Nick and I--dressed light in expectation of the warm day to come, which we had gauged by leaning out our room window and which required holding the heavy black vertical shutters open above our heads--approached the gas station to ask for directions, commenting on the tiny shack that served as the station's "store". A woman dressed in a navy blue work suit waiting to fill up the tanks of customer's manual vehicles pointed us down the sidewalk after we questioned, "Estación de autobús?"
Following her pointing finger, we found our stop and waited no more than five minutes in the slight breeze with the several silent Romans who awaited a ride to the city center as well. The softness of that morning breeze felt good on my skin; our hotel room did not have a thermostat and had easily risen to well over eighty degrees during the night, before we'd woken up in a sweat and propped open the shutters with the plastic hangers in our closet.
The bus arrived shortly after we did. There were not many seats so we stood, uncertain of what to do with the 4 Euro bus tickets that we'd purchased at the front desk. And in fact we never were destined to find out what one needed to do with these tickets. Some passengers stepped up into the bus and ran the ticket through a shoe box sized contraption yet others did not. Several times Nick and I punched ours, but no one ever seemed to notice either way so we generally disregarded the yellow box and kept our tickets tucked in our pockets for the "just in case" moments.
The bus took us to Anagnina metro station and from there we rode 15 stops (roughly 45 minutes) to Termini, the hub of Rome's public transportation from which trains, buses, shuttles, cabs, and metros alike spur outward like the spokes of a wagon wheel--although considerably less geometrically.
We arrived at Termini, which landed us straight in the heart of Rome. Once outside the terminal, we began walking down Via Cavour, meandering in the light mist that began to fall from the pale gray clouds that now obscured the sunshine from earlier in the morning. That we had learned our lesson in Madrid in terms of expecting the wettest in regards to weather was irrevocably proven when we both pulled out umbrellas as cool as you please and continued on with snapping photographs of nearly every building--now from underneath a purple and a black hexagon.
Time carried us along that same road for a ways until we turned left and saw, from between the buildings and looking as though it was rooted in the gray, shining pavement of the street leading up to it, the Colosseum. At the same moment we both stopped and gravity took possession of the lower half of our jaws. Even the cameras lie quietly forgotten in our palms for a moment in the presence of the centuries old colossus. It may even have taken my breath away; I can't rightly remember. I wasn't so much preoccupied with my breath that particular moment.
Soon the cameras were brought out though and I can't say how many of the week's pictures were taken on that street alone as with each step the arena loomed closer and closer.
Patiently, we waited in line behind hundreds of others to purchase tour tickets, which we finally did at around two o'clock (having arrived at Termini at around eleven) for 17 Euro a piece. We opted for the tour in addition to the 12 Euro entrance fee. However, the tour would not begin for another hour and a half and our stomachs began to grumble like small children pulling on the hems of parents' shirts as the family passes by a wonderfully rainbow-colored candy store . . .
A small outdoor cafe situated across the street from the Colosseum, shielded from the fairly heavy rain now by large overlapping white umbrellas and heated by steel pillar space heaters with bright orange flames jumping straight up in their glass upper halves, looked idyllic and we made our way there. As luck would have it, a table opened up directly next to one of the pretty "fire pillars" and we ordered ourselves some pizza and pasta while admiring the view.
Admittedly, for I cannot be dishonest to those reading this blog, I was dissatisfied with the pasta: ordinary penne noodles with a plain marinara sauce and no seasons nor meat to boast of. Not to mention that the portion was too small even to fill me up and cost me 12 Euros. Nick thought his pizza deserved at least a C+ (the upper end of average for those whose grading scale does not consist of letters) but wasn't dazzled by our first foray into the world of Italian dining either.
We finished our mediocre repast with time to burn yet--both dishes had come out within ten minutes of placing our orders, ergo all but proving my conjecture that this was not authentic, handmade Italian cuisine--and so Nick pulled out a deck of cards as we so often did when presented with a comfortable place to sit and a bit of free time.
At half past three, we found ourselves standing in a group of about fifteen people ranging from the nine year old boy with his parents to Nick and I to other college students who we later found out were studying in Germany and who were also on spring break. Several of them were quite attractive and this no doubt enhanced the tour.
Our guide was a classic 'mumbler', barely speaking loud enough for those of us who have only twenty-one years under our belt and no hearing problems to speak of. Many times I gave up and began taking as many pictures as I could. At one point, the sun broke through the clouds for a good twenty minutes and lit up the ancient stones and all the tourists crowded on the multiple levels, marveling at the relic of one of the most glorious of men's empires. Strange to think that spectators and emperors alike sat in that self-same stadium, never dreaming that one day their civilization would be an intangible one--surviving in language and art and philosophy, but gone as they themselves knew it. It reminded me that someday our civilizations will be gone and that perhaps one day, the people of the future will walk the steps of Chicago's Soldier Field or Madrid's Santiago Bernabéu Stadium and take tours that speculate on the peoples who once frequented those places.
The Colosseum was a beautiful place and a thoughtful one as well. It was not a sad place, not the picture of a ruined empire of an era forever gone, but a place that proved the perseverance of culture and the power of our memories as a collective species. Those old stones stood against wind and heat and rain and Time. They were the chance to walk through that old photo album that sits on the top shelf in the bookcase and remember times that were not ours nor never will be but that yet, somehow, belong to us still.
Over an hour later, Nick and left, strolling down a mainway where, cold and shivering from a combination of the drop in temperature brought by the rain and my light clothing, I broke down and bought a hoodie to wear for the rest of the evening. We stopped also to take pictures with a five man band playing on the street. Although we had only intended to stop a moment on the street and take a few pictures, the men motioned us towards them and one gently grabbed my arm and pulled me next to the young bass player. Another of them offered to take Nick and I's picture with the band so I acquiesced my camera figuring I could always run him down if need be (he was an older, heavier gentleman carrying a violin to boot).
As Nick and I tried to leave, they began to pester us for tips. We gave several coins, myself a 2 Euro piece, but the older man who'd taken our pictures held out his hat and took a ten euro bill from his own pocket which he threw into the hat emphatically. Thank goodness I'd already taken my camera back as Nick and I repeated over and over again that we had no bills and could not therefore give him a ten because he eventually gave up, took the coins from the hat, and threw them rather angrily down into the guitar case that the band had laid open on the street to collect tips.
Ah musicians.
The night concluded with a visit to Trevi Fountain. Glowing in the ambiguity of the twilight, the white sculptures of the fountain rose far over our heads from the cerulean waters of the pool below the fountain. It was crowded there. So many people milled about the steps leading down to the fountain, posed for pictures as they paused with coins in their left hands, then threw them laughing into the fountain. A bit of copper for a wish if you please, good fontana.
We lingered there for a time, soaking in the sounds of the people and the running water, meshed together in an avant garde symphony. The streetlamps shone softly orange on us all and the night grew darker around us. In the absence of daylight though, la Fontana di Trevi became all the brighter, its waters lit from below their rippling surface and the light cascaded up, even as its waters cascaded down, to highlight those statues which have reposed over the fountain for so many years.
And who perhaps--and it was not at all difficult to believe that night--might grant a few wishes.
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