By David Bayne-Jardine
‘That’s the thing about Rome – it becomes a part of you. The city lives inside of us Romans – in our bones, in our blood’.
As evening rain beats against the passenger window, Marco, Roman taxi driver of many years, explains to me why he has never lived anywhere aside from Italy’s capital. For his last shift of the day, now one of those spectacular winter evenings suspended between rain and sun, the born-and-bred Roman is taking me out to the airport, where I will fly home for Christmas after a three-month year abroad placement.
His comment, uttered with that casual romanticism native to the Italian language, strikes me as disarmingly poetic. In a typical Roman way, he lands emphatically on the consonants of each word, occasionally lopping off the last syllable of a verb. The result is a lilting, continuous musicality which renders everything uttered just that bit more passionate.
Of course, in every city you will find people enamoured by their surroundings, convinced they live in the best place on Earth. What is perhaps more unusual, however, is the sheer quantity of Romans I met on my brief placement who demonstrated a similar infatuation to that of Marco, convinced that they will, truly, never go anywhere else. In short, it quickly became apparent that Rome is a whole world within itself: seductive, mesmerising and highly addictive.
I whip my phone out of my jacket pocket and start frantically tapping down his remark, tentatively trying to get him to expand on his image. What does he mean when he says the city ‘lives in his bones?’ I sense a hint of surprise in reaction to my request, as if for him such strong patriotism for one’s city is merely commonplace – a given.
‘Well, I miss it so much when I’m away, that I never really leave’. To avoid an unanticipated set of roadworks, here he strikes down on his left indicator, lurching into a narrow side street full of warm trattorias and well-dressed waiters. I gaze out the window through the veil of raindrops at the figures inside, who mop up pasta sauce with crusty bread and drink down glasses of wine.
‘Rome is a mess’, he adds, ‘but it’s all I’ve known. I was born a Roman and I will always be a Roman’.
He loves it, he implies, like a family member – despite its imperfections (of which, he might add, there are many). And certainly, my otherwise-dreamy time in the Eternal City was peppered with the occasional reminder of its more challenging aspects. For one, practically nothing gets done on time. Of course, this isn’t something exclusive to either Rome or Italy, but in the EU’s third most populous city, when things don’t run smoothly you really start to feel it. Large-scale transport strikes regularly blot the calendar, turning a barely tolerable metro commute into a tooth-and-nail fight for the pavement. Construction sites remain open for years, festering in the Mediterranean sun and eating into already-feeble public funds. Corruption plagues local politics, and bureaucratic systems remain archaic, shuffling through administrative processes at a snail’s pace.
To use a favourite Italian word, the city is, in short, ‘un casino’ – a mess. Somehow, everyone is frantic, yet nothing gets done. But still, despite this nightmarish concoction, I find there is something truly enchanting about it all; some spirit that, as Marco puts it, lodges in your bones and stays with you forever. I met several other Romans in my time there who expressed an extraordinary love for their city, including a chef who has only ever lived in the same building – he now runs his cookery school two flats above where he first learnt to walk. His childhood best friend, now reaching 50, has also remained in the same apartment block since infancy.
I explain to Marco that whilst you may well see this sort of situation in the UK, it would be much less common than it is here. Just as he raises his eyes to the rear-view mirror to respond to my comment, out of nowhere a bicycle flies into view, whizzing like a bullet in front of the car, narrowly missing its shiny bonnet. I, vicariously seeing my life flash before my eyes, grip the door handle and gasp, briefly and fearfully imagining what could’ve been a hellish end to my time abroad. Reflexively, Marco slams a hand on the horn and a foot on the brakes, providing a one-note accompaniment to his plethora of curses, soon to be joined in chorus by other drivers who similarly have been caught off guard.
Indeed, this is the defining sound of Rome – the constant and erratic blare of hands on car horns. And yet, lying in bed in the dark, listening closely to the night, you might find an unlikely symphony emerging from this city soundscape. Like in some avant-garde piece, sounds which initially seem unrhythmical, spontaneous, gradually assume an unexpected musicality. Ambulance sirens, dissonant car horns, revs of sports cars and shouting from the street all combine to form an unexpected pulse.
