If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.
— Henry David Thoreau
Episode —
There had to be a way around the tape and it had to be around to the left, towards the river. So I went. I found a way around, and then I saw a scrappy sign on a wall ahead, “Domus di Amore e Psiche”. That had to be it.
The house ran roughly south-south-east to north-north-west but for simplicity I’ll refer to it as south to north. The ground floor was quite small, perhaps 21 metres south to north and 15 east to west. But there was a row of shops facing the street on the west side, and the upper storey may have extended over them; but since they are older than the house then the shops may have owned those rooms and the house might actually have stopped at the western wall of its ground floor.
I found the entrance on the south side of the south-west corner. It led into a vestibule about 2.5 metres south-north by 3.5 east-west, with brick benches set into the north and west sides. The benches were about 55 cm high and 35 cm deep, just the right height to sit on. Possibly they were seats where visitors would wait. Someone seated here could see only the southern part of the atrium.
I went through a doorway in the east wall of the vestibule. The atrium was about 12 metres long and 4 wide, but felt wider because the east side opened on a viridarium (garden), backed by a nymphaeum (water feature), that was itself about 10 metres long by 7 wide. The middle of the atrium floor had no impluvium, just a drain. Given the narrowness of the atrium, it’s likely that the roof was not even open in the middle — in fact, upstairs rooms could have been built over it — and that the drain was there mainly to catch any rain that came through from the viridarium, which would have been the main source of natural light.
There was another bench built into the south end of the atrium. It could well have been set into a thin curtain wall that has crumbled more than the thicker support walls to either side, but to me it looked like a window seat. Given the angle of the house, the morning sun would have struck in through such a window. In the afternoon there would be a view of the temple district across the road. A very pleasant spot to sit on sunny days, too, as there would be a breeze between the window and the viridarium.
Such a window would be unusual in the external wall of a Roman house, even in the 4th century AD when this one was last rebuilt. Glass wasn’t used for Ostian windows, and the gap was 2.5 metres wide — big even by today’s standards. If it was a window it would have been closed at night or in bad weather by folding panels similar to those used for shops and doors. But on a sunny day the open window would light up this end of the atrium.
A woman could sit here and card wool or write poetry. An old man with weak eyesight could set a desk here, where the light would make it easy to read and write and do tasks requiring fine detail. If the man was a priest, he could even keep an eye on his charge from the window.
Unless, of course, the wall on the other side of the road rose too high. Then he’d have only the horizon — though the panorama was good. It was hard to judge from the ruins, but there appeared to be a low area around an arched doorway in a wall in the direction of the temples. Standing, I had a view, but sitting, the view was reduced.
I walked down the middle of the atrium. At the end, two steps up, was the tablinum (study). When I turned and looked down the length of the atrium, I could see over the walls beyond the window.
The tablinum was about 7.5 metres square, with a beautiful polychrome marble floor (opus sectile) and walls. It would once have been very elegant. But the floor showed signs of repairs, some not well matched to the pattern. Perhaps later occupants were less concerned with appearances, or else were poorer and unable to afford exact replacements. Then again, the house was built around 325-350 AD, when trade in the western empire was declining. The materials may simply not have been available, or else in such short supply that prices were excessive.
In the south wall on the east side there was a semicircular niche, apparently a fountain. Between the nymphaeum and the fountain this room would once have been filled with the sounds of water trickling over stone and pouring into basins, with the scent of it and the damp heavy taste and feel of it. But you wouldn’t want to store papers here: the damp would ruin them. The room would also be a bit dark for reading and writing even with lamps, unless there was a skylight or light slit of some sort. But it would be a good place to interview people or to conduct rituals.
In the south end of the west wall of the tablinum, some steps, a metre wide, once led up to the first floor. Seven or eight steps still went up heading west to a landing. It looked like they once turned and continued up again headed north, but I’m not sure how the upper floors were arranged.
Two flights of steps (or possibly a second landing and a 90° right turn to avoid intruding on the double-storey tablinum) would put the first floor about 3.7 metres above the atrium. This fits with what little is left of the arches between the atrium and the viridarium.
Emotionally, I like the idea of a balcony running above the vividarium. But a corridor running down the middle with rooms opening either side, with the eastern rooms having large (shuttered) windows seems more likely. If the house had no access to the rooms above the shops then such an arrangement would give the rooms a better air flow (in through the windows and out into the corridor or vice-versa), and the arrangement of the ground floor does suggest that the builder of the house gave thought to ventilation. The dark western rooms would be store rooms.
I pulled my mind back downstairs and walked back into the atrium. Three small cubicles opened off it on the west, each about 3.5 metres deep (east to west) and 3 wide. Numbering them from south to north, cubicle 3 had a black and white mosaic floor. Since I think the owners would have slept upstairs, it might have been a guest or servant bedroom, or a storeroom. Cubicle 2 was elegantly walled and floored with marble, like the tablinum, and in the middle a pedestal was set on a circular design on the floor. The house takes its name from a sculture of Cupid and Psyche that was found here. The room was probably not a bedroom. Perhaps it was a day room for the owner’s wife. Cubicle 1 looked simpler than the others. The walls were once painted. I have no hesitation in assigning it to a doorman or butler. In some houses the doorman might have unrolled a swag in the vestibule ot the atrium at night, but the doorman for an important man with many visitors might be of more consequence. This room was the logical place for him to sleep.
The pattern in the middle of the floor of cubicle 2 caught my eye. The tablinum had four similar circular designs on its floor, each a couple of metres from a corner: could it once have sported similar pedestals and sculptures? There was also an arrangement of rectangles in the middle of the tablinum that might once have marked the location for a desk or an altar. Someone standing here would be like an actor on a stage.
I wandered back down towards the window seat, then turned east into a room or short corridor, 2.5 metres wide by 4.5 long (west to east) that opened off the south end of the east wall of the atrium. At the end was a small room, 2.5 metres long (north to south) and 2 wide. Apparently this small room was the latrine. Water from the nymphaeum’s supply could easily be diverted here to flush it.
That sparked a question. Toilets in Roman houses were often located in the kitchen. Waste water from the kitchen could be used to flush the toilet. Hygiene was apparently not an issue. Well, here was the toilet, but where was the kitchen? Roman stoves were usually distinctive brick structures, but I could find no such in this house. It was unlikely to have been upstairs.
Since this was a late Roman house, perhaps the stove was free-standing and was removed when the house was abandoned. The east wall of the toilet did feature a slightly thickened area. A stove might have been placed up against that. However, although this room was spacious for a toilet and OK for a kitchen, it could be cramped if someone wanted to take a dump while someone else was cooking.
Then again, if this was a priest’s house, perhaps his food was prepared in a communal kitchen in the temple complex and brought here through the door in the wall across the road. Or again, the corridor from the atrium was excessively wide for a mere access-way: a free-standing stove might have been placed against the south wall. I like this solution best. The nymphaeum would provide a convenient source of water and the toilet was handy for getting rid of scraps. It was an external wall so there could very well have beeen a window near the roof to vent steam and smoke. (Romans didn’t use chimneys.)
In the east end of the corridor’s north wall there was a door into the viridarium. Its location mildly supported my kitchen hypothesis. You put entrances where they’re going to be useful.
The viridarium was about 10 metres long by 4.75 across. To the east wall of the house was another 2 metres, the depth of the nymphaeum, and niches in the wall were half a metre deep.
How the viridarium was floored, I don’t know. But it seems to be essentially a peristyle, with the atrium acting as a colonade. Thus it would probably have flowerbeds, vines, shrubs and fruit trees, maybe some vegetables — but the nymphaeum argues that this garden was mainly for feeding the senses, not the stomach. Today’s grassy lawn is unlikely: with high walls and trees, the floor would be very shady, and grass needs light to thrive. Since it was an enclosed garden, accessible only from within the house, there would probably have been stone paths so that people could work or walk in it without tracking dirt back into the house. Gardening tools and supplies could have been stored in the “empty” end of the latrine or in the kitchen — another reason to put the door where it was.
Separating atrium from viridarium was a low wall 40 to 50 centimetres tall. On the wall stood four columns. Their capitals were gone, but the columns were like the columns of the nymphaeum, whose capitals were of the composite type (Ionic volutes above with Corinthian acanthus leaves below). The columns were made from granite, their bases and probably their capitals from marble.
I estimated their height from atrium floor to the start of the capital as about 2.1 metres. Add 40 cm for the capitals and just under a metre for the height of the arches between them and you can see that the first floor was at least 3.5 metres above the atrium, probably more since the top of the blocks making up the arches would add another 20 cm or so. This supports my estimate based on the stairwell.
Such a void could be unpleasant in cold or rainy weather. I’d certainly design some way of keeping out extreme weather. Perhaps the Romans had sail-cloth blinds they could drop from above.
The monumental nymphaeum was built around five tall niches set into the east wall. The end and middle niches were cylindrical with semi-domed tops, the others were rectangular, with arched tops. They probably once held statues. Six free-standing columns separated the niches. The tops of the columns supported arches that merged with the wall. Each column stoods on a marble-faced block. Between each block was a slanting marble plane. Block and plane rested on a marble entablature formed into five deep cylindrical bays, 1.5 metres in diameter and gaping on the west side. The floor of each bay was coloured marble.
A thick lead water pipe was still in place behind the blocks and planes. Water once poured down the planes and could then have splashed over a step at the bottom and fallen into the bays, which might also have held statues or planters, or it could have drained away through vents below the planes. The used water would probably have been gathered up by a gutter and sent to flush the toilet. In the centre of each of the protruding arms that shaped the bays there was a hole that spurted water: I hypothesise free-standing urns or basins in the vividarium to catch the streams and guide the water into the gutter. If the kitchen needed water, holding a jar in the nearest stream of water or dipping it in a basin would fill the need.
When the nymphaeum was working, the cumulative effect would have been very like a brook tumbling through a glade. Not very loud, but pervasive. It would have filled the house with its sound, and there would be enough spray and evaporation to carry the scent of water everywhere — and keep the garden green.
Where the water came from I don’t know, but the house was part of a large block that would have been connected into the aqueduct system. There was a large empty area east of the tablinum, without access to the house but convenient to a maintenance tunnel running beneath the nymphaeum. A water tank placed here would have regulated the supply and provided the head of pressure required to force water through the pipes.
Satisfied with my five-minute survey, I wandered back to the window seat and let myself drift back in time. Whoever had lived here had been content. This was a happy house: the walls had soaked up the aura and still radiated it today. Sitting in this sunny window on a warm autumn afternoon watching the clouds chase their shadows over the ruinous walls of the ancient city, I could easily share their contentment.
It had been a good holiday. Too short, of course; only three weeks, and this was my last full day in Europe. But the average quality was high. It started in my second favourite European city, Paris, and ended in my favourite, Rome. I’d been to the Moulin Rouge — again. I’d watched clouds roll past like a fast-forwarded videotape on the French TGV. I’d been drenched with rain in Marseille. I’d tanned myself all over on Île du Levant. I’d walked the Cinque Terre. I’d finally climbed the Leaning Tower. I’d seen Capri and Oplontis. I’d walked through the subtle mind of the Roman emperor Hadrian at Tivoli. And here at Ostia Antica I’d patted Aphrodite on the bottom and then found this beautiful house.
I’d arrived at Ostia early, expecting to spend half a day, but I was still exploring it almost eight hours later. With Pompeii, Herculaneum and Oplontis still fresh in my mind I’d reaped a huge harvest of comparisons about life in Roman times. Those had been provincial towns, not even Roman in origin. Ostia was a slice of ancient Rome itself, founded by Romans and developing as a shadow of its huge parent.
Tour groups had been a nuisance along the main street, but as soon as I’d seen enough of the sights there I dived into the side streets and became deliriously lost — and alone. That meant I could spend twenty minutes tracing the workings of a small Therme, or fifteen minutes atop a lookout without being irritated by a horde of gormless sheep following a barking guide.
I’d finally seen enough to satisfy me, but partway back I realised I’d missed this house. I’d been blocked from it because two archaological students had roped off the temples so they could make some measurements. So I returned and found a way around the roped off area. And here I was, with time in hand and nothing that needed doing. Another of those priceless moments that always astonish me when I encounter them.
I hitched a leg up on the seat and scrunched around a bit more, gazing out. What a tragedy it would be if this had not been a window seat, or if those buildings across the way had blocked the view: would the owners of the house have realised their loss?
Maybe not. The romans didn’t think the same way we do. Their houses tended to fold in on themselves, hiding behind sheer walls. If there was no window here then the house would have balanced quite differently. It would be an enclosed little world, obsessively focused on the viridarium and the nymphaeum. The tablinum would be a grotto, not a stage. I wouldn’t like it as much, but it would still be a nice place to live. I’d probably spend more time upstairs in the air and light above the garden.
If I ever became rich and built a house, I’d be tempted to base it on this one, or at least my mind’s picture of this one. I liked it that much. It would definitely have a window seat. And all the modern conveniences. Which damp from the nymphaeum would probably tend to ruin. Oh, well.
Who were they, the builders? The information in the guide books and gathered from the internet suggests the occupant was a priest, probably of Hercules. The proximity of the temples supports that. It might even be that the house was less a residence than an office or chapel. If there really was no kitchen, that becomes more likely. (There was no bath either, but that wasn’t unusual in Ostia.) But Hercules? This place was just too … effeminate. Dionysius or Bacchus or even Aphrodite, more likely. And the priest may well have been a priestess.
That’s not to say that the house would not have appealed to a man, just that Hercules was too macho and too many of its features were the sort of thing likely to be selected by a woman.
I never really concluded my line of thought. A footstep interrupted me. Another guy had entered the house and was looking at me curiously. I grinned and waved him in.
“I was just leaving. Welcome to my house. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.”
IntroductionThis is the story of my 2004 European trip. I had three weeks, starting 10th September, from Paris to Rome and points between (and beyond). The episode above happened during an excursion to Ostia Antica, the port of ancient Rome.
My French route ran from Paris to Marseilles via TGV, then along the Côte d’Azur to the Italian border. In Italy I started with the Cinque Terre, Pisa and Florence, went down to Naples (bypassing Rome), then returned to Rome to finish.
The sleepy monkey head used to punctuate this edition is from a photo I took of a statue outside the Bar Rhumerie, now probably known as Le Bayou, in Le Lavandou. If so the statue no longer appears to be there.
ContentsQuick start list by date — since this was a short trip.
Main contents list by the order in which I did things.
Episode — Domus di Amore e Psiche
Introduction Contents The day before Departure
Paris
Bal du Moulin Rouge Sacré-Cœur
Around the Eiffel Tower
Place de la Concord The Louvre
The TGV Marseille Le Lavandou Ile du Levant St Tropez
Arrival in Nice Cannes
France to Italy
Monterosso to Vernazza
Pisa Florence Eurostar Napoli — Spaccanapoli
Pompeii
Capri
Herculaneum
Oplontis
All roads lead here
San Sebastiano
The Maritime Theatre
The Imperial Forums
Piazza Navona
Baths of Diocletian
Ostia Antica
The Last night Homebound
The day beforeI Left work about 16:51 and walked out onto Toorak Rd with a huge grin on my face. Temperature cool, sky overcast, but who cared? By this time tomorrow the weather in Melbourne would be irrelevant.
Walking down Mary Street half an hour later, just before Bridge Road, I ran into the scent of brewing tea. In my exulted mood, my memory did backflips decades back to visits to my Nana’s house. Big old living room with a four metre ceiling. Quiet except for the tick of a pendulum clock. Kettle boiling on a wood-fired range in the kitchen. Despite electricity and other later impositions, a house not much different in some ways from those of ancient Rome.
