Romancing Roma
She sits on
my mind like a haven from the pressures of modern life, do, do, do’ we are
told, yet how to get off the treadmill? Maybe just how to rest and put the
brakes on my mind to stop and look and think?
After recovering from illness I was in Rome
for three days, looking for confidence. Was I healed? Would travel be part of
my life again? Then Rome smiled, opened her arms and welcomed me in as if I had
been the only one there.”I am here,” she said to my heart, “Just for you.”
Thousands of eager hearts and hardy feet journey
to Rome, yet I did not know what a Pre-Raphaelite picture would be painted on my mind, painted with subtle,
rich, brush strokes that sought to captivatingly capture every aspect of the beauty and history of my hostess.
That was
three years ago, yet today I was in Rome, and it was summer, even though
outside of my window, a numbing cold mist blew and I could see with my eyes,
the very antithesis of what I could see with my heart. The birds were singing in the Borghese Park
and lovers walked hand in hand, lost in
the fathomless pools of each other’s eyes, their sighs and longings
mingling into a musical score of as yet
unfulfilled love.
The traffic was noisy, but it was a happy noise of
achievement, in getting from one place to another. Vespa’s weaved their helmeted
way between the stylish cars. In direct contrast to such elegance there came
the gentle trotting of a horse buggy as the trusted steed pulled its load of
swivel necked tourists. The horse having seen it all before, his interests were
the practicalities of food and rest to come
In Trastavere District, the houses fit like a jigsaw, colours
warm and welcoming as if each wall had absorbed the sun for a different reason,
this is where life is .The walls of the Byzantine Church, gold mosaic
shimmering in the sunlight as you looked and took in her shining history. These
buildings were made to last, along with a people whose willingness was to make
sure that hope was brought about for each generation.
Out in the streets, standpipes slaked the thirst of happily
weary tourists and Cafés sent out the scent of Espresso, into the waiting
population. Bakers filled their windows with a cornucopia of delicious
temptations, sent down from Heaven that morning .Market stalls sold bags,
knitwear, and unknown mysterious objects of daily life there which I, as only a
visitor was not made party to.
Over a bridge, (any bridge, they all have a story to tell
which they will relate for free to those who will stop and listen to their age
old tale.) across the flowing liquid history of the Tiber. I stood and looked
at the swirling water, would I have the courage of a Horatius to jump in and
hope I would be rescued and picked up by the eager waiting hands of fellow
citizens upon the other bank. Up past the heights of the Mausoleum of
Hadrian and looking up to the brightness of St. Peters, where so many events in
history had had their conception.
Stop, look, think and
listen. Sit under a welcoming tree and watch the Romans go by, the same
faces but different attire as those who flocked to the offices and markets,
houses and palaces of the Rome of the Caesars
I went into St Peter’s along with many others and when I
stopped and looked around I started to cry as I had done three years ago. The
sunlight playing off the diamonds of my tears, as reality and history came in
equal proportions, sometimes in focus and sometimes out.
I stood to text my friend,
a lifelong lover of Rome. Her descriptions had got me here, yet even she whose
verbal portraits of walks round the Eternal City, had thrilled my heart so much,
even she had understated the beauty that surrounded me. I mentally thanked her
and blessed her verbal persuasion that put me here, to drink in the rich wine
of the majesty, and towering beauty of Michael Angelo’s vision. After uttering
a heartfelt prayer I went out into the street, and Rome welcomed me back with
her knowing smile.
Queues were forming at that witness to the truth of history,
Coliseum, whether it was for a first time experience of that wonder or going
there for the tenth time, it never loses its jaw dropping sense of awe. It has
survived everything the ages could throw at it . Up to my seat and in my vision
within a vision, I was Marcus Ulpius, commander of the XII Legion ,coming back
to Rome to see the beautiful Devorgilla. It had been a long journey, no time
for rest my journey had been sustained by seeing her blue eyes again and
holding her in my arms ,Then due to the ravages of time ,the road to her box
had been blocked off…….how would I find her? Then with a sigh I realised she
had long turned to dust.
Coming back down
to earth or the sand of the arena, as
the echoes of the ringing, shining swords of Gladiators brought the
crowd to their feet .What did these high born ladies see in a Gladiator anyway?
Then I could hear the city say, ”This is Rome , there is love and life is short
.”
Past the white marble Arch of Constantine, he
who had taken the Empire out of the Sun to follow the Son. I thought, one camera card and I could photograph the faces that made history – how much would I be
expecting Hollywood look alike? Perhaps history was kind in letting the famous
sons and daughters of Roma be seen only in stone, examples of the ageless
perfection of the sculptor’s art
Now instead of perfection, the Arch is patrolled by its
gaggle of mock Roman Legionaries and Centurions, seeking pretty wide eyed
tourists to put an arm around and be seen in pictures that will end up being
shown thousands of miles away in Moscow or Brisbane or Hawaii. Maybe if I walk
through the arch I will time travel, and see it all for real…”sometimes son”,
my mother said, “expectation is better than realisation.”