Rome is an engine fuelled by this organised chaos, and its people embrace it as their way of life. Nowhere is this more evident than in the case of crossing the road there. When I first arrived, I was shocked by how ballsy its pedestrians are. Streams of rapid traffic are brought to a stop by one person and their chihuahua (often both sporting stylish jackets), who step into the road with an inspiring, if not petrifying, confidence.
However, I soon came to understand that in order to participate in the experience of Rome one must resign to its turmoil. You can confidently cross a busy road because Romans are wired to expect the unexpected; it is only if you hesitate, if you disrupt the ordered frenzy, that you might cause issues. And whilst drivers will always let you know of their frustrations through the medium of horns and inventive curses, as quickly as they rile up do they settle down – hands on the wheel, eyes forward, onward…
And sure enough, Marco soon seems to forget about this near-incident with the bicycle, picking up a bit of pace as we get into the suburbs. The last of the December light drains from the horizon – golden, as honey, it drips into the cracks between the silhouetted buildings and shines on the dusky clouds like a lick of fresh paint. Rolling down the window, he pulls out a cigarette from the glovebox, lighting it inside the car before thrusting it out into the evening. His left hand rests limply on the car windowsill, the tip of the cigarette burning hotly, brightly, in the unexpectedly cold winter air. He pulls it in to take a long drag, the rich smoke and the car exhaust briefly mingling in my nostrils.
Time passes, and as we trundle on in silence I still find myself caught-up on, and inspired by, his romantic declarations of love to the city, wondering what it is that makes it so intoxicating, so special, so fulfilling for its inhabitants. Accepting that I may not get any more poetic spouting from him today, I try to put myself into the shoes of a Roman – particularly, one of the many ones I met who feel they simply could not live without it.
Perhaps it’s the remarkably well-preserved ancient city that lends Rome its incandescence. After all, is there any better-known empire than that of the Romans – that distant world where politicians, philosophers, poets and artists laid down the groundwork for Western civilisation? Indeed, walking through the Forum today, the Colosseum at your back, you cannot help but feel at least a touch moved by the significance of where you are standing; that, 2000 years ago, those toga-clad figures of your childhood textbooks walked the same cobbles that you do now. Looking out over the ruined temples, the destroyed pillar pedestals that jut out like wonky teeth, you almost feel as if you have inexplicably come full circle – as if you, a member of the human race, have somehow returned to The Start.
And yet, I think to myself as we rattle along, this can’t be the sole reason for Rome’s magnificence – why hasn’t Athens, for instance, reached the same level of international infatuation?
I pick up my phone and passively scroll through my notifications, opening and dismissing them one-by-one until all that is left is my screensaver – a zoomed-in detail of the ceiling fresco in Sant’Ignazio di Loyola, one of Rome’s most stunning churches. Angels and cherubs dart through pastel-pink clouds, the mastery of perspective and scale making the viewer on the floor feel as if they are gazing up into the infinite heavens. The time, now reading close to 18:30, is stamped on the top of the screen. An angel peaks over the top of the number 18, watching the evening steadily pass beneath it, notifications from the busy modern world appearing and disappearing beneath its playful gaze.
It dawns on me both then and over the successive weeks that it is not Rome’s status as an ancient city which makes it so enchanting. Rather, it is the sheer quantity of historical eras crammed into that one capital that make it so fulfilling; that, and how willingly said eras offer themselves up to you.
That is, putting the ancient world aside, the city was just as much of an intellectual and cultural hotspot in the Early Modern period. In every church, in every park, on every street, Rome offers a work of mid-millennium art to its inhabitant – a glorious fountain by Michelangelo; a towering statue by Bernini; a chillingly graphic work by Caravaggio. It is awash with art galleries and museums dedicated to some of the greatest inventors, creatives and thinkers in world history, who all, at least briefly, found a home within the Eternal City. One feels overwhelmed, perhaps even desensitised, by the amount of art waiting to be discovered – faint at the mere thought of tackling another gallery.