Departure11:15 I called the taxi, ditched the uneaten half of my lunch, and lugged the pack outside. I took the door keys and put them in my work bag (I took the spare with me, packed obscurely), then went out and closed the door. As I lined up the traditional doorstep photo, the taxi driver appeared. So within a minute of stepping out I was on the road.
In the taxi, I thought to check the camera’s time. Three minutes fast. Oh, well. I set it back to match my watch. Then I realised that the iPaq’s clock was a minute slow by the watch. So now I was synchronised.
By noon I was at the airport, queuing to check in. The taxi ride cost $45. Par for the course. No sneaky let's take the long route shenanigans this year.
My main pack weighed 9.4 kg, the day pack 4.5 kg (including 600 ml bottle of water), my jacket with iPaq & camera, 1.4 kg; all up 15.3 kg — half a kilo more than expected. I had a moment of panic until I realised I’d added the water after weighing the pack at home.
Malaysian Airlines MH148 Seat 16K (window) to Kuala Lumpur, MH20 Seat 42H (aisle) to Paris. Less than an hour out from home, I was now checked all the way through to Paris and had my ticket to ride.
We were in the air by 15:17. Rain on the window. As we climbed towards the clouds, we flew through a rainbow. A good omen!
To save weight I’d left my usual 200 gm headphones at home and taken a 100 gm Sony set. But the light phones did not cope against the plane engines. Their rubber covers fell apart — perished in the long time since I’d last used them. I might as well have left the Sony pair behind too, and just used ear buds.
By 22:42 I was in KL, waiting for the Paris flight. Boring terminal, lots of exhortations to buy, but no currency exchange. Lots of lounges but no showers. I decided I’d always try to go through Singapore in future. A cat bath in a dingy toilet is no substitute for a sudsy splash in a homey shower.
Watched Shrek 2 on the in-flight video.
We passed over India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, the Caspian, various former soviet republics, Ukraine, Poland, and Germany. We would have crossed the tip of the Sea of Azov, but the course showed a blip there: we swung north around the sea then resumed course.
The plane was almost full but I had one stroke of luck: they picked the window seat person to move to an empty seat further back. So two of us were left with three seats. Unfortunately the recliner on mine was broken, so even with the extra elbow room my sleep was fitful as I couldn’t stretch out. I did get three or four hours in aggregate, with a couple of hour-long snoozes in there. I was feeling OK. But it was mid-morning back in Oz, so I had my body clock working in my favour. The crunch would come mid-afternoon Paris time!
My nose kept tryiing to bleed. The cabin air was drier than usual.
Since I couldn’t sleep I watched The Day After Tomorrow (second time) on the in-flight video, and most of the latest Harry Potter.
Paris
Touchdown was at 05:47. By 06:13, I was waiting for my pack. By 06:58 I was on the free shuttle to Terminal 3 / RER B. Customs was a walk-through. But I had spent most of 45 minutes waiting for my pack to appear! Then I had to walk through the airport to Lift 20 and descend to the Departures level to reach the shuttle. I didn’t recall 2003’s departure from CDG being this complicated.
By 07:22 I was on the train. The shuttle to the station took 5 minutes. Ticket to Paris cost €7.85, or €0.25 more than budgetted far. So, situation normal but not snafu.
The suburbs could have been Melbourne. The track, the houses, etc. There was nothing offhand to indicate it was Paris, although if I looked closely the signs were all in French.
By 09:00 I was booked into Hotel Moulin and freshly showered. Ah, the bliss! The ordeal of the flight was already forgotten. I was ready for Paris.
Last year I’d stayed at Lion d’Or, down near the Louvre, convenient to all the central activities. This time I wanted to concentrate on some things that hadn’t worked out in 2003, or that deserved a second look, so I stayed in Montmartre. Hotel Moulin was recommended by the Lonely Planet. It was OK, though I liked Lion d’Or better.
My first stop was the Moulin Rouge, to book a seat for tonight’s dinner and show. This was to be a reprise on last year’s visit, but between those memories and a TV documentary (Moulin Rouge Girls, about the experiences of six Australian girls in the show) I hoped to get more out of it this time.
That settled, I dived into the Métro for fifteen minutes, emerging at 10:00 at the Arc de Triomphe end of Champs-Elysées. I walked down here last year, but this time I wasn’t just passing through.
I spent half an hour walking up and down, and then I picked out one of the overpriced sidewalk cafes. Chardonnay borgogne aligoté at the George V on Champs-Elysées. The celebratory gesture. €10 for a large glass — cheap at half the price and a little windy, and the table wobbled, but consider the location!
Refreshed, I set off on the main event, a stroll down the Avenue de la Grande Armée to Bois du Boulogne and through that immense park to Paris’ skyscraper district, La Défense.
The Arc de Triomphe sits on the city’s largest and craziest traffic island. I needed to get to the other side. Unlike foolish people who’ve tried to cross it the hard way, I took the underpass. Boring, stinking of urine, but safe. Halfway through was the Arc de Triomphe exit, but I’d gone that way last year. I felt no real compulsion to repeat the experience so I passed on through the tunnel.
Avenue de la Grande Armée was broad and clogged with traffic, and from street level it looked very little like the postcards. In fact it could have been any major artery in any big city. Outside the artifially preserved charm of the old centre, Paris shows quite another, much less attractive, face. The main tourist zone is cocooned within an otherwise rather bland modern city.
Bois du Boulogne was heralded by some strips of green outlined by traffic-clogged roads. This was not the tranquil entry point I’d been expecting. In fact, to reach the park I had to traverse yet another urine-scented tunnel and then follow a footpath beside the road. But just as depression and disillusion were setting in I spotted a worn trail heading into the trees on the right.
The trail never got out of earshot of the road, but eventually there was enough greenery to at least hide it from view. Not that I was safe from traffic even now. French cyclists, as crazy as the car drivers, rocketed past with scant regard for pedestrians. Few bothered to ring their bells, but fortunately the ground was rough enough to make the bikes rattle so I usually had some warning.
At one point I passed a couple attempting to cross a boggy patch. The woman lost her shoe, and although their conversation was all in French, no translation was required for her virago tones: “this is all your fault, this wouldn’t have happened if we’d gone my way, but N-OH, you had to take us through the bloody bog!” In the end he salvaged her lost runner and, mud to the knees, handed it to her. She whacked him over the head with it before putting it on and storming off. He trailed meekly after.
I was trying to reach a place called the Bagatelle, a chateau and set of ornamental gardens enclosed by the Bois. But after a while I realised that I was lost. All the paths and roads curved, and my map did not correspond to what I was seeing. There were no street signs, or at least none that I noticed.
Things reached the pits when I was walking on the footpath again, approaching a pedestrian crossing, and the passenger in a passing car hoarsely shouted something and flipped me the bird. Yobbos are yobbos anywhere, but the mood I was in, this bloke was lucky his friend’s car didn’t break down. I’d have killed him. But later it occurred to me that I wasn’t the one being trundled around like a potato-sack in someone else’s car.
Eventually I came out of the trees beside a long lake. On the far shore, the trees were all leaning the same way. I promptly dubbed them “the Leaning Forest”, but that didn’t tell me where I was. My map showed several lakes in the Bois, so which was this?
At random I walked left, gradually making my way around the end of the lake. Eventually I struck a wide path that led towards a large complex. This brought me to a road, and started to resemble something on my map — but unfortunately not the part of the map I wanted it to be! I went on past the complex. If my guess was right, I would soon know where I was.
Sure enough, I stumbled out of the trees at an intersection. After a bit of orienteering I determined that I was in the wrong place I expected to be in: Boulevard Maurice Barnes. From here a ten minute stroll one way would take me to the Bagatelle; or I could push on to La Défense. I’d started the walk half an hour early so despite getting lost I was actually ahead of my itinerary.
But I was not as fit as I should have been, and the walk was already telling on me. The reward didn’t seem worth going the extra distance. So I headed on towards La Défense.
Avenue Charles de Gaulle was a huge, soulless place with monumental gardens and the sort of horrendous fountains and “art” that architects, bureaucrats and selection committees tend to inflict on public spaces. Everything was angular. Everything was symmetrical. Flower plots were ruthlessly forced into utilitarian rectangular prisons, and fountains were boxed in concrete mazes and marked off limits to the public.
I took a picture of it. Looks just like an architect’s drawing, right down to the generic people-shaped features — a woman walking a child, a man in shirt and tie sitting on a seat, and a dog.
But people will adapt anything to their needs. Further along I came upon some boys using a long slope with steps as a skateboard ramp. The Powers That Be would no doubt be aghast if they knew that people were having unauthorised varieties of fun in their park. This thought amused me so much that I even forgave them when one nearly bowled me over while I was lining up a photo.
Pont de Nuilly lifted my spirits. A small tholos stood on an island in the Seine. I didn’t know what it was at the time — except that it was very pretty — but an information board on the Grande Arch later informed me that it was the Temple of Love.
I was tempted to turn aside to visit the island — it was close to the bank and there was bound to be a bridge — but decided it might be a detour too many for my feet, which were starting to ache.
It’s worth noting that at this point I was less than two hours into the day’s walking and had spent part of that time sitting down in the Champs Élysées. By the end of the trip I was spending six to ten hours of the day on the move yet feeling less tired at the end of that than I was feeling now. (I had also lost a significant amount of weight.)
An apartment block across the river also caught my eye. It cascaded towards the river from between two monoliths like a spill of sugar between two salt and pepper shakers.
The public sculpture got even uglier as I entered La Défense. A plane of water lay pinned beneath a forest of traffic lights mounted on drill bits (Bassin Takis). Not only was it an incredibly dreary and dismaying piece of trash, but it spread from side to side of the plaza, forcing all pedestrians to detour around it. The car culture, forbidden to drive on this patch of ground, had ensured that the pedestrian still had to give way before its icons of “Management” (traffic lights) and “Progress” (drilling for oil).
The skyscrapers finally loomed around me. Their shapes were often ingenious, but sometimes you had to ask “what were they thinking?”. The rainbow candy-striped tower, for example, that looked like the starship Enterprise going into warp.
Then there was the mass-produced sculpture that peered out of the greenery. They’d arranged it cleverly to conceal the fact, but it was soon obvious that all those generic faces were based on a very few designs. Not only tacky, then, but monotonously tacky.
From a balcony, I looked down on the promenade, wandering how best to sum up my developing opinions. And here came a pretty girl, trim and neat in dark jeans and a white boob tube, a slight and solitary figure in that soulless expanse. Perfect.
From a distance the Grande Arche seems to stand in isolation, but its height makes this this deceptive. In fact the approach to its base is cluttered by steps and sculpture and, of course, a carousel. Where Americans tend to hang a flag on anything that will hold one, and Australians build a pub on any vacant street corner, the French plonk a roundabout down on any popular patch of ground.
Even the big cube itself is not the plain hollowed out pi that you see from a distance. There’s a big tent hanging inside the arch, and the tourist elevators to the top make a spidery black webwork rising through the tent. The arch stands on a huge podium that effectively turns it into a tube with a square cross-section.
The sides of the cube are filled with windows. Unlike the Arc de Triomphe, the Grande Arche is a working structure &mdash in fact, it’s an office building. But I didn’t notice any entry. Tourists don’t enter the offices: the free-standing glass-bubble elevators carry them straight to the top.
I stopped to buy water from one of the stalls. I’d found no drinking fountains in the architects’ parks (doesn’t mean they’re not there, but I looked, because I ran out of water). I contrasted that with Rome: in Rome there’d have been several fountains pouring water down the drain. Such profligacy was deeply shocking to me: Melbourne has permanent water restrictions. But even Melbourne puts drinking fountains in its parks: you just have to push the button or turn the tap to make it run.
Eventually I fronted up to the ticket window and paid for entry to the viewing platform. The elevator worked on the FIFO system: in one side, up, out the other side. The views from the elevators were unnerving, because the little glass spiders in their rickety steel webs seemed so fragile. I could look almost straight down through the glass walls.
The view from the top was spectacular. The air was good, so I was able not only to pick out both Sacre-Coeur and the Eiffel Tower, but to run my eyes up the entire eight-kilometre length of the “Historic Axis” to the Louvre. La Défense was laid out like a map, complete with a child’s toys scattered across it and scurrying hordes of ants. I shuttled along the edge of the platform, trying to pick the best viewpoints. This view, compensating for the natural mountains nature had neglected to provide, went a long way towards persuading me to forgive the architects. But not the whole way.
Once the view palled there wasn’t else much to see at the top. Some displays a about the Arch, a few pieces of crappy art, some overpriced souvenirs masquerading as art, and a cafetaria.
Down below, I walked out on the western side of the Arch. There was another forest of traffic lights there, and a big park. It looked like a toy forest — the trees were laid out like architects props — so I valiantly resisted the negligible temptation to go down into it.
I’d had enough of La Défense, so I made my way to the big subway station in the eastern plaza. The RER took me back to the Arc de Triomphe, where I caught the Metro back to Montmartre.
My original plan was to have a siesta until it was time to go to the Moulin Rouge. After all, I’d completed my main intention for the day, and I was very tired. But, weather permitting, there was still time for more sightseeing and I was also full of adrenalin..
I decided take a look around Montmartre Cemetary. If the weather turned wet, I wouldn’t have far to go to get home. (I overlooked the fact that cemetaries tend to be open to the skies …)
Famous residents of this cemetary include Alexander Dumas, Hector Berlioz and Emile Zola. One notorious resident is Louise Weber, “La Goulue”, credited with inventing the can-can. Since I planned to go to the Moulin Rouge this evening, it seemeed appropriate to pay her a visit.
The visit turned out to be more interesting than I expected. The French have a different approach to burial than my ancestors. New Zealand cemetaries tend toward plots. The french go in for crypts.
The most interesting were the common telephone-box-sized family crypts. Generations of the family would be mentioned on the walls — presumably they were cremated and interred below the floor, or even stored elsewhere.
Here and there a larger crypt rose above the rest. The occupants seemed no more or less famous than those in more modest erections, so presumably size correlated with money or a desire to overcompensate for an insignificant life.
Many graves had statues over them. Angels and cherubs and madonnas were popular, but permanent mourners predominated.
One had a splendid bronze male nude, complete with impressive tackle, though the effect was not quite what may have been intended. Instead of soberly pondering above the grave, it looked more like he was taking a dump in it.
Another grave, tub-shaped and dirt-filled, had a bust at one end. It looked like someone was taking a bath in it. The white moustache and eyebrows on the bust added to the effect. The potted plant at the foot end looked well maintained.
The one that made the most impression on me, though, was one that had been used as an illustration in a Lonely Planet guide. I was pleased to stumble across it here, since I hadn’t known which cemetary it was in. A young woman, nude beneath a sackcloth robe, sits sadly above the grave, holding a wreath in one hand and burying her face in the other. It is poignant and effective. Henry Meilhac, dramatic author and member of the French Academy is a fortunate corpse to have such a mourner.
A French singer stood in life-size effigy above her grave. A man had a bust with a 3-d effect where the face, recessed in the stone, was smoking a pipe that was held by a detached hand. As you moved, the bust seemed to wave the pipe around.
The weather had been getting darker. As I turned to return towards the gate, the rain finally started, quickly increasing into a downpour. I initially tried to progress from tree to tree, but the trees, adequate for shade, were not proof against rain, especially after the wind picked up. Eventually I was forced to take shelter in a crypt, with a muttered apology to any ghosts that might be hanging around. The crypt was by no means dry, but it reduced the onslaught to something my umbrella could handle.
