rome

A post about Rome needs to come with a disclaimer. Here it is:
It is totally impossible to tell you everything, to squish a few thousand years of visible, tangible history into one blog post, or two. The Vatican alone could take one, and I’d happily stretch the colosseum to a two-part series. Then there’s the ancient ruins, medieval structures, renaissance masterpieces, the modern art, and the ancient amphitheatres that have been converted into mansions for Italian cinema stars (as you do). Rome is a wonder.

 In the middle of the Piazza Navona, which is built over the structure of an old Roman amphitheatre like a skin graft, there is a magnificent fountain. It’s called Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi and it's my favourite in Rome or anywhere. The four great rivers -- the Danube, the Nile, the Ganges, and the Rio de la Plata -- are represented by the huge stone figures of men who thrust themselves out from the central obelisque. The Rio de la Plata faces the baroque church on the western edge of the piazza. The figure's hand is raised, as though against attack. Our walking tour guide tells us that apparently this is a joke by Bernini, the sculptor, that the church by his rival, Borromini, is likely to fall. The church hasn’t fallen and isn’t likely to, but Bernini didn’t like Borromini, and that’s it.

In fact, their rivalry is legendary and rich. Once, apparently, Borromini carved a pair of donkey's ears into his building to mock Bernini. Bernini's counterattack was to sculpt a giant penis onto his own roof in the direction of Borromini's current workplace, an erect symbol of his outstanding manliness, strength, and artistic prowess. Boys will be boys.

Rome is filled with stories like this. And some more refined. They’re buried in the layers of accumulated soil and wrapped around the columns that stand throughout the city like ancient sentinels; stories scatter themselves down stone steps and into clear water fountains like pages torn from books. I can view the last two thousand years of roman stories by walking down the street.

Within Rome proper, there’s another world. The Vatican is technically only another state, but there’s something about the place that feels askew with the world outside. It’s a part of Italy but it’s not. The pope, as the key political figure, is the only absolute monarch in Europe. Parents dress their small children in shirts that say I love Papa Francesco, which can be bought at any one of the ten million souvenir stands that skirt St Peter's Square.

Inside the ring of stands and within the scope of the wide sculpted arms that hold the square, a soup of sweaty bodies bubbles in the sun. To visit the museum, we walk a few hundred meters around the corner. Swarms of tour guides (most of whom have very questionable credibility) make it necessary to carry a large stick. Each warns us about the huge and sunny two hour line, and kindly offers a tour to allow us to skip the queue. We shake them off (forgot my stick) and wait about twenty minutes in the line before entering the cool belly of the eight kilometre collection.

There is a definite way-of-visit mentality, and we are swept up and carried along towards the Sistine chapel through the kind of exhibits that remind me of the immensity of human creativity. There are rooms lined floor to ceiling with ancient stone busts. There’s carved stone baths that would hold a dozen men. Frescos by the masters and their students adorn every wall; some of the most incredible rooms are completely empty of anything else. We are hustled over floors tiled with intricate mosaics. I see my first in-the-flesh Dali in the modern art wing.

The Sistine chapel is an exclamation mark on the end of the visit. A sign at every gallery tells visitors that they're going the right way. It’s the final hoo-rah after the museum, and it goes above and beyond its duties. No photography is allowed here, and the enforced reverence is a relief. We put our cameras away and are shepherded by uniformed guards into the centre, to allow others to flow around us while we soak it in. There's so much paint on the walls.

 

We have three full days in Rome, though I'd suggest three weeks would be more appropriate. On the second day it rains, in a discouraging enough way to hamper our plans. I feel like I got only a corner of Rome, a dog-ear on the side of a novel. Our Bnb host agrees with me.

 Colloseo, I say. Pantheon, Vatican museum, cappella Sistina, Piazza Novena, Fontana di Trevi. Piazza di Spagna, and the view from the hill. I mime looking over the city.

Sonia nods. Palatino? La Bocca della Verita? Isola Tiberina? she says.

No. Ella and I shake our heads. We point to our watches and say, No time, even though she doesn't understand the words.

Isola Tiberina, she says again. She looks crushed. Molto bella. Molto molto bella.

She starts speaking in Italian, but our root words knowledge doesn't cut it. She takes the iPad from Ella and types into the translator.

We read: Tonight I put you in my car to Tiber Island. To bring Pepo dog and we buy good gelato. 

This woman is everybody's Italian mamma. She takes us to see things we missed and her teenage son dozes in the passenger seat until she makes him translate something, which he does in a broken and school-learnt way that suits the subject matter. He doesn't get a lot of rest. He groans a lot each time she asks and I can tell what he's saying is, No way I'm attempting to say that. We come home exhausted and grinning at Gabrielle because he's pretending to fall asleep in the lift. He says, I have school tomorrow! It's one of our best nights out. Sonia loves her city, and her passion is catching.

I leave Rome with huge hugs from Sonia, my daily home-baked gluten-free pastry in an Ikea zip-lock baggie (Italian mammas like zip-lock baggies too), new stories, and the intention to return.