Folle Voles, Assignment #6

Il Colosseo

While She is tattered, Her marble face flaked and marred from time and toil, Her heart still drums a steady beat, and if one listens carefully at the first coos of dawn, one might be able to hear, behind the soft flutters of a new day, the stomps of Roman sandals beneath the cobblestones. During the day, walking the streets of Rome, I am distracted by the lure of cafes, the throngs that line gelaterias, the zig-zagging mopeds, the incessant pigeons, the street-hugging buses, the occasional whiffs of warm aromas and hot urine, the waves of pedestrians – modern life bustles above the streets. But I think many of us journey to Rome to find her past glory; that was my pursuit when I began a quest to find her once terrifying roar of glory.

I began my journey thinking that if I could stand amidst her ruins, I would find her story. I wandered to the one place everyone hears of but only some have seen, and even fewer have experienced. The Colosseum is now silent, despite the millions of people who flood its gates for a peek at the infamous site of both gore and praise. The wooden platform at the center (a stage for modern performers), the vendors selling plastic miniatures of the amphitheatre, the commercial guards canned within spray-painted chest armor – once glory, now travesty (I even see billboards advertising rum, which glow in a bottle with ridges like the columns of the Colosseum). I listened for Romans strolling for their afternoon baths; my ears met only the trot of carriages and tour advertisers shouting, “English guides!” I knew that the ancient glory still whispers under the streets, and I found her calling late one Saturday morning.

Whispers of Il Colosseo – the original past – came to my ears in a siesta dream. The sweet scent of wine sailed beneath my nose, blood-red ribbons swirling, flapping in the wind. Apollo was soaring across the sky, his rays piercing my eyes and illuminating the stands. A low humming boomed from the walls of the ancient amphitheatre as I stared at its arching walls – the anticipation before the show (the reenactment of Carthage) sharpened the air. An eagle loomed above, its screech piercing the tension. A giant crowd swarmed around a plump man selling tickets...

The bells toll; two in the afternoon, one of the hottest afternoons yet, a blistering 40 degrees. Rome is melting. Even the air is wavy from the heat. I looked back at the clock – the rest of Rome is hammocked for siesta, absconding from the afternoon heat. Stores are closed, which makes the streets look like they are lined with garage doors. I am on my way to see the battle of Carthage – a journey to the past through the roads of modern Italy.

I recruit Sal and Kay to join me on my quest as I begin to trot down the marble steps into Apollo’s fleece. We are certainly an odd sight. The few Romans who still roam the streets watch us – Sal, tall, in the lead as Kay and I, shorter, flank her on either side. We quicken our steps to a gallop, hopping into a slight dash once in a while until we reach la fermata – to Termini. The bus doors open and we raft a current – a sea of people flood out as if the Tiber was feeding through the opposite windows. We find a small eddy in the waves, and sneak aboard as the water wraps around us, suspending us in a swaying pool of sweat.

Termini. Trailing behind us is a five-block-long evaporating runnel of seawater that drips from our clothes. I hastily trot along the cobblestones, head flicking left and right, my hand hovering above my forehead like a sailor looking out to sea, squinting across the restaurants and…restaurants. The heat is drowning out all the senses…colors bleached white, buildings mirrored down the street, smells of heat, heat insulating our skin – a blue flag peaks out from around the corner! An eagle spreads across its sagging face. But the cement is melting beneath us; the streets are holding our ankles, as we struggle across its spongy surface, each step sinks deeper into the heat. We double our efforts.

An immediate coolness strikes us – a thousand kisses across our skin. We walk into throngs of blue – baby blue tee shirts, dark blue sweatshirts, sky blue jerseys, white fleeces. Two tanned faces watch our faces enter from behind the counter – watching three Chinese girls, flushed, beads of sweat condensing on our foreheads, a few droplets on our noses and lips. I step closer to the counter; a man with a prominent Roman nose accompanied by his daughter raises his bushy eyebrows….we tell him our quest.

We are too late, he says.

Perhaps the adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, for I heard his words but cannot take them to heart. Sal and Kay echo my hesitation to turn back immediately – our journey was limited to a 30-minutes bus ride, but our hearts had been set. We linger at the edges of the door – both not wanting to leave the comforts of air conditioning nor relinquish hope that She is still alive. Can She truly be lost forever?

The bushy-eyebrowed man peeks at us from the corner of his eye, furtive, pretending to fold jerseys behind the counter. Sal approaches his again….

He must have heard the pleading in her voice; glancing skeptically at our American attire, studying our faces, eventually he decides to test our worth – a second journey. Vediamo a Il Colosseo.

We dash across the hot-cold border without a flinch; the heat will have to wait, we part her drowning waves like the Red Sea, opening a direct path back to Termini. We climb down the subway stairs, the sun fading into a neon-yellow illumination of the underground tunnel. Sal crosses the gates first, feeding in her ticket through the machine. On the other side she begins to ask for directions: “Dov’e ----?”

Kay follows; I am blocked. My ticket will not allow me to pass the foolish plastic flaps. I feed in my ticket again – again I am met by the incessant red light. Upsidedown? Backwards? Right-side-up? I try every possible combination! The guard rolls his eyes, struts to my right and takes my ticket. He studies it for a minute – Sal and Kay are waiting for me! – and finally decides I am honest, and scans his badge that dangles from his neck. I rush the doors. Goosh! I slam against the plastic flap. I clutch my arm in embarrassment and limp over to my comrades as we gallop to our speedy pace. I skip to keep up as Sal weaves through the seas – switching current paths, sharp right, down the stairs, sharp right – halt!

The light at the end of the tunnel teased our anxiousness. We leap through the doors of the metro – fourth stop, then transfer to Tram No. 2.