Bal du Moulin RougeBack at the hotel, I showered and had a brief lie-down before putting on my good clothes and sallying forth to attend the Bal du Moulin Rouge.
If your experience of the Moulin Rouge is restricted to the movie by that name, then you actually have a very distorted picture of the modern event. But it’s closer to the movie than to a strip club. It’s like a circus, with many short skits but an overall framework that is the same every night.
Unlike the movie and many “revues”, it does not depend on a single superstar performer. There are three “principals” and several soloists, but all of them are replaceable. The paradigm is not for individual excellence (although each danncer is encouraged to give their best) but for a uniform high standard.
If you live in Oz, then in 2004 there was an ABC doccumentary series, Moulin Rouge Girls, about six Aussie girls who were in the 2003 intake. It was available on video from the local ABC shop. It presents an excellent picture of what the Moulin Rouge is about, and since the show in it (Féerie) is the same show I saw in 2003 and again in 2004, is still playing in 2024, you will get an idea of what this episode is all about.
As an aside, some of the Aussie girls were still there in 2004. I amused myself by picking them out of the crowd each time they came on. Knowing something about members of the cast added quite a bit to the experience. In 2003 I’d assumed, more or less naively, that most of the girls were French. In fact, most are not — and five of the six Aussie girls were probably there at the time. I’ve since found All six of their names listed in my souvenir programme.
The Moulin Rouge was on Place Blanche, five minutes walk down Rue Lepic from my hotel. By 18:30 I was standing in the queue outside.
In through the doors, down some steps, identify myself at the desk — my reservation earlier had been simply a matter of leaving my name — and then a waiter showed me to a table. I was pleased to see that this time I was near the middle of the stage. Last year I was next to it but to one side. I would now get a central viewpoint.
To get a ringside seat you need to pay for the diinner-and-show combination. If you just want to see the show you’ll wind up sitting at the back. I’ve chosen the dinner both times, and I have no regrets.
I was seated with a French couple from near Geneva and a Japanese guy called Uto. The French woman had a smattering of English, the others almost none — I had more French than her husband had English. Communication was tricky. Strangely enough, I became the translator for Uto: the French had never met a Japanese guy before and had no common ground, whereas I had met a number of Japanese and was therefore able to put his sign language in context.
Case in point, cutlery. Uto was uncomfortable with knife and fork. He wanted chopsticks, but had not thought to bring his own. The waiters and the French could not understand what he wanted. With my help we eventually got the message across, but the place had no chopsticks. I suggested cutting down some wooden skewers, but nothing came of that.
Anglophones are often taken to task for their inability to speak other languages, but this opacity about foreign modes of food and other things is common in Europe and is, I think, equally arrogant.
He was here to visit his son, who was working in France. This was his last night in Paris. He’d seen the show before, but had been up the back. So he’d decided to pay up for a closer look. But he hadn’t realised that the show followed the dinner: he’d arranged to meet a friend later. So he was torn: to meet his friend and miss the show or see the show and miss his friend. In the end, he stayed.
The French couple were semi-retired and had never been to Paris before. They were doing their best to experience their country’s capital. They were friendly enough, but they had each other and also because of the language barrier, I learnt less about them than I did about Uto.
During the dinner there were singers, mostly the sort of dreadful nightclub things that were old when I was young. But they seemed to have changed lead singers, or else she had improved: last year she couldn’t hit the Notes.
And then the lights dimmed, the stage rolled out, there was a drumroll, and the show began.
The show starts with the fairy garden, segues into the Lady and the Pirate, the Circus, and (of course) the Cancan. Between these major segments there are various spots: a pair of tumblers, a ventriloquist, reveries and such. I have no pictures of it and was too busy experiencing it to make notes, so don’t ask me the exact order of things. It didn’t seem to be exactly the same as last year, so perhaps they change things around from time to time.
The experience is high-class entertainment. The sound system is excellent, and unlike a movie theatre, things happen “in the round”. You feel the draft from the costumes — the front tables are only a couple of metres from the dancers.
Yes, some of the dancers are topless. But if you just want nudity, any of the sex shows down the street will give you a better perve. At Moulin Rouge, the nudity is integral to the show but is only part of the whole thing. The result is adult entertainment of a fairly high order. With a cover charge to match.
In 2003 I went for the novelty; in 2004 I returned because I’d enjoyed it the first time. I enjoyed it even more the second time.
By 23:00 I was back at my hotel. I’d intended to take a walk through night-time Montmartre, but my body cried “no”. My head hit the pillow and I was asleep instantly.
Sacré-CœurDespite the late night, I had no problem getting up the next morning. I had an informal appointment with the Church of Sacred Heart.
This unusual church, Sacré-Cœur, perches atop the hill. It is visible all over paris, a white seashell on a green rock. You can climb to the top of the dome, if you like, for spectacular views. I haven’t.
In 2003 I climbed the hill in late afternoon, hoping to see the Eiffel Tower. Paris was drowsing in an autumn afternoon haze, and the Tower was not in sight. I assumed it was lost in the haze. I only realised later that it might have been hidden behind a shoulder of the hill. So this time I went in the morning, before the haze could build. This time I would see the Tower.
I snooped around, seeing nothing I hadn’t seen before — except that this time, with no haze, I knew the Tower simply wasn’t where I was looking for it. So I wandered around until I saw a familiar spire appear above some rooftops. Bingo. I went in that direction, climbed halfway up a fence, and got several excellent shots of it as trophies. Mission accomplished.
Satisfied, I wandered down through Montmartre’s wakening streets to Abesses, where I caught the Métro to Assmblée Nationale.
Musée d’Orsay is located in a former train station, which accounts for its long, narrow shape. It was an inspired move: the roof lets in abundant light and the open plan makes it feel very accessible.
The first thing to gain my attention inside was a statue of Napoleon. The French do like their Napoleon statues. Even though, ultimately, he was a loser. The dignified effect of this statue was rather spoiled by noticing that he was lying upon a rather squished-looking eagle.
The next thing to catch my eye was a marble nude sprawled in abandonment across a rock. her hip jutted and her breasts pointed at the sky, but her arms and legs were loose and relaxed. It was erotic yet somehow chaste.
Halfway down the hall was a marmoreal woman sitting and spinning wool. I kept coming back to this one: it was exquisitely detailed and I noticed new points every time I saw it again.
Near the far end was a monumental group of four women holding a globe. I suppose they represented the cardinal points of the compass. Their faces and bodies were largely generic except for the Asian woman, depicted with shaved head and mongol features.
A number of the more famous works were missing — ironically, they were on display in Melbourne, and I’d known they were, and I hadn’t gone to see them.
One painting that I looked for and found was Tepidarium by Théodore Chassériau. The interesting feature about this painting is that although the women are indeed in a tepidarium, it’s the men’s tepidarium.
Another, Winterhalter’s Madame Barbe de Rimsky Korsakow, is one of my favourite paintings. The subject is exquisitely beautiful. Her rounded shoulders emerge softly from the flounces and ruffles she wears, and her glossy brown hair spills down to her lap.
Outside the Museum there was a row of statues depicting the French world. Most of the female figures were more or less en déshabillé — except for France herself, who wore an armoured breatplate among other things.
From Musée d’Orsay I wandered south until I found my next stop, the Musée Rodin, which was built around and in the artist’s former home.
IMAO Rodin is one of the more overrated French artists. Much of his work falls into the “why bother?” category of pretension. Creating a sculpture then deliberately knocking its head or other parts off, for example. However, amidst the dross there is a fair number of good works and some undeniable masterpieces.
This museum is useful because by bringing so much of his work ttogether it provides an opportunity to put the artist in perspective.
Before my visit I really only knew he’d done The Thinker and The Kiss. I knew about The Burghers of Calais but didn’t think of it as being by Rodin. So this visit was an education.
From what I saw outside, I particularly liked The Gates of Hell and Caryatid carrying a stone, and I came away with a fresh appreciation for The Thinker. Inside there was a sculpture of two hands touching, The loving hands, that caught my attention, a basin with a body melting into it, and a terracotta bust, Young woman in a floral hat.
The modern entrance is at the north-east corner. I entered and wandered down past the Gaes of Hell and the Hall of Marbles, initially not realising the importance of the former and unimpressed by the latter. I enjoyed walking through the garden and enjoyed what seemed to be an out-of-doors museum; the sculptures that stood here and there were mostly uninteresting.
I eventually started looking at the artwork when I got to the Monument to Victor Hugo, far down in the south of the grounds. It was a confused mass of twisted shapes, but it caught my attention. After that I looked more at the statuary than at the gardens.
I came to a pond. In the centre, Ugolino and his sons twisted in mental torture, starving, with only one possible source of food. Lesser statues ringed the pool. I didn’t get the point of either The spirit of eternal repose or Meditation.
Walking up to the house, I looked around the terrace. .Caryatid with an urn didn’t impress, but Caryatid carrying a stone did. Then I moved on, circling the house and came across The Thinker.
The Thinker sits upon a tall platform. In fact there are several versions of him scattered around France, including a small one indoors at the Rodin Museum, but this is the famous one, the one that was exhibited before the Pantheon in 1906, 700 kg of hollow bronze, with a slab of lead in his butt to stop him toppling on his nose. He broods over a small garden, surrounded by tall trees, facing the dawn and presenting his back to the Eiffel Tower. He has a terrific presence.
I went inside. The whole building is now devoted to Rodin, although there are samples of other artists work on the walls.
Rodin tended to work with a few concepts, exploring them in multiple ways. Sometimes he brought new insights to a theme already done once, but all too often he had nothing new to add, just a change in stance or the removal of “superfluous” material such as heads and arms.
This may seem edgy, but in fact it was merely an attempt to improve on the sort of random damage suffered by ancient statues, which was actually admired by some.
This misguided notion is on a par with one that presents statues to us today in plain marble even though we now know the Greeks and Romans usually painted their statuary. At one time, to “restore” them, statues were even scoured to remove any remaining traces of paint.
Having mangled his work, Rodin declared it finished, complete, done. It’s not something I can appreciate. To put this in literary terms, clarity through concision is admirable: brevity through excision usually is not.
I was fascinated by The Kiss but not its sister work The Lovers. The loving hands was great, The hand of God was a wank.
Sometimes an effect was worth it. Danaid has a figure apparently emerging from the stone, or melting into it. I liked the several such works Rodin made using that effect, though the novelty waned quickly.
Back in the yard, I went back for a second look at Caryatid carrying a stone, then went to see the Burghers of Calais — similar to a piece in Battery Park in New York — and finished off with The Gates of Hell, this time noticing the Thinker in it.
My path through the Museum had been random, but in the end I think I did it more or less right: bypassing some excellent work to start with less good work, but coming back to finish with his first-rate masterpieces.
Around the Eiffel TowerIt was now afternoon. I sat in a nearby park for a little while, just relaxing and letting the sun soak in. I had completed the pre-planned portion of the day’s itinerary: the afternoon stretched before me, free and uncluttered. I had some options pencilled in, but had decided not to pursue them. So, what to do next …
Lulled by the sun and the birds I dozed off for half an hour.
When I woke up, I headed for the Eiffel Tower. I didn’t want to climb it, but it had been on the horizon all day and I did want to see it again close up. It gave me an initial checkpoint. Maybe by the time I got there my plans would gel.
It was further than it looked, and sudden hunger grabbed at me as I was walking down a street filled with markets and cafés. So I sat down and had a hearty lunch. I’m not usually much fascinated by food: it’s fuel, little more. But this was the first of many relaxed meals I enjoyed on this trip, and it set the pattern. Select a simple, tasty meal, add some good wine and coffee, and don’t worry about the bill. My budget was elastic enough to allow considerable extravagance, though in fact I ended the trip under budget. Possibly because I was eating properly, I wasted less money than usual on nibblies and rubbish. And I even lost weight!
Provence wine — Côte de Provence, Domaine St Ser, very nice.
Refreshed, I walked on toward the Tower. This year I approached it down the length of Parc du Champ de Mars, more or less reversing last year’s direction. The views were better this way as I didn’t have to continually stop and turn around to see it.
When I got to the base, it was a seething sea of people. My decision not to climb the Tower was vindicated: the queues for the elevators were endless.
Instead I walked across Iena Bridge to the Trocadero Gardens. These are informal gardens, facing the Seine and Eiffel Tower, backed by the massive twin wings of the Chaillot Palace.
The first thing I came to was a massive fountain, flanked by massive friezes showing people engaged in a variety of diversions — flirting, playing music, picking fruit, riding horses, goatherding, walking the dog, and, of course, sunbathing.
The fountain stretched back to a massive set of steps and balconies, beyond which there was a plaza between the wings of the Palace.
The plaza was lined by gilded statues, and the windows of the palace contained photos taken by journalists. The context for each photo was set in a strip of paving in the plaza. Since statues and photos were independent, the juxtapositioning was not always good, and sometimes resulted in incongruity. The one that particularly caught my eye — and camera — was one where an Afghan woman in a burka was peering out of the door of her house. The house was actually threatened by a set of unexploded American cluster bombs, but here the photo had been placed behind a particularly banal gilded nude statue of a woman. As a result the overdressed Afghan woman seems to be more aghast at this profane erection outside her door than the obscene ordinance within. The statue seems to be shrugging and saying “what, what?”
From the plaza I wandered south, after a pit stop at a nearby auto-loo — last year they had all been closed due to terrorist fears, but this year they were open for (as it were) business.
I was after the pygmy replica of the Statue of Liberty, and eventually I found it. It stands on an island in the Seine. My efforts to get a good angle on it from the riverbank were hampered because the road runs right above the river and offers few safe places to stand and take pictures. I gave up and turned back to make my way out onto the island for a closer look.
It looks just like the US edition, but smaller. There’s no access to climb up inside it. But when leaving I did get in one arty shot with the sun blazing from behind the upraised torch: one of my favourite pics from Paris.
From the statue I walked north on the island, the Alley of Swans. It was a peaceful walk, bordered by trees and populated by joggers and retirees.
Eventually I came back to the Iena Bridge. There was a dock beneath it from which river boats went upriver to Notre Dame. On impulse, I checked the timetables. Serendipity! The BatoBus was due to leave shortly. I had been planning to take the RER, but this was a much better option.
I wandered about a bit, but as depature neared, a queue started to grow. So I joined the queue. Like most French queues, it leaked. An amazing number of people arrived late who thought they had an urgent enough reason — or a right — to push to the front. I was just too far back to stop it.
The Batobus was a fairly standard-model riverboat: wide, long and flat. It trundled slowly upstream, oulling in here and there to let people on and off. As an experience it was a fizzer, though its novelty meant it was still more interesting than the Métro.
The only moment of excitement was when a woman standing in a doorway, blocking my view, was soaked to the knees when water slopped inboard.
The trip was also good for getting another angle on Paris. Bridges always look different when you pass beneath them rather than over them.
Ultimately the boat cruised past Notre Dame and pulled in at the soouth bank. I scrambled ashore. After looking around a moment I headed owards Pont Neuf.
On the wayI spotted Shakespeare and Company. I was torn: it was tenpting to go in and lose myself in the books. But I was tired, so I went down into the Métro and went “home”.
However, tired or not, my wardrobe was looking thin. I needed to do the laundry. Fortunately there was a self-serve laundrette around the corner. I stuffed my smelly things into the day-pack and sallied forth to do battle with the French-language instructions.
Most places, laundromats stay open till late. Not this one, closing time was 20:00. By 19:30 the manager was rattling her keys and looking peeved. However, I persisted until the nominal closing time, getting in one cycle of inadequate drying. The clothes were still damp, but they were dry enough so that I could festoon my room with them and trust them to dry overnight.
