle sustained throughout the years. I turn to Coqui, as I am intrigued by her age and the many things she possibly has seen while partaking in this line of work, but Camilla cuts me off, “She’s been married for 10 years!” she exclaims excitedly. Coqui arrived in Italy in 1990, to flee the chaos and political instability of her home country. Here, she discovered a culture of warmth and conviviality similar to her own. Still, despite never really feeling discriminated against, she has had to resort to prostitution to survive. I ask her how her husband swept her off her feet, but she’s quick to correct me with a sassy remark. “I swept him off his feet!” she says giggling while looking at her friend. “He is from Naples and I used to live close to the stadium in Rome. He was following his club on an away match and we fell in love.” Given that many trans women are brutally murdered at a young age or are exploited without ever knowing real love, listening to the accounts of these two women was refreshing, heartwarming even. The pair was part of the first group of trans women to be brought to meet Pope Francis in 2022, as part of Don Andrea’s gargantuan effort to close the gap between the Catholic church and the LGBT+ community. Both would have never expected to be welcomed with open arms into the Vatican, let alone sit in the front row or eat side by side with the Holy Father. “I was religious before,” states Camilla, “but I didn’t believe in the church because it had always excluded us. After meeting the Pope, my faith in the institution was renewed.” The intimate bond between Coqui and Camilla is palpable—it’s the sort of camaraderie that belongs to those individuals who must band together in order to move forward in life. But Camilla, 44, is not the only girl the more experienced and wise Coqui has taken under her wing; every other Sunday she is the host of a magnificent supper that tastes like home. Empanadas, papas a la huancaina, ceviche and other nostalgic flavors are shared by around 10 girls, who all show up at Coqui’s to have a grand time and find solace despite their grim reality. One hour or so later we hop in the priest’s car and drive for approximately 15 minutes to this disheveled complex that’s a ballroom, a bar, a restaurant, a bowling alley and motel all at once. Claudia is waiting for us inside the bar, sitting silently and alone at a table. It’s barely 12PM and she’s already drinking a beer. She’s wearing a turquoise neck scarf that complements the color of her eye contacts. She is quite short and her hair is dyed in a honey blonde hue. As soon as I introduce myself, her eyes widen. “Oh, Naomi,” she says, “that’s the name of a great friend of mine who died.” A visible sadness appears on her tan face. Naomi Cabral was one of the many trans women living in the area forced into sex work. At the end of 2022, her lifeless body was found in the motel’s bedroom hours after she was suffocated and murdered by a client. Her death is a reminder of how isolated and lonely these women are and how much work still needs to be done in order to create an inclusive society, where sex workers and queer people can live safely. Claudia immediately warns me that she says everything that’s on her mind. “I first landed in Spain from Argentina, then I went to France. But French people are assholes so I came to Italy,” a smirk appears on her face. “Italian people helped me a lot”. She then proceeds to show me around the ballroom and explain every little detail about the place as if she owns it. If a chair is out of place, she fixes it. She has been working here as a cleaner for the past 6 years and she is proud of her work. As we move through the giant room, she tells me about the owner, Maria, who gave her another chance at life by providing her with this job. “This is my home,” she affirms, “I don’t need to travel back to Argentina. My father was the only one who accepted me for me, but he died. Maria, la patrona,” she switches from Italian to Spanish, “is my mom now.” The air starts getting tense and Claudia becomes visibly emotional, so I try to change the subject. Undeterred, she points to the window and tells me “The street is the best school. It teaches you who is really your friend, your family.” Claudia has lived in Torvajanica for 23 years, and is now retired from sex work. She lets me know that everything she does is to keep herself and her little dog, Chiqui, well fed and alive. Before we part ways, she puts her hand on my arm and says “If you know you are born different, even if you are 12, go live your life. Do not live just to fulfill the expectations of your family.” Her resilience and strength, even in face of adversity, is inspiring. No matter how low life has taken her, she still has the persistence to move forward. It’s lunch time when we arrive at Consuelo’s house, a small, humid shed right on the beach—the sun is shining right above the roof. If it wasn’t for the fact that the space is small, dark and moist, with noticeable mold growing on the corners of the ceiling, it could be considered paradise on earth. We find her at the stove, frying a bunch of arepas: a cornmeal bread typical of Colombia, where she is from. Without hesitation, she tells us to grab one and hands over a cup of Colombian brew. Consuelo is 65 and one of the oldest trans women living in the area. She is tall, voluptuous and deeply religious. A rosary peaks out from her sweater, while a pair of faded jeggings compliments her figure. Like many other aging trans sex workers, Consuelo now works part-time as a home-aid for elderly people. “Something,” she says “that has helped her make ends meet.” She’s also currently hosting a younger girl who’s just arrived 8 months ago too. Without shame, she lets me know that her work helps to pay for the bills, in a sort of madame-charge relationship. To subsidize some of the costs, both women have recently asked for help from the Pope’s office, a practice that was introduced to them by Don Andrea. Consuelo’s story is one of survival and tenacity. “I escaped from the jungle,” she recounts, “and I came straight to Rome. I landed in Torvajanica because of a client who took me to a hotel here. I was so frightened that night.” She then remained after meeting Maria, the same lady who helped Claudia, who rented her an apartment in the area. Despite her humble life, Consuelo is incredibly jolly, upbeat and positive. I want to know what's her secret, but her answer is simple; almost warranted. Pointing to the many pictures of Jesus hung on the wall of her tiny kitchen, she says “It’s him that gifted me this attitude. God gives me the power to keep going.” Faith seems to be a central theme in these women’s lives, despite the hostility and exclusion perpetuated by the institution. The