Alone with Rome

Rome is still asleep. The morning air tastes different, untainted as of yet by pizza and tobacco. A few workmen amble along the fountain, sharing a cigarette and a joke. Their laughter bounces against the old discolored stones and dies off in a musical echo. In the background Neptune stands tall, his muscles perfect, held in tension and plaster. His entourage hangs around him, playing it up in the fresh morning light. I follow their every curve, dent and detail in quick greedy movements.


In an hour everything will change: floating sunflowers, umbrellas and backpacks will push me to a corner. Tacky souvenirs will push the fountain in a corner. Vendors will set up their knock offs under the eye of a concerned Madonna. Somewhere in the crowd a wallet will be misplaced; and Rome will be lost in a swirl of clichés.

Mornings at the Piazza

It’s early in the morning, the Piazza is still empty. The tables and chairs sit prim around the corners; the tablecloth is starched and perfect. A bright flower sits in a small vase next to the salt and pepper shaker, grains of the same are still stuck on the surface, proof of last night’s gluttony. Art students still have control of the space, but not for long. Their pencils desperately trying to capture snatches of the brilliance that is the Piazza, before the crowds arrive.
We settle down with a glass of sparkling red wine and some fresh homemade bread. The square is waking up: an artist sets up his stall, paintings are strung up and deck chairs and price tags are folded out. A musician strums his guitars trying to find the right sound, a white skirt dances to the music. She tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, the music plays on.

The guidebooks have maps and flowery words that describe this place: they all fall short today. The windows above the cafes are opening up. Sleepy tenants still in their pjs greet the morning. Around the Piazza, the morning quiet is slowly making way for midday chaos. Laughter and words rise in a steady hum; the clip clop of an ornate horse carriage is matched by the sounds of the cars and Vespa; a row of street vendors hawk their wares – fake Gucci bags, belts and scarves.


And a little head, in perfect silence, stand the fountain statues. I can see the moor from the corner of my eye. He holds still as a pigeon deftly lands on his head. The water swirls and splashes around him, and crowds begin to gather. All at once the  street musician get to work. Soft summer music fills the air; it’s time to put down the pen and get stuck in this moment.