– Part 1
Heat smothers the Ponte Sisto in a blanket of silence; the Tiber is calm. But the tranquility if transient, the remnants of life still lingering in the air. The reek of hot urine billows from the steps – not too long ago the arch was a night’s shelter. The revetments along the banks are streaked with neon spray paint – graffiti clashes with the natural tones of the river; months ago teenagers had a few drinks and painted their night on the walls. White spots sail on the river like origami canoes. I’m not wearing my glasses so I go for a peak – perhaps distant seagulls? No, a collection of plastic bottles, soiled napkins, old newspapers – some float along the gentle currents, others sway, netted in the puke-green foam that loiters at the edges of the banks.
Heat smothers the Ponte Sisto in a blanket of silence; the Tiber is calm. But the tranquility if transient, the remnants of life still lingering in the air. The reek of hot urine billows from the steps – not too long ago the arch was a night’s shelter. The revetments along the banks are streaked with neon spray paint – graffiti clashes with the natural tones of the river; months ago teenagers had a few drinks and painted their night on the walls. White spots sail on the river like origami canoes. I’m not wearing my glasses so I go for a peak – perhaps distant seagulls? No, a collection of plastic bottles, soiled napkins, old newspapers – some float along the gentle currents, others sway, netted in the puke-green foam that loiters at the edges of the banks.
– Part 2
Right below the steps of the Ponte Sisto is a blur of lights and chatter. I peak across the edge of the bridge: lights run along the river, sparklers posted in a row on one side, doubled by the golden halos reflected on the glassy onyx surface of the Tiber. The noises of the night market washes across the bridge and all that runs beneath it. Music – a band of drums and trumpets – fill the silence I remember from yesterday. The night is not any cooler, but heavy air has lifted. The warm scent of roasting meat replaces my memory of pungent odor in the afternoon. A golden bag of red and orange stripes dangles from a painted black hook, next to Indian blues and greens – small glued mirrors on the outside – like a Chinese lantern.
Right below the steps of the Ponte Sisto is a blur of lights and chatter. I peak across the edge of the bridge: lights run along the river, sparklers posted in a row on one side, doubled by the golden halos reflected on the glassy onyx surface of the Tiber. The noises of the night market washes across the bridge and all that runs beneath it. Music – a band of drums and trumpets – fill the silence I remember from yesterday. The night is not any cooler, but heavy air has lifted. The warm scent of roasting meat replaces my memory of pungent odor in the afternoon. A golden bag of red and orange stripes dangles from a painted black hook, next to Indian blues and greens – small glued mirrors on the outside – like a Chinese lantern.
– Part 3
I huddle in a corner of the Ponte Sisto, trying to avoid the traffic of people and the African vendors who camp on both sides of the bridge. Most people, as I usually do, quicken their pace as they pass, pretending not to feel their following gaze. A dog splays on its side, all four paws jutting out like toothpicks. It is motionless, not even the ebbs of breathing – I hope it’s not dead, but I don’t dare to take a closer look. On the opposing side two dark men are smoking something – the pipe of choice I cannot see, only the dirty light grey puffs of smoke that smells of burning weeds and hovers in front of their faces (looks like an armadillo sniffing a mushroom.)
I huddle in a corner of the Ponte Sisto, trying to avoid the traffic of people and the African vendors who camp on both sides of the bridge. Most people, as I usually do, quicken their pace as they pass, pretending not to feel their following gaze. A dog splays on its side, all four paws jutting out like toothpicks. It is motionless, not even the ebbs of breathing – I hope it’s not dead, but I don’t dare to take a closer look. On the opposing side two dark men are smoking something – the pipe of choice I cannot see, only the dirty light grey puffs of smoke that smells of burning weeds and hovers in front of their faces (looks like an armadillo sniffing a mushroom.)
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