following day, the sea looks calmer and the air feels lighter. I cross the street from my hotel, and as soon as I step through the gate of the vicarage, I’m struck by the joyful radiance of a beautiful brunette. It’s Yuliana. Or, as she likes to be called, Cleopatra Carter. Born in Bucaramanga, Colombia in 1972, Yuliana was put on this planet to be a star. Her presence is inebriating, her features delicate, her aura captivating. Without the need to ask any questions, she starts telling me all about her life. How she was abandoned by her mother and left with her grandparents until she was 8, her move to Botogà and discovery of nightlife where she finally found a community of people like her, though at this time she was still a man. All the way to how she landed in Italy in 1995. No moment shared with Yuliana is dull, each tale is acted out as if I am in front of a theatre play—her long, black hair tied in a high ponytail flipping back and forth as she dramatically recounts each era of her life. Her red lipstick is perfect, there are no smudges at all, even after eating and drinking. I can’t take my eyes off her. I can see why many girls are jealous of her. “I used to come home at 4AM every other night, and my mother was not happy with it. So I just left, that’s when I discovered I could work on the street and make a lot of money,” she narrates, hypnotizing me even further. At this time, Yuliana had adopted Julie as a nickname after the blonde chick in Charlie’s Angels and had joined an high-end club attended by the Colombian elite and ran like a luxury brothel. “It was amazing at the beginning,” she tells me with a smile on her face. “They took incredible care of us. We had weekly medical checks, clients were screened and only rich men with big cars attended it here.” she chuckles. But after a couple of years, the quality declined and she decided to go freelance. Yuliana was now the most sought after trans working girl in Bogotà. “Every night I had a row of luxury cars lining up to pick me up. I was beautiful, tall, slim, with beautiful clothing that I designed and got made in Cali, in the North of the country. Men would literally come out of the car and pledge more money than the one before in order to sleep with me!” I take each word as gospel, as even now, at 53, Yuliana could break necks while walking down the street. “Then one night,” her voice getting lower and mysterious, “a really wealthy man comes to pick me up. We spend 20 minutes together and with an arrogant tone he tells me that it’s not different from being with a regular woman,” she scoffs. Silly man! Nobody could disrespect the fabulous Julie like that without something happening to them. “At the time, I had a friend named Lucero who would steal from clients. So as he dropped me off, she asked me to leave the door open and so I did. She stole his jewelry and got money too.” Yuliana tells me with a defiant expression on her face. “That was the last time I saw Lucero.” Or at least she thought. Seven months later, on an otherwise unremarkable night, a car pulled over and an angel emerged draped in a white dress, glowing under the streetlights. The light around her was so pure, so blinding, that for a moment Yuliana believed she was witnessing a vision. It was Lucero, freshly back from Italy, who had come back to thank her for the gift she had given her that night. That was the beginning of a new life for Yuliana, a life in Europe far away from the place that had both blessed her and put her in deep pain. “Lucero bought me a ticket to Italy, the journey was long. We went from Bogotà to Caracas then Prague. In Prague, we were stopped at customs and risked being taken in for custody. But Lucero had a plan! She claimed we were going to Italy to see the pope.” Listening to her speak was like being 10 seasons deep into a thrilling podcast. At this point, Yuliana stands up and starts mimicking her time on the train from Prague to Venice, her eyes widened recounting how she was feeling that day. “It was June 18, 1995,” she exclaims pointing to my notebook, motioning to write it down. “And I was ready for a new adventure”. Yuliana then arrived in Rome where she spent the last 30 years on and off. Her beauty, confidence and innate talent for performance brought her around Europe as a dancer and entertainer. We continued our conversation at her house, a small apartment 15 minutes away from the church. Her rescue cat, Zeus, immediately jumps on her as she opens the door, “Mi Amorrrrrr,” she kisses him on his little grey head. Everything she says and does is theatrical. She tells me to sit down and make myself at home, as she hands me a stack of photos she pulled out from a stored suitcase. Her archive is a goldmine of trans euphoria. It describes a time when transgenderism was curiously accepted and trans women were a hot commodity. “In the 2000s, it was new!” Yuliana exclaims eagerly, as she cooks me steak and salad for lunch. Despite her uplifting spirit, Yuliana’s journey has not always been glam and glitz. She was assaulted multiple times by catty colleagues and even deported back to Colombia, where she found a silver lining. She officially and legally changed her name from Williams to Yuliana. She found her way back and stayed ever since. Yuliana’s incredible trajectory still lingers in my mind as we leave her apartment, the air heavy with her perfume and laughter. Her story feels like a performance that refuses to fade, echoing long after the curtain drops. Yet the day isn’t over; two more women, Marcela and Minerva, are waiting at the parish. Their stories add to the sea of testimonies I have heard so far. Marcela, hailing from Uruguay, has lived many lives across Latin America and Europe, passing through Brasil, Chile, Peru before settling in Italy. Minerva, from Argentina, was deceived by a friend who promised her a hairdressing job in France but led her instead to the street. Once a catechist in her hometown, she still prays daily, holding on to the idea of a cohesive family that once filled her childhood dreams. What I found in these women is a deep sense of solidarity, empathy and openness in spite of their hard existence. While some of them were hesitant to speak in the beginning, they all wanted to be remembered for trying their best and striving to escape the life they were forced into. None of them spoke ill of the other, even if the competition was apparent. And when asked what is a message they’d like to pass onto the next generation of trans women, they unanimously answered that there is a way out. Nowadays the streets aren’t the only option—if you have the opportunity to stay on the right path, do it. Because there is more to life than money and sin.
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