The only available outlet in the apartment that seemed to function was between the closet and the stove, loosely mounted to the wall above the counter. This is not a commentary on the accommodations, they were just as lovely as I had expected; the photos hadn’t lied. I’d left my laptop charging there in the kitchen overnight with the hope that I might get an hour or so of life out of it during the flight home. The new battery was only slightly more inclined to hold a charge than the original, which had become completely useless a couple of years ago. The computer was also my only link to the correct time; information that usually is of little concern to me but this morning would be somewhat critical.
Darkness still prevailed when I woke, although the glow of the city never really allowed it to take over completely. The orange of the streetlights reflecting off the dense cloud cover was no different than anything I’d experienced in any other major city. After my visit to the kitchen and a brief calculation, I decided that it was just after seven. The screen had read a little past one, the time difference being an even six hours. I thought I should really get moving. I lay back down on the fold out couch for a few minutes and thought about the irony of the sleeping arrangements as I stared out through the tall glass panes of the window that I had closed sometime during the night. I’d woken up briefly when a chilly wind had made its way into the room. A fold out couch that was very distant from here had been my bed for the past year since I’d left my family for the third and final time, although this one was decidedly more comfortable.
The screaming cats had woken me before dawn, the cats and what I imagine I perceived to be a hint of the sky changing from the grayish-yellow of the evening to the cool blue of a morning flirting with sunrise. I had hoped to be out on the street by dawn but I knew by the time I was ready that the moment had passed me by.
It wasn’t more than another five minutes or so before I was up and changed. I’d slept in my clothes as there were four of us sharing the flat and little privacy was to be had. Before making my way to the door I checked the map one last time. Rather than turn on a light that might disturb the others, I leaned out of the window and planned my route in the glow of anticipation; at least the first six or seven blocks that would take me to the rivers edge, the banks of the Fiume Tevere. After that I would let the city guide me.
I closed the door as quietly as I could until I heard the tongue snap into place and then descended the two flights of marble stairs that surrounded the tiny elevator, passed through the tall, yellow glass doors that led to the foyer, and made my way to the street.
I did a little stretching in the courtyard between the ivy covered, black iron gate and the massive exterior oak doors and then began my walk down the hill. Initially, it was the same route that the six of us had taken the night before in search of a recommended restaurant, but after a few blocks I took a right towards the river, rather than the left that would have taken me back into Trastevere.
Two blocks into my personal tour I broke into a jog and the spot just above my right knee began to burn, as it has been known to do from time to time. I ignored it. Nothing was going to interfere with this day. I would just have to work through the pain.
After crossing the main thoroughfare where the green, number eight trams seem to pass ceaselessly in both directions, I moved along a series of winding, cobblestone streets, settling in between the unused, partially paved over, tracks of former public transportation. The river was near, and as I approached it a flea market was in its inception in a small lot off to my right. Tiny cars were being unloaded onto tables that were sheltered by those all too familiar pop-up tents. It was a Sunday morning and most of the city still slept as the sun rose slowly and the rain slowed as the clouds began to thin. It hadn’t started until I’d reached the outer doors of the apartment building. I’d heard the leaves reacting to what I considered an obvious but unnecessarily violent assault by the tiny droplets that fell from the sky.
I took a left just beyond the market, crossed the foot of one of the many bridges and headed along the river. The sidewalk and the roadway were well above the water’s surface so I followed the fist ramp that would bring me closer to the lethargic, green soup, where black birds with gray wings circled and dove for prey.
After passing under the sculpted arches of the next bridge, I felt a little deprived as all of the antiquity lay out of sight beyond the tops of the ancient walls that corralled the current, although the colorful graffiti in another language did hold a modest amount of interest. A long flight of stairs just before the third would take me back to street level. A slight drizzle continued to fall but the sidewalk was dry, sheltered by the leaves of the sycamores that lined the avenue, similar in many ways to Riverside Park in Manhattan, although very different in feel. The foliage in general struck me as not being dramatically different from that of New York, with the exception of the thick, textured trunks and the feathery branches of the many palms that sprouted unexpectedly from Rome’s sidewalks and gardens.
