On Visiting Rome For The Second Time

by

Mackenzie Patel

Hi all! It’s been graying eons since I’ve posted on LTA, but here’s a stereotypical MACKENZIE PATEL post about my one and only stable, reliable love: Ancient Rome. I first traveled to Rome in the summer of 2011, the sticky months of ignorance and unformed personality gracing my 14-year-old self. That trip was the catalyst for my Everything Rome mania, a lasting obsession that culminated in writing two {cheesy} books set in that ancient Italian heartland. I was a Roman podcast geek! I threw parties to celebrate the anniversary of me studying Rome! I was an unbridled dork in every sense of the word, taped glasses and Steve Job sweaters the only thing missing from my tiny frame. This past summer, in the brutal blaze of August, I returned to Rome. I was back home, finally, after an American exile of five years that robbed views of the Colosseum, Pantheon, and Forum from my starved eyes.  Here’s what I experienced and felt on this second trip, a bath of sweat and ecstasy that lasted five days.

The 30-euro flight landed, the luggage was heaved onto a sketchy bus, and my family got royally lost in Rome. What a typical Patel move! We’re the kings of cheap Europe, but the bus we clambered onto was the wrong one, despite its attractive 5 euro per person price. A taxi with a hottie driver swooped in to eat away our wallets and anxiety, but it eventually dropped us off at Hotel Florida (*we stayed at this hotel last time too*). Excitement, the kind that kicks your lungs and cramps your entire body, was coursing through me. The first time I went to Rome, I was a blindly curious traveler, one that follows parental footsteps and a Rick Steves guide without understanding prior culture or history. This time, with a brain stuffed with knowledge and feet that craved Roman sidewalks, I wasn’t blind or unaware—I was a hypersensitive detective, feasting on every image the city had to offer.

Luggage stored. Cash cryptically handed over to our concierge. Sunscreen slapped on. My sister and mother lounged in their cardboard beds while my father and me trekked in the liquid heat to Vatican City. I was an ignorant little beast of petty drama and middle school angst in 2011, not caring or knowing about art. However, this time, I sucked down the collections like icy Vitamin Water, reveling in the marble busts I had studied in school. Apollo Belvedere, Laocöon and Sons, Hercules, The School of Athens, etc.—basking in their pure forms was remarkable. All those pages I’ve read in static textbooks finally came to life through cracked marble and faint paint stains. “Art appreciation” is such a bland term, but I appreciated the hell out of any work I came across, from an El Anatsui in the modern collection to the mammoth Sistine Chapel. Although I had seen the Sistine Chapel last time, the unparalleled skill and sheer monumentality still barreled my 4’11 frame over. I knew what each panel meant, I recognized each chiseled sibyl in her ornate niche—and I still grumbled at the mass of tourists, all so interested in sneaking a picture rather than looking at Michelangelo’s talent. That’s a gripe for another day.

I was a child in a playground of crumbling stones and discarded cigarette butts. And I loved it. The Vatican ended, the siesta never happened, and footsy exploration began. Dinner filled my stomach with cheesy calories, bottled beer, and happiness. Dusk cuddled with the crevices of Piazza Navona and the Bernini fountain blazed ivory in the bluish light. Before, I thought this fountain was a bunch of naked bearded men bathing together; now, I fangirled over its twisting Baroqueness and Bernini mastery. The walk back to Hotel Florida was more of a lazy Italian amble, and overwhelming moments of déjà vu struck me like a bitch slap.  We crossed a random bridge over the Tiber and the rising dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, golden and miniature against a backdrop of indigo, looked so familiar I could’ve sworn 2011 me had stood in that exact spot before.

HERE WAS MY FIRST FAVORITE DAY IN ROME

Sweat clung to my underneck and the yellowing fabric of a white dress despite the early morning time. In Rome, the heat is dry and pounding, unlike the scorching bath of humidity in Gainesville or Saint Petersburg. But walking down gummed and peddled sidewalks to the ultimate destination—the Forum—phased me less than a C on a managerial accounting exam. I WAS FINALLY GOING TO THE FORUM. During my last Roman rendezvous, I skipped the Forum because I was 1) lazy, 2) overheated, and 3) grossly uncultured. I thought it was a collection of overgrown ruins (which it is), but the significance and true awesomeness of it missed my stupid brain. Walking towards the ticket office, we passed imposing statues of Ancient Roman leaders from Julius Caesar to Trajan to Augustus—I didn’t know chiseled bronze could make me so happy. Knowing the history of these men, from their military exploits to their naughty bedroom behavior, made this second Rome trip so rich in historical terms. At museums, I knew what ancient busts I was gazing upon; I understood what the “SPQR” stamped on drains meant; I died when I saw the Column of Trajan and knew what peoples he conquered. The Forum was a theme park of whitewashed temples, weathered arches, and sneaking views of the Colosseum. I’d take the overwhelming sunshine and beaten stones over Disney any day. The Temple of Castor and Pollux, Temple of Venus and Roma, the house of the Vestal Virgins, the Arch of Titus…to the unflavored-oatmeal tourist, each of these monuments was the same compilation of weeds and marble, but to me, they were alive beings with throbbing histories. My sister and mother camped in the shade mostly, but I braved skin cancer for the Arch of Titus, my favorite building in the Forum. Before, it was a frozen textbook image with little context or grandeur—now, it was an architectural and sculptural marvel with views of Vittorio Emanuele’s Monument peeking out from behind.