I used the laundry time to draw up the day’s accounts on my iPaq. I was €7 short. The previous night I was €3.40 short. My wallet, obviously, was leaking, or else I was being outrageously short-changed. I resolved to take closer note of my expenditures.
I had intended to go out and see Montmartre by night, but a brief “power nap” turned into a 4-hour deep sleep. I woke up after midnight, feeling totally confused. My body clock thought it was 08:00, but it was definitely night outside. After dithering for several minutes, I got up, pulled the curtains closed, then went resolutely back to bed.
Place de la ConcordI had no trouble getting up next time I woke. I was showered, dressed and on my way in no time. I stopped on the corner of rue Lepic and bought a “sandwich”, which in French terms is basically a baguette (long roll) with filling. Did Subway steal the idea of its “sub”? Never mind, it was filling enough.
I emerged from the Métro at Place de la Concord. With an Egyptian obelisk, two ornamental fountains, and surrounded by ornate facades, this overgrown traffic island is a tourist attraction in itself.
The two fountains are decorated with statuesque figures. The males are burly and have long beards; the females are Junoesque and have full but amazingly pert breasts. To the north is the River Fountain; to the south, the Fountain of Mars. The names are meaningless as the fountains are to all intents and purposes identical. Perhaps the figures differ slightly.
From the Place de la Concord I walked east through the Tuilleries Gardens to the Louvre. These gardens are at their best in the evening, when dusk conceals the damage to the sculptures and also the fact that they are copies, the originals being too precious to leave in public places. The setting sun burnishes everything and makes it magical. If I was travelling with a partner and wanted a guaranteed romantic evening, this is where I would bring her. Then I’d shout her a €5 gyros souvlaki from the Greek place near the Pont Neuf and walk her along the edge of the Seine to eat it.
Souvlaki, romantic? Well, I can’t see myself in a relationship too good to enjoy street food, and this place makes good souvlakis.
The LouvreBy 09:00 I was in the queue waiting for the Louvre to open. As usual, several people tried to crash through to the front. I had the satisfaction of watching one of these insects, a brassy French woman clutching a large handbag, forced to go back despite her loud expostulations. She’d tried to get in by the line reserved for those not carrying bags and who therefore got to bypass the bag scanners. I managed to stop another group from getting past me by lurching clumsily into their path, smiling politely, and blandly not understanding their urgings to get out of their way. By the time they sorted themselves out, the momentary gaps ahead of me had closed up and they were stuck behind me through the security check.
Downstairs, I was briefly held up when the ticket PC crashed just as I reached the front of the line. Ticket in hand, I went over to the Information Desk and helped myself to an English-language map. All set.
Last year I started with Roman Egypt in the Denon (south) wing. This year I started with French Sculpture in the Richelieu (north) wing, in Marly Court. The most famous piece around here is Milo of Croton eaten by a lion, by Pierre Puget, in the next court (Puget Court).
After poking around in the ground floor rooms off the court I went upstairs to the first floor. I walked through halls hung with tapestries and paintings of hunting scenes, then cut south through La Chapelle. I got as far as the Victory of Samothrace in the Denon wing before realising I’d taken a wrong turn, so I turned back into the Sully wing until I reached Pharaonic Egypt.
I was looking for Akhenaton, and eventually I found him. Akhenaton is one of the more interesting pharaohs, notably for the artistic and religious reforms instituted during his reign. The Louvre has a small but worthwhile Akhenaton section. Alas, last year my photos of this section came out poorly, so I wanted a second bash at it.
Egyptian art was traditionally highly conventionalised. For example, it was less important for the statue of a pharaoh to resemble himself than it was for it to resemble a generic pharaoh-image. Akhenaton broke that tradition. It’s uncertain whether he really had the physical attributes shown in many of his portraits — some other individuals depicted much the same way are known to have been quite “normal” because we have their mummies. More likely it was a new convention he sponsored to emphasise the break from the old ways. But if there was a new convention, there was also a new freedom of expression. The pharaoh was even shown expressing his affection for his children in a candid “family snapshot” style relief.
From Akhenaton I wandered on through the Egyptian art. I was particularly taken by a statue of a woman, probably a priestess, wearing what appears to be a peacock-feather dress. Her face is her own — that is, it appears to based on a particular individual who had full cheeks but a receding chin.
Then I found the famous Seated Scribe. Again, the sculptor flouts the conventions: the scribe appears to be a realistic depiction of someone. He is slightly chubby — a mark of his affluence — and has a clean-cut, handsome face, slightly thin in the lip. He has blue eyes — unusual in an ancient (or modern) Egyptian. Mind you, it was unusual in Greece and Rome, too, yet a surprising number of surviving Greek and Roman statues have blue eyes. And one of the best known pharaohs, Ramses II “the Great” had naturally red hair.
The next sculpture to catch my eye was a young pharaoh or noble sporting a substantial pair of “man-boobs”. His face is conventionalised, but has a trace of double chin. I got the feeling the sculptor had diplomatically “thinned down” his chubby subject, reducing the belly and tightening the lines of the face, but otherwise giving an honest rendering. An ancient version of the airbrush treatment often given to magazine pictures today.
Heading back to the Denon wing I passed through the Greek terracotta and ceramics displays and found myself back at the Victory of Samothrace.
This huge, famous statue was found in pieces on Samothrace in 1863 and may have been erected around 160-305 BC (they’re not sure). The statue stands on a pedestal shaped like the bow of a trireme. The display is arranged to allow many viewing angles, including one from the base of a staircase that emulates the original sense of viewing the statue on its headland from a passing ship.
It’s a shame that the statue is so incomplete. This statue and the similarly armless Venus of Milo inspired silly artists to produce incomplete work or break parts off complete works to achieve the fashionable style.
From here I went west in the Denon wing, down the half-kilometre-long gallery that displays the Louvre’s collection of Italian paintings. At the end, in a smaller gallery, was an enormous crowd, the air above it spiky with upraised arms holding cameras. The centre of attention was a relatively small painting on one wall. The Mona Lisa is possibly the Louvre’s most famous and looked-at exhibit, ahead of both the Victory of Samothrace and the Venus of Milo. It’s a “must” on every tour group’s itinerary. But because of this very fact, and because the picture is behind heavy glass, there’s really no point hanging around waiting for a pickpocket to lift your wallet. Take a quick gape so you honestly can say you’ve seen it, then move on. You’ll get a better view from any coffee-table book.
After this I worked my way back down the long gallery. Half way, I ducked through the section on Italian drawings and went downstairs to the ground floor.
The first gallery was allegedly for Italian sculpture, which no doubt is why Mercury robbing Psyche, made by a dutchman for a Hungarian emperor, is here.
Another piece is demurely titled Veiled woman. It looks more like a statue I heard of in Naples, Veiled Modesty
The Big Name Piece here, though, is Canova’s Cupid and Psyche, much imitated and a popular subject for trashy souvenirs. It survives all that. The artist controlled the space and the angles perfectly, and got the expressions and tensions just right. It is a masterpiece. Cupid bears the expression of a god, distant yet tender; Psyche is abandoning herself to the moment, responding to the familiar touch of her unseen lover, reaching up to embrace him.
In the next gallery is the Borghese Gladiator, a Greek work from 100 BC. Even for late Greek it is notable for its sense of motion and power. The figure is quickly raising his shield to block some threat, yet already cocking his sword for the return blow. His eyes are locked, tense, possibly gazing up into his enemy’s face or assessing the angle of the coming attack. His enemy is clearly taller than he, possibly on horseback, possibly a centaur. The statue was found in one of Nero’s villas. Unless Nero also acquired the other half of the tableau, we may never know who was the opponent and what hero is represented here.
When I got to the Etruscan and Greek antiquities and was considering starting on the long march through Greece, Egypt and the middle east, my stomach, my feet and my head conspired to call a halt. I’d been on the go for six hours without breakfast and without snacks, last night’s dinner had been negligible, and now my body called me to account. So I made my way back beneath the pyramid to the cafe. A sandwich, croissant, glass of wine and a capucchino soon restored me. My body had started unfit but already the exercise and freedom from stress was working its usual miracle. I tired easily but recovered quickly. Soon I would not tire easily either.
The cafe was busy, and a woman tentatively took over the other half of my table. Smoker, a little gaunt, “the nervous type”. Swedish, from Stockholm — uni professor, hubby and son at home, but she was out seeing the world. She was going to Bermuda on a 15m yacht with 5 others.
Lunch settled and energy restored, I dived into Roman Egypt to start the afternoon leg.
During the period of Greek and Roman rule in Egypt, the rulers adopted some customs of the country, such as mummification, but they weren’t satisfied with the generic faces used by the pharaohs; instead they had their faces painted on wooden panels. When these were first found, they created a sensation. There were a few portraits on the walls of houses in Pompeii, but nothing like this.
In portrait after portrait you can gaze into the eyes of someone dead nearly two millennia, seeing how they wore their hair, their make-up, their jewellery, their quirks. The intention of the artists was not to make a perfect likeness, but to capture the personality. Most pictures were obviously drawn from life (as opposed to death). The images were usually somewhat idealised — eyes enlarged and darkened, for example — but the result was an emphasis on their humanity, refreshing after gazing at hall after hall of works designed to glorify murderers and tyrants and saints. These people would have been wealthy, yes, but they would have been only local celebrities.
Other observations? Though this was a Roman town, most subjects look Greek. No eyebrow plucking here, they flaunted massive eyebrows, even the women. One man has a unibrow. Beards, if worn, were clipped short. They tend towards delicate jawlines, long noses and large ears.
Some of those in the Louvre came from the town Antinoë, built by the Roman emperor Hadrian in honour of his dead companion Antinou. Since Hadrian is my favourite emperor, this slight Hadrianic connection added to the interest of the collection.
After the Antinoë portraits I went upstairs and soon found myself wandering through a gallery filled with busts of Roman notables — emperors and their relatives. Gazing into the faces of these formal portraits did not give the same feeling of connection that I got from the funerary portraits, but that was compensated by the greater influence these people had in the making of our world.
I wandered into a gallery of statues and emerged to find myself at the Venus of Milo, at a moment when the crowd around her was temporarily small.
Of the Big Three, this one least deserves the fame. Except for size, there is little to distinguish her from other broken Venuses in the Louvre. However, I have made a minor itinerary out of collecting photos of Aphrodite statues, and if the Melos Aphrodite is not exceptional, she is very good. Her key importance, according to my book on the Louvre, is that she is the only well-preserved Greek Aphrodite. They also praise her “delicate surface” and “harmony of form” to the detriment of the Roman copies, but in fact her stance is awkward and her surface seemed no better finished than statues I saw in Rome, so I discount that as bumf. In fact, her feet are poorly rendered.
In another gallery I came across another of my favourite statues, Sleeping Hermaphroditus, a Roman copy frrom a Greek original. From many angles it looks like an unexceptional statue of a sleeping woman, and the shock and fascination on peoples faces when they discover the truth is delicious. However, the high degree of femininity is also the major weakness of most such statues. The mere addition of penis and testicles does not convincingly convert a statue of a woman into a statue of a hermaphrodite. Hermaphroditus was the fusion of a man and a woman: you’d expect the artist to rise to the challenge. (Later in this trip I found a very similar statue in the National Museum in Rome — except that someone had souvenired most of the penis of that one. Figures. It also lacked the plump matress, but that is a later addition to the Louvre edition. Perhaps the Rome edition is the original, but more likely it’s another copy)
I was getting museum fatigue by now, and my feet were sore. The museum was getting warm and stuffy. But there was more I wanted to see. I headed into the Egyptian Thematic Circuit.
I had to wait a while to get a shot of a big statue of the god Bes. A woman was standing before it, giving it the sort of examination normally reserved for the big ticket items. I liked it, but it wasn’t that special. I couldn’t understand the attraction. It was only when she moved on and I stepped into her place that I realised what had really been happening. There was a grill in the floor, and from it a deliciously cool breeze whispered up around my tired ankles.
On into the Levant section. Alabaster statuettes of voluptuous goddesses. Friezes from Nineveh. The Code of Hammurabi, a tall black stele that I looked for in 2003 but must have missed.
In an odd corner off Puget Court, another personal favourite: a girl, all gazelle grace and new curves is whispering a secret into the ear of a female herm that appears, in turn, to be attempting to suppress a smile.
Nearby, a voluptuous woman lounges back wearing little more than a blissful expression, small book of poetry in one hand. This sculpture is beautifully detailed around the lower legs where they emerge from her loosened gown. The fabric and the feet are perfect, right down to the pattern in the hem.
Four young statues in a tableau. A statue shows a startled expression. A boy plays with a lizard. A woman adjusts her sandal. A woman leans on a post, radiating sorrow. A robed man sits in a chair, book (Temple de Cnide, The Temple of Knidus?) on the arm at his elbow. This is magnificent French sculpture from the 18th and 19th centuries.
The court, and here is Milo being eaten by that lion. The end is near. I cross the floor and I’m standing where I started this morning, in Marly Court.
I just spent over 6 hours in possibly the largest museum in the world. How much did I see? Perhaps half the galleries, and many of those only while passing through to get from one place to another. I didn’t get up to the second floor this time, though I did so last year. So after two visits, 14 hours aggregate, I can honestly claim to have at least browsed past half the exhibits. That doesn’t mean I’ve examined them, it just means I might have glanced over them.
Of course, the half I’ve seen is the part that most interested me, and some of that I’ve seen twice and examined in detail. Someday I’d like to see the rest, but there’s no pressure to do so. I’ve “done” the Louvre to my own satisfaction.
That was pretty much the end of the day. I did ride the rails to Gare de Lyon to buy my TGV ticket to Marseille, but then I went back to the hotel to rest — and that was it for the day; jetlag stole the afternoon and my plans for reprising last year’s last night in Paris.
The only other memory I retain from the day is sitting on the Métro watching the man across the carriage snacking on a grilled corncob he bought from a street vendor.
The TGVI got to Gare du Lyon by 7:30, and by 8:00 I had eaten second breakfast and was on the train — which pulled out early, at 8:15. After three days on my feet, I finally got to spend a few hours sitting down.
I had planned to spend the trip working on my journal, but in the end I mostly listened to music, gazed out the window, and people-watched. The fruits of my people-watching were neither profound nor noteworthy, but the excuse was genuine. If taking the TGV between Paris and the Côte d’Azur, try to get a seat on the west side of the train. Once away from Paris the views are splendid: the land drops away and displays panorama after panorama, each different and fascinating. On the east the land rises, so you spend half your time gazing at interminable cuttings. I was sitting on the east.
The clouds were low: a few hundred metres up, being pushed north by a stiff breeze. The train was soon moving so fast that the clouds appeared to be rushing across the landscape like a cinematic special effect.
Then the train ran beside the motorway for a while, effortlessly passing the trucks and cars that were speeding along itand I had a true measure of its pace. The TGV moves at up to 300 kph. This one was scheduled to average 251 kph, from Paris to Marseille in three hours and four minutes. In fact it pulled out at 8:15 and was in Marseille at about 11:25, so it actually averaged a “mere” 245 kph.
I did ind a song that suited the motion of the train. It even had a French connection. I rocked through the heart of France to Calypso, by Roger Whittaker, written after Jaques Cousteau’s boat.
Then there were mountains on the horizon ahead, and my ears started popping: we were descending from the massif central towards the Mediterranean coast.
MarseilleMarseille. A grey, dingy, rainswept platform. Welcome to the sunny south! I’d hoped to leave the rain behind. It rained mid-afternoon every day in Paris, but then it cleared. Here it looked set to rain the rest of the day.