The station exited into a small piazza. We currently stood along one edge, the metro behind us. A large gap – like an airport hangar – neighbored us on the right. Across was a shutter-lined wall of a paint-chipped building. To the right, a line of vendors sell heavy scarves. We turn into the hangar. A lone green train sits at the tracks, bearing a painted No. 2 on its forehead – we clamor on, but unease tickles our nerves. Sal communicates with the local passengers, none of who speak a single word of English, a surprising change from the internationality in centro. After a lot of gesticulating, we are sent off the train still not knowing where to find the tram….

Back in the piazza – no sides seem to lead to the right direction. We walk in small circles, studying each direction twice before inching forward a few steps only to look upon the same four edges. As we spiral toward the vendors I can feel my heart begin to sink, then suddenly lift as a small path obscured by the row of vendors fades into view, and to the right, tram tracks. We labor to follow the metal lines that snaked beneath our feet, like pulling on invisible ropes toward the quay.

We take seats on the No. 2 Tram; the plastic is hot from the sun. In front of us sits an old Italian woman who looks friendly enough; she smells of roasted garlic. Sal approaches her for guidance. Again hands fly into the air – a language of signs – but all we can understand after 5 minutes is a timid confirmation that we are on the right path. I pray we are. My back sticks to my shirt, glued by a thick film of moisture. My thighs are plastered to the plastic seats. I look at Sal – if I were a stranger, I would have guessed she had just finished a wrestling match and now returns home defeated. Her hair, once a nicely placed ponytail, now branch out to the continents of her face. Her muscles droop, melted by the sun. A slight gleam across her face shines from sweat. But her eyes, like mine, are beaten martyrs of hope.

Ahead of us the old woman begins a chat with the young man across from her – we were their topic of interest. While I could not ascertain their conversation, I could hear the entertained laughter – that seems to reflect their attitude toward us, an intrigued fondness that sprouts a willingness to help, but also teasing mockery – and the occasional Cinese. We are the punch-line of an unknown joke.

The woman begins to point frantically, and we follow her finger off the tram into a ghost town. The streets are soulless. The tram begins to inch away, as hesitant as we are to move. We see through the window the woman, who points to the horizon – there is nothing there. I look at Sal and Kay, and they stare back with the same doubtful expression. The young man begins to point in the other direction, with greater fervor. I turn to head in his direction, but soon we all stop as we watch a misdirected orchestra of arms and fingers directing this way and that. Our eyes cannot follow. The passengers grow restless, gesticulating even more, all pointing in different directions. My head is spinning.

The driver stops the tram and motions for us to return – we gladly dash aboard once again. The woman and young man are in a focused argument about the correct stop – we sink back into our sticky seats awaiting the final decision. The grains of time are sinking through – I gaze out at tree after tree lining orange colored buildings, the same scene scrolling across my window. No signs of life.

The tram stops – this time a definite stop. The woman gestures us to follow her; we descend into a swarm of street vendors selling clothes and scarves once again. She points us through a dense forest. The only word I can make out from her string of Italian is Piu. We huddle in the shade, dragging our feet along a gravel path into a shady park. A rusty fountain painstakingly drips water at its faucet – as languid as our feet. Time has slowed. Once again we ask for directions. “Dov’e ----?” The Italian woman, younger than the one on the tram, produces the same look – she does not understand our English, though she apologizes for not being able to help, and proceeds to giggle the same mocking adoration. We trek on. Past a white marble bridge lined with more vendors…

At the end a dozen Italian policemen form a macho circle between two large armored vans. Some are plump, others skinny. Some sport fashionable aviators, others rigid hats. All position their bodies in a prideful pose – one presses his shoulders back and raises his face to the sun, another leans an elbow on the van and grins proudly, another boasts with a leg propped on the side of the van. We test our luck – surely these gatekeepers of Rome can help us on our quest….

Too late, is the reply. Not possible today. My heart sinks to my ankles. We linger in front of this cloud of male ego just as we did back at Termini. But these men turned away from us – not a single drop of curiosity or willingness to help; they go back to their proud chuckles.

We hang our heads, walking against the current of people flooding past us. M- I could not catch the full name, for it was just a passing wind from an Italian family. They too do not speak a single word of English, with the exception of how to ask, “Do you speak English?” The boy points us across the marble bridge – which stretches across the Tiber back into the shady forest. We follow without thought – robots on an endless quest….

We are seekers of glory in an inglorious journey – shackled by heat, alienated by language, exiled to the borders. We are lost pilgrims, far away from home, estranged in a new land. Perhaps we are doomed to never find Rome as She was; perhaps she truly died in the Fall….

I closed my eyes to hear the roar of the crowds just before the start of the games. I fancy I hear a low drum shaking the grounds. The pummel of Roman sandals were flooding the entrances, I follow the crowds. That plump ticket seller was standing guard, circled by fans. I am taking each step cautiously, careful not to stir the fragile scene. The scream of an eagle wakes me – I stare upon an ocean of fans before me. They are decked in baby blue tees, navy blue jerseys, sky blue scarves wrapped about their hips. Large banners sway back and forth, from its flaps rise the soaring eagle. Without knowing it, I have arrived. The fans raise their arms, blow their whistles, chant their song: Forzo Lazio…!

Il Colosseo grows from the ground and erects its grandeur around me. I stare up at its bleachers packed with Romans. The games begin – two men already fall to the ground! We cannot contain our excitement! Rome, She is still beating.

Legend will tell the story of two sons of Rome: Lazio and Roma, whose age long battle is reminiscent of the twin rivalry at the birth of Rome. While the main players have changed, the search for glory is relentless, and seekers of glory – like me – continue to voyage on folle voles to be a part of the legend.