After the pleasureground of the Forum, we strolled to the Colosseum to take advantage of our Forum+Colosseum package tickets. I went to the Colosseum in 2011, but like the Vatican Museums, it’s a beast that deserves to be tamed twice. 6 o’ clock is the time of perfection for El Colosseo: the crowds have collapsed in their beds for a siesta and everyone else is drinking wine. The curtain of dusky sun makes every barrel vault, travertine seating, and battered staircase gleam, and the relatively few tourists guarantees Instagram-worthy photos. After that wonder, I became a first class gelato hoe and cheated on my pizzeria lover with sugar and waffle cones. The next day was another check-off list of top Roman destinations: the Trevi Fountain, Spanish Steps (which were closed for cleaning), and the Pantheon. Seeing the Trevi Fountain a second time was nothing spectacular; I found it cheesy and too “Hilary Duff” for its own good. Instead of lounging on the Spanish Steps, I visited the adjacent Keats and Shelly Museum (highly recommended for any literary geeks like me) while my sister and mom window shopped at Dior, Salvatore Ferragamo, Louis Vuitton, etc. However, the 10/10 part of my day was the Pantheon. OH MY FREAKING GOODNESS. For the past five years, I’ve mentally abused myself for not seeing the Pantheon in 2011 (it was closed when we sidled up)—I’ve watched countless videos since then, but ensconcing myself within the dome has been a fantasy for years. And at 11:30 a.m. on August 13^th, I lived out my nighttime fantasy under a coffered barrel vault and concrete walls. The Pantheon interior is the sort of “ineffable” no one can pin down or attempt to verbalize. Words, no matter how extravagant or effecting, can translate a real-time image into a reader’s imagination without error.

A failure of a trip to the Borghese Gallery was tossed into the mix, but at least the grounds of that Italian aristocrat were the Southern version of Vienna’s Schonbrunn Palace. I was desperate to see Apollo and Daphne and David by Bernini as well as Boy with a Basket of Fruit by Caravaggio. Alas, after trekking around in a buggy forest for an hour, we discovered that tickets for the Gallery were sold out for the day (*sigh*). My days are getting muddled, but one of the Roman highlights was Largo di Torre Argentina—Julius Caesar was stabbed here! This little square of ruins hidden within modernity was crawling with wild cats, no tourists, and flies. I held a moment of silence for J.C. next to a Cyprus tree, under which his blood was spilled over 2,000 years ago. I also shed an invisible tear for my main man. The great part about going to Rome again was being able to find these secluded hot pockets of history because of prior study. Mainstream tourists don’t click the fourth or fifth page of TripAdvisor; their Rick Steves book is their Bible, not their innate curiosity and desire. The second to last day, I went to the Capitoline Museum while my father slept on the marble steps outside. Ah! The Campidoglio! This geometric Piazza was designed by Michelangelo in the 1540s and features a bronze reproduction of the Marcus Aurelius statue. His powerful stance and commanding arm held me in a stupor—or maybe it was the laziness of 2 o’ clock that yawned the mouth and jellied the limbs? Either way, the Museum (the three buildings in the Piazza) was stunning—the Constantine courtyard, Dying Gaul, Bernini’s Medusa, bust of Commodus, and everything else marble or mosaic was unnaturally exciting to me. However, the best part was the panoramic views of the Forum that are visible from the Museum’s upper levels. I had the Forum—that adventure land of paganism, bloodshed, and oration—to myself in the shade, a birdseye view of millennia.

The last full day in Roma was spent at Ostia Antica, the ancient port city at the Tiber’s mouth. I’ve written about it on LTA here but below is my favorite excerpt:

“Past the Magazzini Republicani, around the Square of the Guilds, down a few cleverly concealed footholes, and finally…. Agrippa’s theater. Built from 18-12 BC, this Greek-style theater tiered to infinity (well, a few hundred feet) and spun a million fantasies of Sophocles and Euripides in my head. Stealing the sandy stage for myself, I shouted into the polished marble void and realized just how affective and powerful the acoustics were. The Ancients didn’t need fancy clip-on microphones—they had pure physics, mathematics, and applicable knowledge of sound waves. This theater—with a 3,000 spectator capacity—was my favorite part of Ostia Antica, for it was a marble pool of everything I love: Roman history, architecture, and the poetical words of ancient masters.”

We didn’t go to Pompeii because of the distance/fees, but Ostia Antica was amazing nonetheless. Overall, Rome Part Two was five days of 100-degree happiness and living out my textbook dreams in real life. My goal is to visit Rome every five years, so keep your eyes peeled for “On Visiting Rome For The Third Time.” Ciao.