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.