And that’s not to mention the fact that the city is also home to the seat of the Catholic Church – the pomp and circumstance of one of the world’s largest religions all takes place within Rome’s walls, with millions of pilgrims flocking to the Vatican every year to get nearer to the heart of their faith. What’s more, outside this urban island lies a less well-known but equally significant district – the EUR: Mussolini’s mid-century attempt at a new city centre, whose rationalist architecture, concrete tower blocks and sweeping boulevards make one feel as if they have stepped off the metro in Eastern Europe.
From ancient ruins to medieval chapels, from Renaissance masters to fascist relics, Italy’s capital is one that wears its past on its sleeve. A walk through Rome is akin to a walk down the corridor of time, behind each door a well-preserved era of man awaiting its discovery, each in turn a reminder of the minuteness of our lives, the blink of time in which we inhabit, and of just how long humans have been doing exactly what humans do. However, perhaps unlike other ancient cities, it is the ease with which these doors swing open that makes Rome, Rome. Even with the lightest push of passive intrigue (a post-lunch amble down a narrow side street), the city offers its past up to the wandering tourist – a hidden, fresco-ridden chapel, a crumbling temple to a long-dead god, a striking reminder of a fascist past.
And perhaps this is why its inhabitants can embrace the ebbs and flows of life to a greater extent – why they appear less fussed by order, rigidity and a ‘proper way of doing things’. Heading to work, going for dinner, walking the dog, Romans are surrounded by reminders of how long humans have been alive – that despite the hardship of war, or poverty, or oppression, the human race (and perhaps Romans in particular) have this remarkable ability to just carry on. And whilst some may find despair in this constant reminder of their own life’s brevity, it strikes me that Romans find the key to happiness in this very insignificance. They roll with the unpredictability of life (the death-wish cyclist, the umpteenth roadwork) because they know that what really matters is the small, pleasurable things – their family, food, love, art, wine, sport, music, dancing, and that short, sharp espresso that sets them on their way in the first few hours of the morning.
And sure enough, it is these very same topics that Marco seems keen to speak about as we near the airport.
‘So how do you celebrate Christmas over in the UK?’ he asks me, briefly gesticulating in annoyance at someone cutting in front of us. He directs his eyes back to me in the mirror to show his genuine interest. Here we embark on an in-depth comparison of festive traditions in our respective countries. Indeed, despite myself and my efforts to embrace Italian culture, as we turn off to the airport, and as I describe the unparalleled delights of turkey and stuffing, I find myself guiltily drunk on the promise of a good old British Christmas: seething fires, floods of gravy and nights so black you could drink them down.
‘In Italy at Christmas we eat everything’, he declares with pride, waving a cigarette around as if he is illustrating the dinner table for me. He describes the key celebrations during the festive season and gleams as he tells me all about life at home: his wonderful wife, his three young children, and their budding football prowess. We are pleased to find a cultural similarity in our shared love for roast potatoes, leaving me practically salivating as we pull up to the departures entrance.
When I step out of the taxi the bright airport lights strike my eyes, the roar of aeroplane engines, of the global 21st century, buzzing in my ears.
‘What have you got in there, a body?’ he jokes as he lifts my suitcase out the boot, accompanied by a slightly delayed laugh from me who takes a second to work out the meaning of the Italian ‘cadavere’. I lift my eyes to the sky, watching great beasts of metal soar up into the dark, their lights blinking bright and red as they disappear, nose-first, into the night.
Smiling at me, and taking my hand, Marco wishes me a safe journey, and, with meaning, a very happy Christmas.
As the aircraft pushes up through the sky, I watch the city unfold beneath me, revelling in that unique tranquillity of a plane journey at night, when it seems as if, for a brief few hours, life and time are stopped entirely. Below I can make out the twinkling suburbs, the pulsating city centre; I can almost hear the sirens and the shouts; smell the cigarettes.
Marco’s words echo in my mind as the city disappears behind me, darkness surrounding us as we head out to sea. One can understand how such a city ‘lives inside’ its inhabitants when living there is to constantly be reminded of just how far humans have come. For him, and for many others, it is a lifetime honour to be ‘Roman’ – to be classified under the same term as some of the world’s greatest thinkers and creatives.
And it is in this way, climbing through the sky, that I come to see the city as a true life experience – wildly infuriating, perfectly chaotic, endlessly intoxicating; forever, Eternal.