I trudged through the station until I found myself staring out at a street. It was a side exit, but there was some shelter across the road. So I put up my umbrella and set out.
I had to walk around several corners, hoping I knew where I was. Eventually I reached a street corner at the front of the station. Boulevard d’Athenes. Had to be: there were the steps up to the main entrance, and there was a broad street headed downhill. That meant Hôtel d’Athenes, my intended pit stop, had to be just here on the right … and it was. What a relief!
The reception was a scrappy counter with a board full of keys behind it. I stood expectantly for a moment, and a sloppily dressed man squeezed in behind the counter, admitted that yes, they had a single room available — with shower — for €25, cash in advance. I had no idea if he was really with the hotel or was just hustling for beer money, but my traveller’s instinct indicated no threat, so I surrendered the money and accepted a key.
Two flights of stairs and a struggle with the lock later, I found myself in a plain room with a double bed. The room did indeed have toilet and shower — in fact, the door could only be opened partway because the bathroom cubicle obstructed it. The cubicle was rickety: particle board lined with cheap tiles. There was no shower curtain, but there wasn’t much water pressure either, so spillage wasn’t excessive. (Though the room had a shower, the toilet was in the hall.)
The window was shuttered, but the shutter did not latch. I had a view out towards a building lot that may have been the station. The rain seemed to have eased. Perhaps I could venture out. My intended visit to Chateau d’If was off tthe cards, but I could see some of Marseille.
My first target was the steps in front of the station. They were well decorated with statuary, and provided a good view over the city. I climbed them and scouted the main entrance to the station. Sure enough, my side exit from the station had been serendipitous: I’d have got even wetter if I’d come this way.
I went inside and booked a ticket to Toulon for tomorrow.
From the steps I headed down the Boulevard, seeking La Canebière, the main street. Just then the rain, which had never completely stopped, began to thicken. I decided to push on.
At what I thought was La Canebière, the rain disoriented me. Instead of turning right for the port, I turned left. I’m not sure where, but I now think it was Allées L. Gambetta.
I wandered for a few minutes, totally lost. I gave up on sightseeing: instead I started examining the eateries for the one that looked least overcrowded with cut-throats. Eventually I found a Turkish place with a vacant table against a wall. I claimed the table, then ordered a mince stew of some sort from the counter. Mince, rice, Turkish bread, and … water.
Since scope for outdoor activities looked extremely limited, I reordered my priorities. My wardrobe was in trouble: I’d worn my tired-out lighweight travelling trousers to the Moulin Rouge, but they tore loose from their patches during the next day. It wasn’t worth attempting another repair, so I’d ditched them after my laundry night restored my track pants to wearabilty. I needed to replace them. Also, I should find an internet point and send some email. And I was accumulating too much baggage. Time to send a CARE package home.
There was supposed to be a big shopping centre off La Canebière, on the other side of Boulevard d’Athenes. So when the rain eased again, I went looking. I now realised I wasn’t on La Canebière, so when I reached d’Athenes I turned left. Soon I found a wider street that had to be it. I turned right, and sure enought, there was tthe shopping centre. I walked inside just as the rain started dumping down.
I decided against a pair of good trousers. I’d done the high life for this trip. After a bit of browsing, I bought another pair of track pants.
Next stop, La Poste. Now, in Australia the “Post Shops” sell everything you need right there, on the premises. You walk in with the contents and some money, and you walk out with neither: the parcel, packet or letter is on its way.
Not so in France. They have some prepaid packaging for sale, but the smallest international prepaid box they had was three times bigger than I needed, and cost it five times too much. So it was back to the shopping centre for marking pen, tape, and a bubble-wrap envelope. I staked out a quiet corner of floor and bundled up my Paris trash, padding it with a now spare collar shirt.
€10 saw the package on its way. Add a bit for the packaging and I was still €35 ahead of La Poste’s idea of international prepaid packaging.
By now the afternoon was wearing on, so I took my plunder back to the hotel. I walked back by picturesque side streets, but due to the rain I didn’t feel inspied to take photos.
I was tired, so I lay down on the bed for a moment to rest. Fortunately my day pack fell off the chair, waking me up: I’d almost dozed off.
Nothing for it; if I was going to shake the jet lag I had to stop these afternoon snoozes. So I went out again.
Retracing my steps through the back streets to the shopping centre, I went on down to the harbour. There was an internet cafe there, and the rain was returning, so I stopped in to write some email.
Le LavandouNext morning, the sun rose. Those who don’t find this observation startling either haven’t read yesterday’s report, or you live in Melbourne and you’re used to instantaneous changes in the weather.
Let me reprise. Marseille yesterday: black overcast and rain. This morning: a red sunrise but the skies overhead were clear. The temperature rose rapidly.
The Toulon train pulled out right on time, just after sunrise. I’d designed my day around this service. I wanted as much daylight as possible, but I didn’t want to miss anything. So I bought a ticket on the first service after sunrise.
The train journey was so-so, but there was a moment of entertainment just before Toulon — a guy banged into the compartment from the direction of 1st Class, stalked down to the first vacant seat, and flung his bag onto the seat. Naturally it fell to the floor. He retrieved it, sat, then turned and said something in French to another passenger. I caught the phrase for “2nd Class”. Obviously he’d boarded a 1st Class carriage and been tossed out.
I was less amused when the same shithead lit up a cigarette, the compartment being non-smoking, but since the train pulled into Toulon at that moment it wasn’t worth complaining about.
My timetable expected an hour’s wait in Toulon for the 9:10 bus, but I walked out of the station, turned right — and there was a bus there, revving its engine, destination St Tropez. I hadn’t expected to be able to catch this 8:00 bus, but I didn’t hesitate to capitalise on what serendipity sent my way. I climbed aboard, paid my fare, and the bus pulled out while I was finding my seat. Just like that, I gained an hour on my itinerary.
The coastal run was lovely. This section of the Côte d’Azur was far from overcrowded and is definitely underappreciated. Still, the only note I have for the ride is, “Hyères. Marche des Fleurs has no flowers …” There were no standout attractions.
The bus ran late. I’d expected to be in Le Lavandou around 10:15. The earlier bus should have put me there about 9:10. I’d asked the bus driver to let me off at Le Lavandou. At 9:30 he stopped the bus at a roundabout and ordered me off. We had passed Le Lavandou and he hadn’t alerted me. So in the end, between the bus running 20 minutes late and a 25 minute walk back into Le Lavandou, I only gained 20 minutes.
But I didn’t mind the walk. There was a coastal hill to climb, and when the bus went over it I’d wished it would stop so I could admire the view. Now I had plenty of leisure to do just that, on the walk back.
At the ferry terminal I checked the ferry sailing times to the Île du Levant. The next sailing was 11:30, which was the one I’d planned to take in the first place. Well, there went the rest of my gained time. Worse, the 8:30 I’d planned to catch for the return to Le Lavandou on Thursday morning wasn’t running. The first service was 10:40, too late for my purposes if I stayed overnight on the island.
There was still an hour and a half to the sailing. I went up into the town to explore my options. I could stay on the island anyway. I could slide on through to Nice. I could do something else.
I walked up to the main road and found a bus stop. A few minutes standing there convinced me that I reallly didn’t feel like giving up and moving on. So I went back down into the town.
The first two hotels had no rooms, but the third had a very satisfactory room available. That settled it. I booked into Hôtel l’Oustaou, shucked my pack, and headed back down to the ferry terminal.
In the end, the time I’d gained by catching the earlier bus may have made the difference. The later bus was due in at 10:15, but if it also ran late then it might not arrive till 10:35. By the time I got down to the ferry and discovered the problem I’d have had very little time to decide what to do. Without the time pressure I was able to weigh up the choices and, better still, act on my decision.
The ferry pulled in and the accumulated crowd poured aboard. I was able to secure a good position near the stern, with some protection from spray but no glass obscuring the view.
The view as we went out towards the islands was lovely. The land was slanted to form a huge bowl, and the town straggled around the bottom like a rind. There was a picturesque windmill on the western headland. But my interest lay in the grey-green bulk of the islands on the horizon.
Ile du LevantThere are three main islands in the Hyères group: Porquerolles, Port-Cros and Levant. About 1920, a group of enthusiasts established a nudist town on the largest island, Levant, and managed to get it recognised as such by the authorities. In this town, Heliopolis, any clothing beyond a g-string is optional. Outside the town, complete nudity is optional, and in several places, nudity is mandatory. What’s more, this is not a club or colony. Access to the town and island is unrestricted. At the time the concept was revolutionary.
Later on the French military decided they needed the island for missile testing, and tried to evict the nudists. The nudists fought this and managed to retain their foothold on the west tip of the island. The stalemate remains.
My introduction to the island was through fiction. A crime writer named Leslie Charteris invented a character he called “the Saint”. The Saint stories eventually numbered in the scores — and then Charteris syndicated them, allowing others to ghost-write dozens more. My father bought many of the Saint books, and through reading those I also developed a taste for the series.
One of Charteris’ own stories was titled “The Reluctant Nudist” (collected in The Saint Around the World, 1957) and in it, Charteris sent the Saint to the Isle du Levant — where he heard the history of the island, admired a lovely nude girl, and solved a murder.
The story’s setting struck a chord when I read it around 1969, and I resolved that if ever I made it to the Côte d’Azur I would go out and look at the island for myself. And now, 35 years later, here I was.
The ferry first headed to the town of Port-Cros, nestled in a deep bay, its opening protected from storms by the sheer cliffs of the island’s minor companion, Ile de Bagaud. To protect it from a different type of storm, a fort was built on the headland above the town. But nowadays the human threat is pollution, not pirates: Port-Cros is a national park. It’s very picturesque, and if I come back to the islands I’ll be sure to spend a day here.
From Port-Cros the ferry looped around and headed for the gap between Port-Cros and Levant. Ahead of us, a crusty white tracery covered the slopes of Levant: Heliopolis, city of the sun.
Eventually we put into a small cove, where a concrete breakwater formed a jetty. Things had changed in the last fifty years, but Charteris’ description of the place was still apt:
From the water, dusky green slopes of brush and stunted pine rose steeply to a rounded summit some four hundred feet above. All over the hillside, the tile roofs and tinted walls of villas and more considerable buildings broke through the scrub at decent intervals, while near the peak, somewhat unexpectedly, stood out the unmistakable lines of a modern chapel. The ferry kept turning still more sharply in towards a little cove that opened suddenly ahead of it, with the rusty hull of an old ship sunk across part of the entrance for a breakwater, and the reassuringly normal-looking windows and terrace of a typical small restaurant overlooking it from a ledge just a short climb above the jetty. To the right of the port as they approached it, the lower slopes were dotted with white and orange glimpses of scores of little tents, and on the rocks below the outlines of basking campers could be made out in just enough detail to establish that they were letting no artificial obstructions come between them and the health-giving rays of the sun.
The tents were gone (camping is now forbidden), and the sunken ship (although there was a brown mass at the end of the breakwater that might be its remains), but beyond the jetty, a road (now paved) still wound up the hill. A cafe stood to one side: a restaurant was still set on the hillside opposite. And over there were some pink objects lying on the rocks and wading in the sea. Their details were indistinct but were conspicuously devoid of the patterning that suggests clothing.
I walked up the road. On one side were steps leading up to the villas and apartments of the locals. In places on the other side ran a tall wire fence: the boundary of the military zone. Everything was lush and green, where the rocks didn’t poke through.
The climb started steep and stayed steep. I was soon sweating. And here here came a small truck bearing the supplies offloaded from the ferry. Several ferry passengers clung to the sides and grinned at me as it passed. Charteris had it again:
The road curved up the hill without any serious attempt at easing its slant. A battered truck laden with miscellaneous cargo and with a half-dozen grinning riders perched on top slowly overtook them, and they had to step off the edge of the lane to let it by.
Eventually the slope did ease, just as I came out into a small plaza. There were several eateries and small shops, most associated with one or another hotel. I went into the nearest, a place called Pomme d’Adam, and bought myself a celebratory drink. Sitting outside looking over the plaza, I scanned through my DIY guide to the island. I’d appended a copy of “The Reluctant Nudist” to it, and my eye picked out its reference to the plaza:
… there was only a very slightly increased concentration of commercial activity; a few yards above another restaurant and bar which they had just passed there was a grocery store on the right, and opposite that a stall festooned with an indeterminate variety of merchandise ranging from pottery to postcards, while facing them was a hotel rather poetically named the Pomme d’Adam, with another shop a little above it on the hill to the right and another hotel farther along in the same direction. The fact that all these enterprises were loosely grouped around a fairly large bare open space where three roads met still fell rather short of making it a kind of sun city’s Times Square.
The square hadn’t changed much in fifty years!
Refreshed, and with the “spare tank” emptied, I took a clockwise turn around the top of the hill. The views were grand. Yesterday’s clouds were not even a memory: the sky was blue, and I could see a long, long way. And it was peaceful. The island has few vehicles. Everything is within a short walk of everything else. There were few people about: they were mostly at the beach or at the wedding party just off the plaza. I passed one old guy in a g-string, and befriended a cat.
Then the road descended. I followed. At a point safely beyond the town, where the road gave way to a path, I stopped and stripped down. Although I’m used to nude bathing, I was curiously hesitant about this. It had been years since I was nude except at home or on the very beach. I was nowhere near a beach yet. Nor did I cut a flattering figure, being pallid from a long Melbourne winter, and very fat. Sigh.
Resolutely, I stuffed my clothes in the daypack, except for my sunhat. That went on my head, leaving me feeling even more naked. Still, I might look ridiculous, but I didn’t have to look at me!
The path forked. The right way went down to a small rocky inlet with a boat in it. The left way led along the top of the cliffs. I decided to go left.
A little way along I spent a few minutes trying to get one tolerable photo of myself, but the shots were uniformly humiliating, and I later deleted them all. I resolved then and there to lose weight and get a tan before coming back here!
Just as I gave up, a middle-aged couple went past wearing only a little more than I was (they had sunglasses and excellent tans as well as their sunhats). We exchanged greetings, and afterwards I waited to give them a good start. After this encounter I no longer felt awkward about walking nude along the clifftop. At least I now knew definitely that I was appropriately dressed. It was a rite of passage.
Eventually I reached a point above what should be one of the two sandy beaches, the Bain du Diane (Bath of Diana). But there was no sand, just rocks. Someone had poured concrete strategically here and there, making sunbathing platforms. They were deserted.
I walked a little further, to the point. Rock, rock, and rock. A young couple were frolicking down there, clambering over the rocks. They were tanned, slim and obviously content with each other for company. So I went back to my non-beach.
I settled down on a concrete ledge at aboout 14:20, and stayed there about 50 minutes, swimming and resting. But I was under a deadline: the last ferry was 17:15, and I wanted to see more of the island. So I pushed on.
I soon came across a big fibreglass sculpture. There are a number of these on the island, mostly in the park. This one was built to my proportions.
When I saw the ferry landing ahead, I also finally came upon those bathers I’d seen from the ferry early. I gave up exploring, found a concrete ledge well away from the mob, and settled down for a longer burst of sun.
Around 16:45, feeling restive, I gave up. I went back up onto the path, dressed, and went down to the landing. I bought an ice cream, and went up the road to where I remembered seeing a souvenir shop earlier. I eventually bought two postcards.
Back at the ferry landing I noticed a number of people coming and going around the unexplored headland, and suddenly remembered that the other “sand” beach was along that way. But it was after 17:00. Could I get there and back before the ferry? I decided to try for a brief look.
