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.