Across the busy corso ,
to the start of the Forum. When I get to the other side of the road during a
sanity break in the traffic, a sleek ice blue two- seater draws up, the kind of
car that inhabits your dreams and beckons knowing there is an impassable gulf
between you and she. The dream parks by the road. He gets out, tall and imperious,
not a hair or thread out of place making a film star look like a street
sweeper. She, his Beatrice decanting her lovely presence from the car, eyes
sparkling and lips smiling at her beau. Honey blonde hair cascading down the
sides of her face, as if every hair had been allocated its position in some
prearranged conference. The old men passing look at her and sigh and the young
men look in wide eyed wonder thinking, thinking, and thinking, “I had only
touched the outer courts of the Temple of love till this day.” In their hearts, fall at her feet , willing
servants for but one smile .
In my mind’s eye I started the walk that would lead to the
Senate House, real decisions were made that shook the known world, and around
which Caesars movers and shakers congregated
intent on deals, business ventures and taking risks just like their modern
counterparts. Untold wealth, or death poverty and ruin, would your ships come
home or be lying at the bottom of the sea? Where ship and cargo were slowly being coral covered with the passing
years until the day when aqua lunged seekers would bring their captivating cargo back up into the sunlight to dazzle and
excite a new generation .
How did they
manage with only an abacus and without the Internet or computers? Somehow
thoughts of business ventures were not as romantic as history or the depth of
unrequited love. A group of tourist following their guide and wondering how
history in this most interesting of cities could be so uninteresting. My
hostess is hurt, “Rome is many thing” she hints, “but never boring.”
Round Augustus and Livia’s house – He the first Emperor, she
the power behind the throne. The palaces come in a rich profusion of styles and
colours and history .Nature is taking some of its territory back, introducing
vibrant living colour in place of the fading hues of past generations. Happily shy birds make their
invisible song part of the picture that imprints itself on the mind of the
traveller. What would I have been if I
had lived then? What would I have done? How different it was then, yet were
their dreams so different from ours, and did hope still spring eternal in the
Roman breast?
Feet crunching on the gravel and walking on the road where history
walked. Going over the paving stones on the via Sacra. So many came and did not
know that they would leave their mark in that history. Peter, Paul messengers of the Christ who would
change history forever.
Past the place where Mark Anthony gave the funeral oration,
when mighty Caesar fell. That spot even hallowed today by blue flowers placed
in memory of the long dead Julius. In our antiseptic, clinically, clean, cities
everything seems cut and dried . This is your lot, tow the line, die a
nonentity in a world where individuality is as varied as the taste of supermarket
bread. Today if we were to cross the Rubicon like Caesar, we would ask for a
risk assessment first.
I thought back to Beatrice, in Latin her name means ‘she who
makes happy’ what was in her heart? What did she really want? To be loved or
listened to? To be needed? Or to find someone who could look below the
beautiful outer layer to the heart beating and pumping the rich red blood of
hope and dreams. Those hopes and dreams, which when the bloom of youth had
faded , would cause her to look at her life and say” I am content.” Mixing her
sighs with the sighs and hopes of others in this magical city. ‘Carpe diem’- seize the day, tomorrow may
never come.
Today each time we part my wife and I part with a kiss, I
want the last words she hears from me to be “I love you.” What of the Romans, when
parting could be for months or years? Saying goodbye at the port, “I will be
back in the spring, my love it will soon pass.” Smiles of reassurance that neither feel. “Only 90 days and we will
be back together. Ninety long, leaden, loathsome, lingering days without her. Only those who have been in love know the pain
.Ninety days, how quickly said –how painfully lived. Back to the house once
filled with life but now as dead as yesterday’s dreams, a lonely couch and salty
tears.
Bottled water and the cool of the senate house, remembering
the speeches that were made there that had effects throughout the known world, yet
so much of the world was unknown. Poppies
pushing their rich red petals out into the sun in a place where so much blood
was shed, as one dictator after another came and went the way of all flesh.
The painted frescos of the senate, and the old echoes of long
dead Roman history makers, history makers whose subtle Latin turns of phrase
would be lost in the present day seeds
of humanity that were planted by them .People with petitions milling round the
Senate building .Seeking to catch the right eye, that has not unromantically
changed. The voice of Caesars wife, “don’t go to the Senate today…I have had a
dream.” Casca and Cassius make their way
up the steep Senate steps while an ambition blinded Caesar walks through the
Senate doors to death and immortality.
Even in your mind’s eye you get hungry and thoughts of food
come to the fore, the hands of urgent practicality placing the pictures of long
ago events back in the history book.
