Opening Days

After what has been almost my first full week here in Rome, I have a number of observations to list, chief among them the sense that amidst the dust and dirt, the tumbling ruins, the screaming mopeds and hoards of tourists, one can find pockets of something else, moments in which all that surrounded and consumed you drops away in an instant to leave only awe, a sense of the transfixed conjured through the beauty of that which initially cast the spell. The cause of such a sensation can not really be given, for it is less about specifics and more about that period in time, the chaos that was yours alone to escape. 

In the quiet, rural normality of Cottbus, the city where I lived prior to coming to Rome, the opposite was often true in that there were pockets of chaos among hours, days and weeks of nothing more than time spent basking in the space and tranquillity of a small town. Perhaps it is this that brings out the importance of such moments in Rome, for they seem to be chief among those that bring pen to paper.

Girls around the age of attaching the attention of men both young and old seem to seldom venture out without their fathers, or in one case, their mothers, the latter seeking to radiate their own twilight in the glow of their daughter’s youth.

At one point we, for I explore with my love beside me, escape the heat and roar of the city to explore a cavernous church, the outside revealing little of the marbled space within, its walls echoing as the few who attend a service sing and turn heads to glare at the tourists consuming all behind them. The irony of the church’s relative emptiness is not lost, while only 100 metres away the chapels to consumerism march to the beat of the wealthy.

The streets are littered with touts selling all manner of wares aimed at the never-ending parade of tourists, a large number of them Italian amongst more evident Americans. Those very sellers, so sweet upon approach, turn quickly barbarous when their pitch is rejected out of hand.

At St. Peters I spot a young homeless man, his skin as filthy as his torn clothes, yet his hair is perfectly brushed and well kept. Watching for a moment, he removes a large mirror from his bag and, as if aware of my interest, indulges himself in ensuring his hair is worthy of my appreciation.

Later I spot piles of discarded gambling receipts outside a betting shop in an area seemingly full of old people, each one perhaps evidence of a dream once held and now forgotten.

First Impressions

I lived for six months in Mexico City in 2013 and so far Rome resembles that chaotic capital in its decaying buildings, ad hoc constructions, stark sunlight, men upon white plastic chairs, tiny businesses on every street, and most of all the explosion of life that greets one as soon as they venture from their doorway to discover vine drenched alleyways and cascading, open spaces prior to being sucked into twisting alleyways cast in shadow and towered on both sides by windowless walls.

Sitting beside the Tiber, what strikes me first is how rural this world suddenly seems, protected on both sides by fast flowing torrents of traffic in which mopeds resemble leaves caught in the current of the tarmaced surface. The river itself, beyond an immaculate cycle path, is cut off from the chaos by wide high walls and then kept from intrusion by wild bushes and undergrowth, strewn here and there with slowly autumnal trees, lost flood lights and other such failed attempts at urbanisation.

Old men, their skin like tanned leather, raise their arms toward the clear blue sky, clutching in their palms leaves from a plant which contains no smell, the health giving properties thus known only to them. Each thrust is performed as a half-hearted routine, like one who continues in their duty when their watch has ended.

Tourists find themselves by the river and wander only as far as to gaze upon the olive green water before turning to greedily retreat to more illustrious sights, spoilt as they are by former glories.

The streets teem with life and the warnings I’d received concerning appropriate attire seem to have been lost upon those I see as smart businessmen are outnumbered by youth and idleness.

Lost in music, I stand upon a crowded bus feeling once more at home, surrounded by the life, the verve and the vigour of a city, a place assured of its place in the past while striving for something of value in the time to come.