I felt completely out of place among the wealthy fashionable locals with their blazer jackets, designer glasses and cravats; I didn’t dare step my Converse sneaker inside any fashion label. I, on the other hand, in my tan shorts and army-green singlet top, was a bumbag away from ‘tourist chic’. Luckily, there were plenty of other questionable fashions darting about to make me feel more at home. Standing next to Marcello was enough to make anyone feel self-conscious, however; he could easily be used as a muse to be carved out of marble and sat in the middle of a piazza to be admired by the masses. I was admiring him way too much—I’d be caught in the act if I didn’t cut it out. I averted my gaze to the impossibly priced handbag on display, which worked in distracting me until I glimpsed Marcello’s reflection in the glass.
And moving on …
Looking around, this city was a lesson in contrasts: the stark yellow exterior of Louis Vuitton nestled opposite a corner flower vendor, the high-pitched buzz of passing Vespas echoing off centuries-old arched doorways, quaint narrow streets flowing with conversations in a dozen different languages. And I was free to lose myself in it all, knowing Marcello would lead me back to my hotel. There was no way I could have navigated my way around without wrestling with a map and anxiously trying to ask other clueless tourists where I was. Marcello had proven his worth.
Last night’s wine and lack of sleep, combined with the remnants of jet lag, were beginning to take their toll, and I felt the sudden need to replenish myself with some serious carbs.
‘Marcello, is there some place we can eat?’
‘Si.’ He laughed, pointing to a gelato stand.
‘No, not gelato, I mean something with substance.’
‘You have not tried this gelato.’
‘Noooo.’ I whined like a petulant child. ‘I mean I need to put on twenty kilos and feel the burn of a really good wine down my throat.’
‘I promise you will have your fill, but first we walk.’
‘Ugh.’
My steps were heavy and I was on the verge of chucking an almighty tantrum. Going hungry in Rome was not something I thought I would have to worry about. The busy area just south of the Spanish Steps had been full of culinary choices, not to mention the mazes of side streets where people sat feasting on simple, fresh food, discussing their plans for the evening. I was envious of them all as I dragged my feet along. But my hunger soon abated when I noticed the thickening of the crowd. I glanced at Marcello, giddy with excitement; he simply raised his brows as he jostled forward. At first I heard the gushing water, growing more constant and intense until reaching the square, then I was met with a truly breathtaking sight. The famous Trevi Fountain, a jewel of water and stone, nestled in the historic centre of the city. And it finally hit me: this was Rome, and I was here—like, really, really here. Nothing could ruin this moment, not even the hordes of jostling tourists vying for optimum selfie positions or desperately shuffling to get nearer to the star attraction. Marcello, so close that I could feel the vibration of his voice on my earlobe, spoke of the significance of the intense and spectacular scene before us. I had known it already, but I was happy enough for Marcello to explain it to me now.
‘It is the largest Baroque fountain in the city, and one of the most beautiful in the world. Behind is the Palazzo Poli, a palace that held many lavish parties in the 1830s.’
‘Quite the party venue. What about those?’ I pointed at the imposing fountain sculptures.
‘The Tritons are guiding Oceanus’ shell chariot, and attempting to tame the winged hippocamps.’
‘Hippocamps?’
Marcello smiled. ‘Seahorses.’
‘Oh, yeah, right, hippocamps—horses with wings, got it.’
‘It is said that if you throw a coin over your shoulder into the water, you will be sure to return to Rome.’
I sighed, not for the whimsical, romantic notion, but for the reality in front of me; getting close enough to the fountain to toss a coin would be nigh on impossible.
‘Somehow I don’t think we are going to get anywhere near there.’
Marcello seemed disappointed. Yep, I was officially a shit tourist.
‘It’s just that …’
‘Let’s go,’ he said, canting his head to the side and urging me to follow.
‘I’m pretty sure that the tour has us coming back here—I’ll throw a coin in then,’ I said, struggling to weave and keep up.
‘If you’re sure. Okay, then, come on. So many gods, so little time,’ he said with a wink, leading me in yet another direction, littered with more men selling roses and trinkets. This time I was a hardened tourist, turning down each and every one myself.
Marcello flashed a smile at me as if impressed, then continued on.
It was becoming clearer and clearer to me that Rome was like no other place, with its ancient cobblestone streets worn down by centuries of celebration and sorrow. Fountains filled with cool water sat against the backdrops of the white and pink buildings, some glowing in the summer sun, others shaded, affording us refuge from the heat of the day. Souvenir shops with postcards and T-shirts were as common as flower vendors and magazine stands; a car alarm sounding in a distant street seemed to fit in with the chaos that surrounded us for street after street. We wandered into a side alley, where for a fleeting moment it felt like we were the only ones around, until the sound of a motorbike flying up behind us broke the peace. As we moved over to the side and then walked out into another piazza, my stomach reminded me lunch was well overdue.
‘Are you deliberately trying to torture me?’
‘Just a little further,’ he said, leading me into yet another narrow street filled with ravenous tourists in little cafes, taunting me with their delicious bowls of pasta and seafood.
We entered a stretch of stalls featuring jewellers and handmade objects and paintings, artists drawing caricatures of giggling travellers, and row upon row of fake designer handbags. A culmination of hunger and intrigue caught me as I sipped on my lukewarm water bottle and blindly followed Marcello, only to stop so suddenly I banged straight into the back of him. Hot, sweaty and hungry, I scowled at the spilt water on my shoe. When I finally looked up, my annoyance was forgotten as my eyes widened in awe at the sight in front of me.
‘Pantheon.’ Marcello’s dimples were in full force now as he turned around to look at me. ‘This is one of my favourite places in Rome,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘It’s so incredibly well preserved, one of the best in all of ancient Rome, largely due to its continuous use throughout history. Since the seventh century it has been used as a church, dedicated to St Mary and the Martyrs.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I breathed out.
Marcello seemed like a small boy, gushing with pride. ‘Wait until you see inside.’
Behind a steady queue of people, we made our way through the imposing columns and in through the large bronzed doors, our eyes trailing up to the dome-shaped ceiling with mouths agape—well, mine was, anyway. Even in the great vastness of this room, Marcello stayed close to me. It seemed the best way to speak; even in the fray he wanted to tell me things about this city, his city, as if it was meant only for me to know.
‘See above us: there is a perfectly circular opening,’ he said softly. Marcello pointed upwards, just in case I might have missed what he was talking about, though it was the first thing I had seen when we walked in. ‘Rainwater comes down through the opening onto the marble floors.’ My eyes trailed down with interest as we walked around the perimeter. ‘And around the edges, you can see an actual drainage system that helps get rid of the water.’ I shook my head, realising that I hadn’t said one word since stepping inside. Being inside the Pantheon seemed to rob me of speech; I felt so small, insignificant,
We made our way to stand before Raphael’s tomb, reading the tiny plaque about the great Renaissance artist, and silently paid our respects before leaving through the giant metal doors. I felt completely reenergised, ready to keep exploring this magnificent city, but Marcello had other ideas, stopping right before the Fontana del Pantheon. I stared at the fountain, wondering the particular significance.
Marcello chuckled, seemingly delighted in my confusion as he spun me around and pointed.
‘Lunch!’