I decided to continue along above the water until the fourth bridge, or Ponte, as they are known here, and then I would cross and find my way into the oldest part of the city. It wasn’t meant to be. The bridges were not all that far apart and from the foot of the fourth, the fifth was plainly visible. Until now they had been relatively unadorned outside of carved balustrades, mostly limestone, I think. This next one was obviously of great importance, decorated with elaborate sculptures of intertwined figures that had been eroded by the passing centuries, with the stone pitted and serrated.
From the fifth, the sixth caught my attention, not quite as elaborate but equally adorned. A row of stalls was set up along the wall between the next two crossings. Green, tambour topped display cases that supported shallow awnings above them lined the sidewalk. There were dozens, all identical, and all yet to be opened for business. A lone vendor swept the damp, fallen leaves from the path that remained. This had to be a major tourist destination, no different from Fifth Avenue south of the Metropolitan Museum where everything from watches to postcards can be had. I would not discover today what was peddled from these shallow trays.
A massive, obviously ancient, stone structure loomed to my left. Curved, marble stairs led to enormous statues on tall plinths. Carved relief was everywhere on the ornately rendered façade and a cornice protruded far enough from the roof to be considered cantilevered. I crossed the street to investigate further. In the center, letters were carved into the stone blocks above an arched doorway. The only ones that made any sense to me spelled out the word “Tribunali”. It was impossible for me to take in the whole of this building, the din of the sculpted mass being nearly deafening.
The seventh would be the bridge to cross. I thought Saint Peter’s was in sight but realized that the domes I was heading for were on the wrong side of the river, and there were two. I’d contemplated running through the Vatican’s plaza but decided that I would forgo the well-traveled landmarks in favor of the neighborhoods and the mundane which turned out to be anything but. We’d gotten a bit of a tour from the taxi driver who’d brought us from the train station, and anyway, I’d seen them once before. This run was not about those places; it was about the other Rome. I crossed that seventh bridge and lost myself in the maze of cobblestone streets and narrow alleys.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Seven Bridges; Part Two
The city was waking up. Miniature garbage trucks manned by men in fluorescent orange jackets roamed the streets. An occasional Carabinieri or Policia could be seen, usually standing motionless, holding their ground. I imagined that there must be crime here, but at the moment doubted anything outside of pure affection for ones fellow human beings existed.
People emerged from small doorways with dogs on leashes or rolling luggage or handbags. I thought for a moment that I might lose my way, and at the same time would have had no problem doing just that. I could always inquire as to the whereabouts of the river, everyone would certainly know, and I would glance down the wider streets from time to time in order to keep the mottled trunks of the sycamores in view.
Occasionally I would hesitate, peering down an alley that might allow two people to pass each other, as long as they were thin. I’d look for signs near the ends that would indicate an exit, not wanting to back track out of a dead end.
All of the low, stucco buildings were colored and weathered, painted by history in a way that no scenic artist could ever hope to duplicate. This is an organic and constantly changing landscape. Lines of calcium dripped from windowsills, white streaks against the ochers and rouges of the facades. One was painted in a rust color and showed yellow where large slabs of plaster had fallen away. The shadows, the dark umber shadows in the gaps in the crenellation on the corners looked as if it had been intentionally applied.
The stones in the streets weren’t just laid, they radiated in overlapping, concentric circles, mimicking way the river reacted to the diving birds. Every aspect of this place seemed to have been carefully considered, every color and every texture perfectly placed, and perfectly executed.
I came upon a cathedral where a glass railed, aluminum ramp allowed wheel chair access up the short flight of stairs. It was slick and treacherous and I held onto the railing as I moved delicately along the corrugated surface. Three arches of massive doors were left opened to reveal inner sets that were made of glass. I had no alternative but to interrupt my run to stare through the huge panes at the beauty and grandeur of the interior. It looked quiet inside and I would have entered but the few that were seated in the pews appeared to be praying and I didn’t want to disturb them. Off I went, down the other side of the stares, frightening off a small group of pigeons that had been battling over a few moldy and soggy rolls that had been tossed into the street.