At the top of the rise was a sign indicating that this was a nude-only area, so I stripped off again and stuffed my gear loosely into the top of my day pack.
While I was doing this a very pretty girl walked past, smiling and offering a ’jour. I had a perfect view of her ahead of me as I set off. Her tan was deep and even. The only odd note was that exactly centred on the top of the cleft of her buttocks there was an angry red circular area, a bit less than the diameter of a saucer. There were radial striations within it.
She disappeared around a corner when I stopped to look out to check on the progress of the ferry, but I caught up a moment later because she’d stopped to adjust her sandal.
I stopped at the next rise. Looking ahead I could see the beach beneath low cliff. It might even have sand. It was well populated with bathers. But over by the mainland there was a boat coming, and I suddenly realised that my daypack was too light: my clothes had fallen out somewhere along the way!
So I turned back. As I did so, the girl caught up again, and again smiled as she passed me. She had a sweet face.
I soon found my clothes. They’d fallen out when I stopped to look out to sea earlier. Finding them was a relief, as I had no other clothing with me.
I got back to the landing just as the ferry came in. Within minutes the boat was on its way again. The return trip was the reverse of the outward trip.
Overall, it was a very good afternoon, and I decided that I must return someday and spend a week or two there. Who knows, I might meet my bare beauty again — but even if not, the island was its own excuse.
Despite several hours in the sun without sunscreen, my shoulders and other bits were only mildly pink, not burned. In Oz, I’d have been bright red. The European sun is hot, but lacks the power I’m used to.
Later, I found the perfect spot for a sunset dinner. I could see the tip of the Le Lavandou mole and also Héliopolis, and could admire the passing parade. There was no massive awning overhead to block the sky, such as had put me off several other places. And I bet they had no idea why I chose their place!
All in all, for a day whose expectations had fallen so low, this turned into one of those serendipitous little pearls that come along all too rarely. It started with an inadequate shower in an inadequate room in a dingy town. It was all uphill from there.
I recommend Le Lavandou as a relatively “undiscovered” spot. It has the facilities, unque attractions, and a fair flock of tourists, but not the hype of the eastern Côte d’Azur.
St TropezI slept early and well, and woke in plenty of time for the bus. Shame the bus ran 20 minutes late. Still, 7:47 was ahead of the game. By my original plan I’d have been on the 10:14 bus; at best, the 9:06 if that ran 20 minutes late. I’d planned to be in St Tropez at about 11:20 and to stay for lunch, but instead I was there by 9:00.
The coast was green, the sea and sky blue, and overhead towered grey and brown rocks. Ahead and behind, the traffic was thickening rapidly. Where were all these cars coming from? We were still in that loop of coast road that had been so relatively quiet yesterday!
St Tropez. An ugly bus parking area and a grotty building. The ticket office was locked up tight. There was no safe place to leave my pack. Fortunately the pack was light enough to shop in.
Getting away from the bus station wearing the pack was no fun. The pedestrian access was across a multi-lane road that curved around a corner. Cars came around that bend so fast that they were upon you in seconds, and the drivers did not brake for pedestrians or traffic lights. They sometimes condescended to change lanes, with a honk of the horn to let you know what a nuisance you were.
I finally reached the harbour, easily recognisable by the architecture on the far side of the street: a row of massive white yachts.
There was a set of terraces on the far side, above the mole. From them I had a view down the coast to Port Grimaud one way and St Rapahel the other. Looking back into the harbour I saw that the mega-yachts had not driven out the original occupants entirely: a row of fishing boats survived.
Still, St Tropez was a horrible example of what happens to these small fishing villages when the money moves in. High prices and poor public facilities.
After stopping by the Tourist Office for a map, I gave up on the harbour and headed back towards the bus station. In the back streets there were still hints of the town that was, but the kitsch and dross overwhelmed it. I stopped at a cafe for breakfast and coffee, and over the coffee I decided to give up on St Tropez and move on to Nice.
By the time I got to the station the bus was there. I lined up, only to discover that they didn’t sell tickets on the bus, only at the office. By the time I got my ticket, the best seats were gone. St Tropez’ farewell joke on me.
The traffic continued to thicken. By Ste Maxime, it was bumper to bumper, although still moving quickly. So this was the legendary Riviera traffic!
St Raphaël, noon; only 20 minutes late by the bus timetable. Having shorted St Tropez, I was now five hours ahead of my itinerary. Time to stop and smell the roses.
The bus station and train station were side by side. I checked the train timetables. Plenty of services, and my ticket wasn’t for any particular service. So I made my way down through the building complex that housed the station, then down a street to the waterfront.
Lunch. Salad, rosé, bread, and coffee. Delicious! It was a moment of gentle sunshine, with just enough breeze to keep the temperature comfortable. Only the traffic on the boulevard detracted from total enjoyment of the moment. I sat at a shaded table, watching the boats cruise up and down the Côte d’Azur.
This is when it sank in that I really was on the fabled Côte d’Azur. The moment when the Riviera displayed itself to me like a postcard — and I was sitting in that picture.
These are moments worth travelling for. To find people and things that are new and strange to you. To stand where world history was made. To touch things you read about in a drowsy classroom. To feel on your skin the breezes that fluttered clothes in the movies.
After lunch I wandered the corniche, looking down on the queerly partitioned beach. In New Zealand and Australia, nobody owns the sand of the major beaches. The notion of paying the owner for permission to lie on the sand is odd.
At 13:50 I boarded the Nice train. The railway line exists to move people, not for sightseeing, so the journey was something of a blur. It tended to follow a straight line, so it often ran inland just where the coast was most scenic.
Although road maps show the towns as discrete dots, there’s really little differentiation. Their built-up areas have all run together. By watching the station names I knew when I was passing through Antibes and Cannes, but mostly it was just another anonymous platform in a sprawl of shops and holiday housing.
Arrival in NiceEventually the train pulled in to a major station, and everyone moved to get off. Nice.
I lugged my pack from the rack and made my way to an exit. My hotel, Hôtel la Gare, was somewhere downhill, on Rue Angletere. The Lonely Plannet said the best way to get there was by the steps opposite the station. I found some steps, but were they the right ones? Down I went, and turned left, and the next street was Rue Angleterre. A few yards down, there was my hotel. And they had a room available. So within 20 minutes of arriving in Nice, I was all set.
It was still early, and I wanted to sightsee, but my laundry was in need of attention, so I decided to get oriented that way. There was supposed to be a laundry nearby, and I set off to find it.
I was lost in no time. The streets did not resemble the map in my guide book. But I wandered around until I did find a laundromat. Actually, it didn’t take long. My eye was caught by some guys removing a sign from a building. The sign belonged to the laundromat.
Laundry done, I was free to seek adventure. Nice had not instantly endeared itself to me. Quite the contrary, it struck me as a dive with pretensions.
I wandered south. Lost again, I surrendered to the inevitable and while buying a t-shirt I also paid €10 for a street guide. The damned thing weighed 400 grams — almost a pound — and as street guides go it was almost the most pathetically awkward I’ve ever used. But at least if I knew where I was to begin with, I could relate the streetscape to the map and work out what to look for next.
Eventually I stumbled out somewhere on the Quay of the United States, and found myself at the epicentre of the Côte d’Azur. It wasn’t a life-changing experience. Not that I expected it to be. I’d done my research before the trip.
The quay/promenade was broad and well supplied with seating, but behind it ran a river of metal. However, unlike at St Tropez the drivers would usually stop if you were able to stare them down. They had no choice: there was so much traffic that they had no room to veer around you, and with so many people crossing the pedestrians often had the numbers. One person would stop the traffic and would be followed across by a stream of opportunists.
The beach itself was mostly pebbles. The streak of sand that ran through it had all the conviction of a hairpiece or a combover. In Australia it’d be a dead loss. However, in a splendid lesson on the benefits of “location”, beach plots retailed at satisfactorily high hourly rentals.
I wandered west until the Quay became the famous English Promenade. At the Hôtel Negrescu I turned back.
I was now looking for the one-time location of the famous Jetée. This structure was the pride of the waterfront for many decades, but during WWII the Germans dismantled it and trucked away the parts to use in their factories. Only the stumps of a few piles were left behind. Unfortunately the location was not marked on any of my maps, and I could not identify the site. [In 2024, a quick search reveals that it was opposite what is now Le Méridien Nice.]
At the end of the quay, the road bent around Castle Hill, site of the acropolis of Greek Nikaia and subsequently site of other fortifications. I had a notion of climbing it to see the sunset (due about 19:39) but it closed at 19:00 and as I arrived at the gate on the east side only a few minutes before closing, there was no point in attempting the climb — I’d be stopped partway up and sent down again.
I sadly wandered back around to the western side and headed into the tangle of buildings kbown as “Old Nice”. I soon observed the duality of Nice: it owes its existence to the beach front, but it seems to prefer to keep it at arm’s length. There was a row of sturdy buildings that almost formed a wall along the land side of the quay. The life of the town was carried on behind these parapets that marched along the beachfront. On one side was the quay, with a few scurrying figures picked out by the strobe fliicker of car headlights. Behind the wall, Nice was settling down to eat — en masse. There were whole streets filled with open-air diners
Which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten in hours. So I joined the throng. Chatted with a family at the next table. They were from west England, near the Welsh border.
Later I walked back to my hotel through the old town. Night-time was generous with Nice. It hid the ugly buildings.
My room was above an alleyway. I tried to sleep with my window open. A few minutes after I rolled over, somebody started playing harmonica in the building across the alley, and somewhere else a dog started yapping. Then a street party started somewhere down near the corner. But eventually, sleep came.
CannesI woke before dawn, to the sound of reduction gears and rushing water. Peering down from my window, I saw men rinsing out the alley with high-pressure water. Well, that explained why despite their seedy look and the cavorting tourists the back streets didn’t smell of vomit and urine. I went back to bed and stuffed a pillow over my head.
Next time I woke, it was light. In fact, it was late. I got up, showered, and dashed to the station. The ticket queues were interminable, but I acquired a new skill: I managed to get a ticket machine to disgorge a ticket for Cannes. Up till now I had been rebuffed by every French ticket machine and had been forced to queue for human help.
Cannes. An upmarket version of Nice. The beach was genuine sand, and the proprieters charged accordingly. The beachfront buildings were classier. Its hill still had a castle on it.
I stopped at a food cart on the promenade and bought a healthy sandwich for breakfast. It cost a healthy €4.80.
One of my favourite films is To Catch a Thief, starring Cary Grant and the then not-princess Grace Kelly. The film is set on the Côte d’Azur. In the film, several scenes take place in Cannes, particularly in or in front of the Carlton Hotel.
Escaping from the police, John Robie (Grant) walks ashore in front of the Carlton. At various times he meets Kelly in front, in the lobby and in the gaming rooms. There’s a feisty three-way scene on a platform anchored offshore from the Carlton.
At the beach things had changed, but what could almost be the same platform (but probably isn't) was tied up to a little jetty. I didn’t enter the Carlton, but I had a look around the entrance. It was unchanged.
At the hotel entrance, a black labrador stopped to “water” one of the marble pillars. So much for pomp and grandeur! The dog’s owner spluttered and went pink, torn between the desire to scold the animal and the urge to move along before the doormen noticed.
Back at the station, waiting for the train, I had the opportunity to see the French car parking system in action. When the meter runs out, a barrier rises to prevent the car being driven away until the deficiency has been corrected. One woman, well dressed, came out to find her car blocked. Unfazed, she climbed in and attempted to back the car out over one end of the barrier. She got the wheel up on the barrier but something underneath couldn’t get past, so she had to desist and let the car roll back into the trap. She had scraped the bottom of her car, and from the picture I took she may have dented the grey car in the next bay.
Red-faced, she was forced to hunt down an official (so it seemed) to get her vehicle released. Then again, perhaps she just didn’t have change or didn’t know how to work the meter. And even then the scene was being set for the next chapter in the saga: as she started her newly freed car, a barrier slowly rose behind a nearby car on her other side …
Back at Nice I made a pit stop, then bought a ticket for the next train to Eze. My newfound prowess with the ticket machines was sorely tested. The machine apparently only offered tickets to Monaco, so I paid €3.10 to get to Eze but the return ticket to Nice from the machine in Eze-sur-Mer cost only €2.10, meaning I paid 50% over the odds in Nice. Presumably there was an option in the Nice menu that would have allowed me to buy a €2.10 Eze ticket.
At Eze-Sur-Mer I was momentarily at a loss. The perched village of Eze was 400 metres above me, the town taxi was MIA and the bus service didn’t appear to run vertically. A “60 minute” climb by foot struck me as so laughable as to be no solution.
However, just at that moment serendipity pulled up in the form of a minibus. The driver makes roughly hourly round trips (half an hour to get up, half an hour to get back down). €6.85 return. about half that one way. I bought a return, though I thought I might prefer to walk down.
The climb was hair-raising. The driver was so used to his run that he took the hairpin corners at reckless speed, and the outer wheels were often almost off the pavement when the bends rounded a bluff. A return ride began to look even less likely
The ride ended at the unexciting modern town. The tourist attraction town of old Eze hunches on a crag above modern Eze.
I walked up towards the entrance, bypassing the convent and church. To the left of the entrance I found a path leading down. Freely translated, the signpost read: Nietzsche’s Way, 45 minutes to Eze-sur-Mer, station and Eze beach. 45 minutes downhill: I could manage that! But first, Eze. I bought some toffee-peanuts and went in.
Eze has had an interesting history as a stronghold against pirates and later as a stronghold for pirates. It has been devastated by earthquakes and pillage. Today it is a tourist trap. Few people now live there, but the population is higher than ever. I’d never seen so many hotels in one place. They were built one on top of the other. Room rates were astronomical — €80 and up — and they seemed to have plenty of guests.
As well as the hotels, boutique shops and restaurants wait to plunder the pickets of visitors.
It’s a claustrophobic place. The main street, Rue du Barri, is an alleyway that turns and twists between walls and never comes out into the open. The town offers many notable views, but every worthwhile view is behind a wall and the door in that wall has a price tag.
I cheerfully walked around for a while, taking it all in, but eventually the feeling of being a rat in a maze overcame me. It reminded me of the old Adventure computer game: I was in a twisty little maze of passages, all alike. Except that they were all differently alike. Next time I came across the gate to the Exotic Gardens, I coughed up the €3 price tag and escaped.
The gardens were the highlight of the day. They were lovely and the views were stunning. They were desert gardens, with cacti and succulents and dry-terrain trees. They were peppered with graceful sculptures by one Jean-Philippe Richard. If you took a photo of an especially good view, there’d be one of these statues in it, smiling serenely.
At the top of the hill was what remained of the castle: little more than a scenic lookout now. The best panarama was here, though some of the views lower down were better framed. There were statues here as well: two stood in a corner of ruined masonry and discussed the visitors. One stood gracefully in the open, inviting people to look around her eyrie.
Returning downhill, I heard water splashing, and followed the sound to a water feature. It was so pretty and soothing that I sat down and relaxed for a few minutes.
Hunger growled, and I reluctantly left the gardens. By now I was feeling so mellow that the price tags of the restaurants didn’t seem so bad. I pulled up a chair and ordered an early dinner or late lunch: Salade Nicoise and “Vin au Pichet” rosé wine. It went down smoothly and quenched the inner beast. Even when a departing customer left a cigarette burning at another table I barely worried, though I did eventually ask the waiter to remove it. I had coffee, and an ice cream dessert.
When I paid, I added a big tip, about 20%. The manager caught my attention and asked if I would like to see their view. I told her yes, and she showed me through to the back, where there was a dining room with a long row of windows. I looked out. The view over the rooftops was definitely worthwhile.