Coffee and cake ‘al fresco’ as you sigh with relief ,even in
a daydream as you remember the scent of double espresso and a pastry filled
with orange and custard , and blood
flows back into wearied feet. In the
café, all humanity is there . She too has coffe and cake as she draws a picture
of the young man two tables down. He ,lost in a book, brows slightly knit. Her
pencil flashes over the pad giving it life. Gradually his likeness appears, no line
is waisted. He must do this often for he reaches out and locates his coffee by
touch, so intent on what he is reading. I wonder if she will tell him or show
him the sketch. Will she take it home to her easel and flesh it out? If she
does not talk to him she can imagine him to be just the way she wants him.
Gentle reader, you are waiting to find out what happened, but this is Rome, the
most romantic city on earth. She gathers up her pad after having extracted the
drawing and as she passes his table stumbles and lets the pad fall, and it
lands at his feet. When I left the café ,she was sitting at his table drinking
coffee (it did not matter if she had just had some )her head on one hand ,eyes
wide open and smiling and he looking at her drawing with a great deal of
approval. My hostess says,” Even in Rome, love is like a flower it has to be
planted before it can grow.”
This is the
city for the lover, the artist and the poet. Modern days are not allowed to
intrude, on the romance of the place. Each comes to Rome expecting something
different, something that will touch the spirit. Even the ugliest can be
beautiful in Rome. Rome gives them dreams and brings to the surface the poet in
everyone, even those who love from afar. She casts Lotus Eater eyes over her
visitors, and the hurtful is hidden.
The Spanish
Steps, what a place for intrigue. Maybe the cameras were not just taking
pictures of the scenery? The spy and Rome what a combination, trying to elude
the ‘heavies’ in the crowd and there were some ‘heavies’ in the crowd working
their way towards me .What information did they have? Were they from Oleg and
what of Miss Veronese?
My heavies
had nothing else to sell but postcards of various views , then one tries to
sell me a genuine gold watch ,only 40 euro’s. Armani jackets, ‘I ‘ave this
friend, he know Senior Armani personally, for you a low price.” Only the items have
changed since Roman days.
Two children
trying to jump up the steps and to dodge through the crowds. Mother trying to
keep an eye on them, father is off buying ice cream. I wonder what they are
thinking? Is this their first time here? What to tell their friends. I hoped it
was not an educational trip. Maybe some children just want to enjoy things- we
did, remember?
What a seething mass of humanity, each with a
story to tell. The elderly lived in face, harassed by experience. He is
recounting his memoirs of “Il Duce” and what it was like then. “You youngsters
do not know you are living.” I wait to see if he will mention that at least the
trains ran on time –I feel disappointed that mention of that wonderful
achievement is left out.
Then comes
the night, and the scene changes, Tavernae and Cafes kick start into life.
Hazardous candles and oil lamps on the wall, sun baked tiles, become a rainbow
of colours as flames flicker across them.
Exotic names and menus appear in time for the nightly ‘Passeggiata’ when
Rome comes alive.
In the old
buildings of Trastavere, diners out at tables in the street take everything in.
Waitresses, spin and pirouette like ballet dancers between the tables. Nothing
is spilled and nothing is dropped, nothing to spoil the scene. Just out of
sight there is live music ,romantic Roman rhapsodies fill the night air. A
glass of Chianti and hands reach across tables first brushing accidently on
purpose and then eagerly entwined fingers , speak volumes inplace of the yet
unspoken words.
Ragazzi (girls)
,like beautiful moths head towards the music , blinking, their dresses of
flowing colours shimmering in the evening light .Sometimes in twos and
sometimes with guys in their coolest casual clothing . One girl is singing to
her boyfriend, she has a captivating voice and at once I am held spellbound as
she shimmers past ,his eyes in rapt attention to her loveliness . Did the Romans
of Caesar do something like this? They could not have looked like this .One guy
smiles at the girl on his arm and the light of a firelamp reflects off his eyes
and the white of his perfect teeth.
Friends
,acknowledge friends at tables or in passing and one hardy soul has his scooter
and steering with his knees he seeks to play a lute(no do not ask me how he
does it ,but this is Rome ) as he steers down the thronged passage of people.
Others sit
by the fountain in the square, wrapped in their own dreams, arms round each
other. I ask myself do Romans do anything else but love and eat or is the one a
necessity for being occupied in the other? Carpe Diem –seize the day for life
is short.
When the
passegiata ends then there is bed. “When you come back, my hostess city says to
me .”When you come back to Rome, maybe you will not be alone .You will come
back,they always do , then you can have the renewed adventure of exploration,
with a hand holding yours.” A gentle breeze caresses my cheek, “Buona notte, fino
l’indomani –sleep well until the next time.”