A portion of a pristine, white structure appeared in the distance between the gaps in the stucco, probably one of the sights we had seen from the taxi, only this was the back and it was partially shrouded in scaffolding and netting. I thought I might head toward it but just then the river returned. It had found me.
I knew that a left would take me to the coliseum and the ancient part of the city, the birthplace of Rome, but it was getting late. The others would be waiting to go for breakfast and the limo was schedule to pick us up at eleven. I looked in its general direction and assured it that I would come back to finish this.
A group of homeless laid on blankets and towels under the overhang of a contemporary building. A young woman was injecting herself as I passed. I wondered if they were all waiting for some sort of clinic to open its doors for the day.
I was back along the water now, and I thought I might cross back over, not wanting to miss the flea market and the turn back toward the Via Phillipo Cassini. The first bridge I came to was chained off to both automobile and pedestrian traffic. I thought this was a little odd, but that perhaps it was unsafe, being as ancient as it was, although all of them seemed to be. The next was open and was the only one out of all that I had passed to employ iron balustrades. I didn’t recognize it, but soon realized that this was the one I had passed beneath when this journey was in its infancy. The café, so far below, with its stacked, white plastic chairs and rough wooden structure was a comforting sight. I would cross at the next opportunity and run along the upper path where I had taken the ramp down on the way out. This would prove to be the only unbroken surface that my feet would encounter this morning. All of the others up until now had been either cobblestone or a mix of deteriorating asphalt and concrete. The short stretch of smooth pavement was a bit of a relief.
I would find the same, serpentine, unutilized tracks where small groups now waited for buses. Back past the colorful flower stand that seemed too small for the arrays that cascaded from its tiers, back across the six-lane thoroughfare, dodging the cars and the trams and the buses. Back where the cafes were beginning to unlock their doors, finally arriving at the base of the street that would put me within a few blocks of my final destination. There I would slow to a walk, but not for long. After two blocks, a tall, marble staircase was laid out in front of me. It was six or seven flights, the width of the entire street and seemed to lead to a wooded area high above. I went after it with great enthusiasm and when I reached the top my thighs burned with gratitude and I found my breathing to be labored for the first time.
I stood at the summit for a minute or two and stared out over the terra cotta tiled roofs whose equal heights and arbitrary angles created an undulating sea of shallow, sienna colored waves. The pair of domes where I had turned to make my return voyage seemed to be so distant as they blended with the mist of the morning. I wondered for a second if it had been nothing more than a dream.
During my final walk up the last block, a slender, dark haired woman passed with her dog. She said something in Italian that I didn’t understand, but her gestures suggested it had something to do with the sweat that soaked my light gray shirt.
I made my way back up around the caged elevator and inserted the oversize key that I’d been carrying in the palm of my hand the entire time into the door. The two women who were my traveling companions each occupied one of the white sofas that were placed at right angles in the living room. They looked up at me, smiled, and asked if I’d had a good run, almost immediately admitting that my appearance spoke for itself.
I showered quickly, dressed, and we walked down the hill together to the nearby pasticceria where we bought postcards and stamps and cappuccinos and lattes and lemon glazed croissants. Rome would soon be behind us.
People emerged from small doorways with dogs on leashes or rolling luggage or handbags. I thought for a moment that I might lose my way, and at the same time would have had no problem doing just that. I could always inquire as to the whereabouts of the river, everyone would certainly know, and I would glance down the wider streets from time to time in order to keep the mottled trunks of the sycamores in view.
Occasionally I would hesitate, peering down an alley that might allow two people to pass each other, as long as they were thin. I’d look for signs near the ends that would indicate an exit, not wanting to back track out of a dead end.
All of the low, stucco buildings were colored and weathered, painted by history in a way that no scenic artist could ever hope to duplicate. This is an organic and constantly changing landscape. Lines of calcium dripped from windowsills, white streaks against the ochers and rouges of the facades. One was painted in a rust color and showed yellow where large slabs of plaster had fallen away. The shadows, the dark umber shadows in the gaps in the crenellation on the corners looked as if it had been intentionally applied.