Now I faced a question. I was heavy with food and too much wine: was I fit to descend by Nietzsche’s Way? The path was steep. Descending would jolt my stomach. I could lose all that lovely salad over the edge!
I decided to risk it. I might never be here again, and I’d always regret missing the opportunity to walk where Nietzsche walked when he was composing Thus Spake Zarathustra.
The path started steeply, but was well maintained and shady. Soon it plunged into a belt of small trees. Around here I passed a German couple on their way up. They looked completely bushed.
The path followed the contours, occasionally rounding bluffs where it afforded splendid views across the valley and down to the sea. Colourful lichens grew on the rocks. Old stonework glowed in the sun on the opposite side of the valley. Birds sang and the warm breeze buried its face in the leaves and sighed. The bluffs were vertical, some supporting the foundations of Eze.
I rounded another bluff and there was Eze-sur-Mer, still far below. There was a train in the station — eastbound. The path levelled off and ran across a saddle, then headed down again. A wall rose on one hand, and then there were walls on both sides. They were topped with barbed wire.
The base. I walked out and crossed the road, then turned to look back up. Eze was invisible.
I got off a stop early on the return leg and hurried down Rue de Riquier, past the basin, and up onto Castle Hill. I entered half an hour before closing: with luck I could see some of the park and take in the views before they started pushing people out.
I was in luck. I managed to see the ruins of the old cathedral on the way up. I reached the top just as they started the muster, so I was able to pick the direction to exit. Naturally I went west. On the way down I managed to duck aside and take in the very pretty waterfall, then veer south and include the Bellanda Tower with its panoramic view of the city.
Below me, Nice drowsed in a golden haze. From here it looked beautiful, and I almost regretted my decision to cut short my stay. Almost.
With another day I could go west and take in St Jeannet and Grasse. John Robie’s little villa was up there somewhere, on a slope across the valley from St Jeannet.
But the road lay seductively before me. Italy was just an hour or so to the east. I didn’t want two more early awakenings to the sound of Nice flushing itself.
The guards started clearing people from the tower. Having played tag with them all the way from the top of the hill, we were now old friends. I grinned at them and left.
Old Nice by waning daylight. People bustling everywhere on last-minute errands. A dog lay on a step, obviously exhausted by it all. A girl brushed past me carrying two heavy yellow bags and a big grin. She was in a hurry, quite busty, and her neckline was cut low. I heard the sound of male necks cracking on all sides as she passed. No need to ask why she was grinning: she obviously knew the figure she was cutting through the crowd, and didn’t care.
France to ItalyGetting up early was becoming harder — my body had finally adjusted to European time. On the other hand, no more falling asleep in mid-afternoon and losing the evening. Good.
I used the morning flush as an alarm clock. By 7:00 I had my ticket to Monaco.
I briefly looked in at the station café to speculate on a breakfast, but instead of a rational cafetaria system they followed the barbaric custom common in France and Italy whereby you paid for your food across the room (usually too far away to point to what you wanted) then tried to use the receipt to claim what you’d paid for. This was tolerable — just — when the cashier understood the way foreigners mangled the names of the dishes, but I could see that this cashier didn’t. I decided to hold out till Monaco.
The trip was routine. I’d seen most of it yesterday. Nevertheless, I had already made the first of many errors I was going to suffer for today. Never travel hungry if you can avoid it! Your brain will not work at its best efficiency if you need to make ad hoc decisions en route. In other words, you’ll stuff it up.
The second mistake happened at Monaco. I’d befriended some people on the train, and I trailed them as far as the station entrance. But there I stopped, blinking in the sunshine and looking up at the cliffs.
It had puzzled me that there seemed to be only three daily services from Monaco to Genoa. This was the main track from the Côte d’Azur into Italy! There had to be more services crossing the border.
Well, now I knew. Many local trains actually went all the way to to Vintimille (Ventimiglia) in Italy. Beyond doubt they met up with Italian trains there. I wondered if I wasn’t doing it the hard way by catching the Genova train at Monaco?
I decided to go back in and explore the available services more thoroughly.
The teller was helpful. Yes, most people rode the local to Ventimiglia and there were plenty of services from Ventimiglia to Italian destinations. The three trains I’d discovered were merely the international through-trains. Even they stopped at Ventimiglia for customs and immigration control. Yes, there was another Ventimiglia train coming through in a couple of minutes. At Ventimiglia it connected with a 9:15 train to Genova.
So, less than half an hour after arrriving in Monaco, I was back on the train. Less than half an hour later I was in Italy, at Ventimiglia. I missed seeing the actual border.
VentimigliaVentimiglia was a madhouse. People were pushing and rushing in all directions. The guards at the platform entrances were overwhelmed. My passport got scarcely a glance, my pack not even that: they lost interest in me immediately once they learned I was a New Zealander. If you looked western and had a convincing accent, that was enough; they had their work cut out just to check the exceptions. They concentrated on the blacks, the asians, the semitics, and the eastern Europeans. Their passports were examined with care. I saw a couple of people taken away, presumably for searching or a more thorough document check.
I made my way to the main hall and bought a ticket to Genova. So far so good. I also bought breakfast: finally, a smart move! Too late to prevent two mistakes, but better late than never.
I made my way back to the platforms. A guard blocked me: “Where are you from?” “New Zealand.” “Okay.” I didn’t even have to show my passport; my antipodean accent was enough.
Once aboard my train, I tried to sort out my progress. Here is my journal entry from this exercise:
09:17 On the Genova train. According to the platform info it should be in Genova around 11:45. If it happens, then that puts me there 1h20 ahead of schedule. Since I left Monaco around 8:15 instead of 2h05 later at 10:21, my change of plans has actually added to my travel time even though it gets me there sooner. The train got to Ventimiglia about 8:42, so most of that extra time was spent kicking around at Ventimiglia.
Note the ominous observation: I was losing in train delays the time I’d gained by catching the earlier train. I was still optimistic, but the first inkling was there that I had made a mistake. My original plan left Monaco at 10:21 and got me to Genova at 13:06, 2¾ hours later. In fact I left Monaco at 8:15 and now expected to be in Genova at 11:45, 3½ hours later, a 45-minute travel loss for a 1 1/3 hour arrival gain.
Halfway through this leg I discovered the hard way that I forgot to stamp my ticket in the machine at Ventimiglia. That could have been costly! The guy let me off with a warning. Mistake number three, probably the least consequential (though it had been potentially the most expensive) of the mistakes I made this day.
Arrival in Genova was interminable. The train was running late, and I didn’t want to miss my connection. In the end there was a long stop where many people got off. Blindly, I got off too. It wasn’t my station. It was mistake number four.
Genova Sestri. I tried to buy a ticket to complete the journey. Mistake number five: my original ticket would almost certainly have been OK and not checked! But I was nervous because I hadn’t validated it properly. While I waited for the person in front of me to settle their interminable business with the teller, a train went through. The next train was an hour away. Most long distance trains didn’t stop here.
I had one small stroke of luck. The ticket I bought was good for six hours and 100 km in Liguria. It would take me the rest of the way to the Cinque Terre.
The decline in my state of mind is attested by the gulf between 11:58, when I validated that ticket, and 14:31, when I took my next photo, at Sestri Levante. There’s nothing to document that gap. I was too depressed. The joke is, so far all my mistakes had done was to lose me all the time I’d hoped to gain. I was still within the scope of my original timetable.
Let’s fill in the gap. I managed to get on a train. It didn’t go through to the Cinque Terre, terminating instead at Sestri Levante. There I had to change for a later service — one that departed Genova Briganole at 13:45. My itinerary read:
14:19 Genoa to Monterosso. 1h23. There is a 13:45 from Genoa “BRIG”, but 14:19 allows stuffup time.
15:42 Monterosso al Mare
In fact my train passed through Monterosso at 15:24. After all this hassle I was still 18 minutes ahead of schedule! Why did I feel so down just because serendipity failed to happen?
I think the answer is because I had expected to win. I had cast myself adrift on the seas of chance, and instead of surfing back to the shore, I had been caught in a rip. I had committed a cardinal sin: I had not properly researched the trains between Nice and Cinque Terre. The chances I took were blind gambles, not my usual calculated risks. Murphy’s Law took care of the rest.
But here I was, arriving in the Cinque Terre on time. Everything came out all right in the end.
Shaken by the experience, I decided to roll on through to Vernazza by train instead of getting out at Monterosso and walking there by the path. My luck was obviously bad today: if I spent the afternoon on the track I might wind up spending the night on the street. Time to stop taking risks.
Have decided to give over Monterosso and get off at Vernazza in hopes of scoring a bed. If there’s nothing I’ll still have time to go on to La Spezia and fall back on my original original plan, before I concieved the clever notion of walking half the Cinque Terre today.
This decision, on reflection, was at least neutral, and may wll have been the right one. At the time it felt like a surrender,
Vernazza. A mass of human flesh roiled through the main street. Every shop was either a food shop or a souvenir shop. The warm write-up the town got in the Frommers Guide should have warned me. If Frommers think a place is edgy, that’s pretty much a guarantee it’s past its use-by date.
Most of the horde were Americans, in good part thanks to Rick Steve, an American guide book author who wrote up Vernazza and the Cinque Terre in glowing terms. To seal the kiss of death he listed it among his “Back Doors”, places off the beaten tourist path.
I joined the heterogenous throng of pack-bearing hopefuls that was wandering from door to door chanting “camera?” Somehow I had the feeling there would be no camera left for me, and there wasn’t. This was the only time that my deliberate policy of not booking ahead for accomodation (on this trip anyway) let me down. Mistake number six. I’d known Vernazza would be tight, and I’d planned to arrive late. This was one time I should have booked ahead.
So today is pretty much a dead loss. Long, annoying, frustrating, and futile. I’ll look for a place to stay in La Spezia, but three refusals and I’m on the evening train to Pisa and the hell with the trails. The trails may be beautiful and unspoilt, but for now I’m all out of trust in both Rick Steve and Lonely Planet.
I walked back uptown. At the train station I discovered a Park information office and, in a burst of fatalism, I bought a 3-day pass (just in case) that covered both the trails and the trains. If I didn’t get a bed in La Spezia, it was money down the drain.
In La Spezia, I asked at a hotel. No vacancy. Down the street at the next one, no vacancy. But the next one had a room. It looked like I would be using that pass.
The room was good, and the price was 30% less than I’d expected to pay for a worse room in Vernazza, though of course, this room wasn’t in Vernazza. Catching the Pisa train from La Spezia involved a walk to the station instead of requiring me to catch a train from Vernazza, so my onward journey was simplified. And as I discovered the next day, the Monterosso to Vernazza Trail would have been a nightmare if I’d been carrying my main pack with me. It was hard enough with the day pack.
Finally, after a day of disappointment and frustration, I had made a good decision!
The day had one last blow to deliver. I wanted to go back to Vernazza for the sunset. I gave myself plenty of time. Got to La Spezia station at 17:07 — the 17:06 had gone. The 17:22 apparently didn’t happen. The 18:04 went but that supposedly didn’t stop at Vernazza. The 18:15 didn’t happen. I ended up catching what should be the 19:02, almost two hours later. Theoretically this should have seen me in Vernazza at 19:23, two minutes before sunset, and it did, but I was still too late.
I didn’t altogether miss the sunset. By hanging out the window at intermediate stations I got to admire the amazing changing pastel tints of sea and sky as the sun descended. I was sorely tempted to get out and give up on Vernazza. I should have. Mistake number seven.
At Vernazza the best was over, but most of the day trippers were also gone. The place was quite different without the crowd. And there was still colour in the sky. Down at the waterside, I picked out a table and ordered a big salad and a carafe of wine. And there I sat, feeling peace flow in and stress flow away.
All in all, I had to count today a failure. I achieved nothing I planned except moving my base from Nice to La Spezia, and since I was aiming at Vernazza, that was not a win. But today was over and tomorrow I would walk the Cinque Terre. Things could have been much worse.
The day wasn’t quite over. I wanted to replenish my supply of cash, so I took a walk through night-time La Spezia. It turned out to be a long walk. The place felt much larger than its population indicated. There were a lot of people around, going to restaurants, to performances, and so on. There were some sizeable green spaces and fountains, and large public buildings. Geelong in Victoria is about the same population and size, but feels like an overgrown town. La Spezia was undeniably a city, the metropolis of the Cinque Terre.
Eventually I found an ATM that would serve, and I turned for home, taking a different route. A hundred metres from my hotel I found another ATM that would have saved me the long walk. Mistake number eight.
Monterosso to VernazzaBy 7:45 I was at Monterosso, ready to start. I went into a shop to buy some breakfast, waiting cheerfully for several minutes while the man behind the counter dealt with an earlier customer. While I was waiting, another customer entered . When the customer in front of me left, the shopkeeper started to serve the woman behind me. Speechless with anger, I turned and left. May that man have many children, and may none of them ever leave home or find work.
Spurned by one shop, I resolved to leave no money in Monterosso. I could make do with the peanuts and other munchies I had with me until Vernazza.
Monterosso was the largest of the five villages. Its frontage spread across two bays divided by a bluff on which stood the local castle. The start of the trail was on the far side of town from the railway station, but the walk to the trailhead was an enjoyable warm-up.
At 8:07 I stood beside a sign that told me I was on the trail.
The trail entered a region of vineyards. Then, on a hillside, I lost it. I cast around, uphill and down, but every path I tried petered out, went down to a dead end, or curved back on itself.
Ultimately, I saw some people who’d been ahead of me going up through the trees. I decided that rather than retrace my steps I’d climb up there. I must surely strike the trail.
It proved to be a mistake. I found myself balancing on cliff edges and skirting beds of thorns. In one place I came upon a tent: someone was camping here. And then I was stopped by a barbed wire fence, just below the place I was convinced was the trail.
Getting over the fence was hard. I didn’t want to damage it. It was tangled in trees and bushes, yet so poorly anchored that it threatened to tear loose if I tried to climb over. It was uphill from me, so I was in an awkward position.
To pour salt on the wounds, a group of Americans came along and within minutes they had found the correct trail. It ran high along the far side of the dell I had crossed with such difficulty. Stubbornly, I decided to persist in my chosen route.
Eventually, I managed to pass the fence. It cost me a slash on my left hand that left a scar, and various lesser punctures and scrapes. And when I stood triumphantly on the slope above the fence I realised that I hadn’t climbed onto the trail, I had broken into a vineyard!
Worse, I had spent a prodigious amount of energy getting here. Now I had reason to regret skipping breakfast. My trail snacks were inadequate to replenish reserves expended in mountain climbing!
I made my way along the paths between the vines, looking for an easy exit, but all the gates were chained and padlocked. There was nothing for it. I found the most substantial section of fence and resorted to climbing again.
Another scramble, more scratches, and I stood, flushed and panting, upon the trail.
The American party stood nearby, admiring the scenery and chatting among themselves. We exchanged greetings. It had taken me half an hour of struggle and blood to get here: it had taken them five minutes to walk here by the trail.
The trail now started to climb in earnest. Steps, lots of steps. The people who built this trail liked steps. They also had odd ideas of a comfortable stride. The steps varied widely in height and depth. I hate climbing at the best of times; and right now I was far from my best.
Still, I had the whole day before me. If I took it easy, the climb would eventually end. My energy reserves would rebound once I stopped spending them so lavishly. Meantime, the path was shady and each rest break was an opportunity to look out and admire the view.
Eventually I burst into the sunshine just as the trail started to level out. I ran into an Aussie. “You’re almost there,” I told him, “except for these bloody steps.”