The stones in the streets weren’t just laid, they radiated in overlapping, concentric circles, mimicking way the river reacted to the diving birds. Every aspect of this place seemed to have been carefully considered, every color and every texture perfectly placed, and perfectly executed.
I came upon a cathedral where a glass railed, aluminum ramp allowed wheel chair access up the short flight of stairs. It was slick and treacherous and I held onto the railing as I moved delicately along the corrugated surface. Three arches of massive doors were left opened to reveal inner sets that were made of glass. I had no alternative but to interrupt my run to stare through the huge panes at the beauty and grandeur of the interior. It looked quiet inside and I would have entered but the few that were seated in the pews appeared to be praying and I didn’t want to disturb them. Off I went, down the other side of the stares, frightening off a small group of pigeons that had been battling over a few moldy and soggy rolls that had been tossed into the street.
A portion of a pristine, white structure appeared in the distance between the gaps in the stucco, probably one of the sights we had seen from the taxi, only this was the back and it was partially shrouded in scaffolding and netting. I thought I might head toward it but just then the river returned. It had found me.
I knew that a left would take me to the coliseum and the ancient part of the city, the birthplace of Rome, but it was getting late. The others would be waiting to go for breakfast and the limo was schedule to pick us up at eleven. I looked in its general direction and assured it that I would come back to finish this.
A group of homeless laid on blankets and towels under the overhang of a contemporary building. A young woman was injecting herself as I passed. I wondered if they were all waiting for some sort of clinic to open its doors for the day.
I was back along the water now, and I thought I might cross back over, not wanting to miss the flea market and the turn back toward the Via Phillipo Cassini. The first bridge I came to was chained off to both automobile and pedestrian traffic. I thought this was a little odd, but that perhaps it was unsafe, being as ancient as it was, although all of them seemed to be. The next was open and was the only one out of all that I had passed to employ iron balustrades. I didn’t recognize it, but soon realized that this was the one I had passed beneath when this journey was in its infancy. The café, so far below, with its stacked, white plastic chairs and rough wooden structure was a comforting sight. I would cross at the next opportunity and run along the upper path where I had taken the ramp down on the way out. This would prove to be the only unbroken surface that my feet would encounter this morning. All of the others up until now had been either cobblestone or a mix of deteriorating asphalt and concrete. The short stretch of smooth pavement was a bit of a relief.
I would find the same, serpentine, unutilized tracks where small groups now waited for buses. Back past the colorful flower stand that seemed too small for the arrays that cascaded from its tiers, back across the six-lane thoroughfare, dodging the cars and the trams and the buses. Back where the cafes were beginning to unlock their doors, finally arriving at the base of the street that would put me within a few blocks of my final destination. There I would slow to a walk, but not for long. After two blocks, a tall, marble staircase was laid out in front of me. It was six or seven flights, the width of the entire street and seemed to lead to a wooded area high above. I went after it with great enthusiasm and when I reached the top my thighs burned with gratitude and I found my breathing to be labored for the first time.
I stood at the summit for a minute or two and stared out over the terra cotta tiled roofs whose equal heights and arbitrary angles created an undulating sea of shallow, sienna colored waves. The pair of domes where I had turned to make my return voyage seemed to be so distant as they blended with the mist of the morning. I wondered for a second if it had been nothing more than a dream.
During my final walk up the last block, a slender, dark haired woman passed with her dog. She said something in Italian that I didn’t understand, but her gestures suggested it had something to do with the sweat that soaked my light gray shirt.
I made my way back up around the caged elevator and inserted the oversize key that I’d been carrying in the palm of my hand the entire time into the door. The two women who were my traveling companions each occupied one of the white sofas that were placed at right angles in the living room. They looked up at me, smiled, and asked if I’d had a good run, almost immediately admitting that my appearance spoke for itself.
I showered quickly, dressed, and we walked down the hill together to the nearby pasticceria where we bought postcards and stamps and cappuccinos and lattes and lemon glazed croissants. Rome would soon be behind us.
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