“Oh, it’s all good,” he replied casually. I saw his point. After all, he’d had to climb up from Vernazza. This was his easy part.
From the top, the view was superb. In either direction, headland beyond headland, the cliffs descended to the sea. The sea stretched out forever. Vineyards lined the skyline, but I was walking beneath trees. The path was a little rugged in spots, but that only required half an eye.
Soon I stopped sweating and felt the spring returning to my step. My spirits soared and I started humming as I walked along. “I was born under a wand’ring star …” Then I picked up the pace. I had all that lost time to make up.
At one point, an hour into the walk, the trail crossed a rill by way of a type of bridge I’d only ever seen in fairytales: a simple stone arch. It looked like it should have a troll lurking beneath it.
Twenty minutes later I reached the peak of the trail. Looking behind, I could still see Monterosso. But now, coming into view ahead, I could also see Vernazza.
A few minutes later, I came to a picnic spot. It had a friendly attendent: a sleek black cat. But his interest waned a bit once he’d ascertained that I had nothing worth cadging.
Now the trail started its descent to Vernazza. Steeply. And then I found the spot. If you’ve seen one photo of Vernazza from the trail, it’s odds-on that this is where that picture was taken. Vernazza was laid out at the perfect angle, just distant enough so that the crowds of people disappeared.
Soon I was level with the topmost buildings. Then they were above me, and the retaining walls at either hand were the walls of buildings. I walked through an arch, and I was in Vernazza.
I made my way down to the harbour, not yet overcrowded, and found last night’s seat. I ordered a hearty brunch. Despite losing 20 minutes to the vineyard fences, I had finished the leg in the two hours the guide books thought was a reasonable time. The time was now just past 10:00, which meant if I didn’t dawdle I could be in Riomaggiore by 13:00.
But where was the point in that? I was here to enjoy the trails, not do a marathon walk. I hoisted my wine glass to the trail and toasted every crumbling inch of it. Then I took what was left of my lunch and went to sit on the mole.
On one point the guidebooks were correct. The tourist hordes mainly surged through the towns. The trail had been well populated, but the walkers tended to string out and disappear into the landscape. There had been moments of complete solitude when I could neither see nor hear other people. And the ruggedness of the trail meant that the worst daisy-walkers never made their garbage-strewing way up it.
Speaking of which, the ferry arrived and disgorged a fresh cargo of tourists into the town. It was not yet as crowded as yesterday, but at this rate it soon would be. I finished my lunch and rested, lying on the shady rocks and sipping Gatorade. Then I set off to find a toilet.
The toilet at the train station was occupied, and a queue was growing. When the occupant in front of me emerged, I discovered that it was a squat toilet, and none too clean. Fortunately I only needed to urinate. My announcement “it’s a squat toilet” did much to shorten the queue!
The path wound up behind the tower of the castle. I knew I’d reached the trail when a ticket checkpoint asked for my park pass. I’d passed by one entering Vernazza as well, but they hadn’t looked at my pass, presumably because I was coming from the trail, not the town.
This trail was quite different. It was rougher underfoot, and the slopes above it were often bare expanses of scree and rubble. It was also more exposed to the sun, which by now was high.
There was no distinct summit. The trail went up and down. Then, 50 minutes in, there was an interruption. The trail ran past a building. The building contained a bar and shop, crowded with disbelieving walkers. I bought some packets of salted peanuts to replenish my trail snacks.
Soon after the shop, I realised that the odd glitter on a bluff ahead was Corniglia, my next stop. Corniglia is the highest of the villages, but I was high above it. The sea was far, far below me. Yet the ridgelines were at least as far as that above me. The really hard core walkers were up there, on the high trails. To them, those on the lower trails were mere daisy-walkers. In fact, for centuries, the trail I was walking was the only land route between Vernazza and Corniglia. Villagers walked it daily to visit each other.
Yachts nestled in the cove between the bluffs. I could see people diving and swimming around some of them. What a splendid setting for a weekend cruise!
Descending. Back into the walled paths. Corniglia. It had taken me just under 1¾ hours. But then, I had dawdled on the way, spending minutes at a time staring at the view.
It was about 12:40. My legs were a little heavy. They weren’t too bad, but I decided to rest a while in Corniglia. Why not? The hardest and most interesting parts were behind me. The remaining sections were easy. There was no rush.
I bought some Powerade and some grapes and made my way up to the castle, where there was a lookout. I found a shady spot and sat down in it. There was a tabby cat there, mooching. I tried to make friends by offering grapes, but he stalked away with his nose in the air. Tiggers don’t eat grapes.
Refreshed, I headed on. I took a wrong turning and missed the steps (the usual way down to train station and trail) and wound up walking down the road. This was minor serendipity however, as it gave me some great views of both the town and the steps, and the trees and houses provided shade. Meanwhile the steps fried in the full blaze of the sun.
Looking ahead I could already see Manarola, perched on the next headland at the end of the trail running along the cliff face. The trail was almost level, and looked heavily trafficked.
The way led down to the station, then turned and passed beneath it via a tunnel. On the other side it was wide and paved. It ran between rows of gimcrack holiday bungalows, now condemned and locked.
As expected, the trail was packed with people, but they were not the same people I’d seen on the harder trails. Bikini tops, bare chests and even bare feet abounded. Few carried water. A surprising number of them carried high-tech trail walking sticks — I’d seen very few of those sticks on the other trails where they might actually have been useful!
I took my time, stopping to look out every so often. Even so, by 14:10 I was in Manarola. From the tunnel under the railway station (13:30) I had ambled the supposed hour-long walk in 40 minutes.
Manarola was only slightly less crowded than Vernazza. I still had plenty of water, so I didn’t stop, just took in some sights on the way through.
A plaza had a large circular mosaic pavement, decorated with marine motifs. I particularly liked the birds. A nearby fountain showed a cleverly layered construction.
The way out of town passed through a tunnel. On the far side, steps went up and the path continued. The trail went up the steps.
There was a sign by the steps announcing that this was the start of the “Via dell’Amore”, the Path of Love. Wait, hadn't I been on that since Monterosso? Above this sign was another, announcing that the path was “dangerous”. Hmmm …
There was an elevator to the top of the steps, but that was reserved strictly for those who needed it to get up. While I was amusing myself photographing the signs and thinking up double meanings, an older American couple came up and asked to be taken up in the elevator. The guard said that it was only for the disabled. The man explained that his knees were game and that climbing the stairs would strain them. The guard relented. When the woman promptly asked if she could ride up with her husband, the guard said no. She was forced to walk up.
However, this little incident showed how “dangerous” the trail was. Even if you couldn’t climb a few steps you were still allowed — forced — to walk it, or roll along it.
The “trail” was a paved footpath, a broad promenade along the face of the cliffs. It had it all — pavement, bars and the sort of people that go with bars and pavement. It was excruciatingly tame. The only challenge was getting past the family mobs who tended to spread out five or six abreast, obstructing all other traffic.
The only section of real interest was a long colonnade that had been decorated by artists af varying skill and creativity. Most of the artwork was defaced by later “artists” whose skills extended about as far as being almost able to spell their own names.
Further along there were some interesting examples of rock layering. The layers were turned completely on their sides. People were snorkelling from the rocks.
After twenty minutes, I came to an ironwork gate. Just like that, it was over. Beyond the gate was Riomaggiore, last of the five villages.
From the time I started down the trail at Monterosso (call it 8:10) to this point (call it 14:40) the walk (#2) had taken 6½ hours. Of this I spent 4 hours 40 minutes actually on the trail and the rest tooling around in the villages. I never hurried: on the contrary, I stopped frequently to admire the views. Only on the second half of the first section did I strike my usual trail pace, and that was only in order to recover some pride by making up time I’d wasted by getting lost.
I considered walking on to the Torre Guardiola on Cape Monte Negro (another 20 minutes), to get a photo back along the whole route, but in the end I wimped out. Now I have an additional reason to go back!
I kicked around in Riomaggiore a while, seeking a souvenir. I found nothing worthwhile except a map. I bought a glass of wine and sat inside to enjoy it, winding down and pondering the day.
Of trail #2, Monterosso to Vernazza was the most varied section and had the prettiest trailside. From Vernaza to Corniglia was the hardest section but had the best scenic outlook. The remaining sections had some interesting features but were tame and overcrowded.
Many people walk the trail the other way, finishing at Monterosso. This gives you the best bits last, but you walk them tired. Unless you’re quite fit, I recommend either breaking the walk over two days or starting at Monterosso as I did and doing the hard, pretty part while fresh. Start early to take advantage of the shade. And do spend time in all the villages. They’re crowded and somewhat tacky, but the time will be well used.
In all, despite all my missteps, the Cinque Terre turned out to be a highlight of my trip. If you can shake off any expectations of finding an unspoilt, undiscovered rustic paradise, it’s well worth your time. I shall return, for a much longer stay.
Eventually I went out to the plaza to wait for the train. There was a fountain there. It worked intermittently. When it was operating the plaza was pleasant and refreshing. When it stopped, the plaza became a dusty wasteland.
That evening I tried again to catch the sunset at Vernazza, and again the trains screwed me. The evening ended up as a reprise of the previous night, though with a little more fire in the sunset. I passed on taking another walk through La Spezia.
PisaThrough to Pisa, just an hour’s jaunt down the line. La Spezia was a surprisingly well-located base for exploring northern Italy, had that been my goal.
In Pisa, I set off on the now-familiar round of hotel knock-backs. The place I had pencilled-in to try first was full, as were the next three places. I was beginning to think I’d have to go on through to Florence but fortunately the next place, the unfortunately-named Hotel Touring, had a room.
Touring was the sort of corporate accomodation I can well afford but generally avoid. Their tariff was double what I’d paid in La Spezia, although for that price I got the usual double room and bathroom full of towels and freebies that such hotels offer.
I shucked my pack and headed north.
Two years ago I’d planned a flying visit to climb the then recently re-opened Leaning Tower. But without Mussolini to push them, the trains ran slow. By the time I reached the location, it was so late in the day that I’d had time only to walk around it, take some pictures, then bolt for the next train in order to get to Venice in time for sunset. This year I made sure nothing went wrong.
I followed a slightly different route than in 2002. In fact, I was starting to wonder if I’d gone astray when at a corner I spied a familiar silhouette down the street on my left. It was unmistakeable.
Minutes later, I entered the Campo dei Miracoli and once again stood beneath the tower. I went around to the entrance and checked that the tower was open. It was. In fact, the next group was scheduled to go up at 10:20, just over half an hour away.
Groups tended to fill quickly once their time slot reached the head of the list, so I wasted no time. I trotted across the grass to the ticket office. There were vacancies in the 10:20 group. I bought a ticket for just the tower, even though there were several other things worth seeing. I was here to fulfil a long-held dream, and anyway, although the tower was expensive enough (€15), the price climbed rapidly as you added other options.
Bags weren’t allowed in the tower, so I checked my daypack in a locker, retaining only my camera, the iPaq (in my pocket), and a bottle of water (on a sling).
As the time approached, the group began to gather. Our guide appeared and promptly spotted the couple who didn’t understand that “no bags” applied to the woman’s massive handbag. There was a delay while the offending item was disposed of and another delay because another couple had bought two tickets but now the guy had changed his mind. Although he seemed quite happy to waste his money, the guide insisted that the ticket be exchanged. Since the vacant slot was not filled, it wasn’t out of consideration for the person who might miss their own opportunity to climb the tower because one doofus changed his mind.
Depite these delays, we were only a couple of minutes late starting up. The previous group was still being chivvied out.
Climbing the tower was so popular that without this method of limiting the numbers, there would be a permanent traffic jam inside. In years past, there was also the risk that so much extra weight could weaken the structure of the tower, causing a collapse.
The pattern of wear on the steps inside shows the inclination of the tower. On the lower side, the wear is by the outer wall. On the high side, the wear is by the inner core. People tend to follow the easiest line, even though the extra effort is miniscule. The steps show the statistical outcome of thousands of free choices.
Partway up, I had my camera out ready to take a picture, but I tripped. Although I pulled my arms in to take the shock on my knees and elbows, my camera banged down in one of the steps. The lens assembly was driven in on one side and the LCD said SYSTEM ERROR.
Gingerly, I popped the structure back into position and turned the machine off. The lens did not retract. Despairingly I turned it on again and it fired up correctly. Whew!
I was worried less about the camera — after all, I’d had my money’s worth of use from it — than the fact that I couldn’t get a replacement camera halfway up the Leaning Tower. Fortunately, the little work-horse kept right on working, though the zoom motion was now a little ragged.
While I was fussing at the camera, someone was standing behind me asking if I was OK. Still full of adrenalin, I growled that I’d be be better if she’d go on up and leave me alone. She gently pointed out that she worked here — this alcove was her post. Oops. I apologised abjectly, got up, and scurried up the steps with my tail between my legs.
The top is on two levels: the belfry, and above it the circular viewing platform. The steps outside the belfry are the most dangerous place on the tower: if you tripped, it would be easy to pitch on over the low safety rail.
The viewing platform was reached from outside the belfry by a narrow, enclosed stair. It was a claustrophobic experience in a place surrounded by so much empty air, but the way the view exploded as my head rose above the floor was impressive.
I wandered around the platform, taking in the view and enjoying myself. Visibility was good. The landscape spread away until it was gathered into the hills on the horizoon. Neaarby, Pisa was a sea of red brick rooves. And directly below was the Campo, filled with swarms of human gnats.
Eventually I descended to the belfry to examine the bells. Then, with the end of the visit nearing, I found a quiet spot on the outside steps, overlooking the cathedral and just let it soak in.
I was really here, another childhood dream checked off. Somewhere around here, just a few metres away, a man supposedly dropped two cannon balls and demonstrated that the universe worked a certain way. He may not have been the one who actually made the demonstration (it may have been an earlier experimenter), and of course, the real work was in the mass of mathematics that led to his hypothesis; but as always, people reacted best to something “real”, even if it didn’t really happen. They could react to the drama of two simultaneous thuds and if Galileo didn’t actually perform the test, he could have, should have,and so, of course, he must have. That was an age of miracles.
I’d seen the tower on TV and in books, but it wasn’t real until I felt it beneath me, felt it holding me up, until I looked straight down from the low side where Galileo might have stood and saw nothing between me and the ground.
Now it was real. And it was time to leave it forever. At the bottom I turned and watched people exit, most with goofy expressions, flushed faces and unsteady feet after the dizzying descent. Nice to know it wasn’t just me!
On the ground, I headed off down the avenue I’d come up in 2002. I stopped when I got to an eatery that took my fancy, and settled down to a celebratory glass of wine in sight of the Campo. Then I headed south. I was half a day early: it was Monday, and many things would be closed, but there was still time for a look at Florence this afternoon.
FlorenceMy original plan put me in Pisa late on Monday and scheduled Florence for Tuesday, when everything would be open. But Florence was a seondary target for this trip. I had it in mind to make another visit a few years from now, when I would cover more of northern Italy and give Florence several days. Since I was running early I could spend a few hours there this afternoon by way of a reconnaisance.
On the Pisa-Firenze train I ran into the Americans I met on the Monterosso-Vernazza leg of yesterday’s walk. From Wisconsin, two (of four) sisters and their hubbies. We chatted the time away.
At Florence station, nothing looked like I remembered it, but eventually I found the exit I used in 2002. I’d had a little time before the Venice train departed, and I was hungry. Across the road I’d found an eatery where I ate the best pizza I’d ever tasted.
There was still an eatery there, but it looked quite different. I was tempted to go in and order a pizza, but decided not to risk spoiling the memory.
I struck off at semi-random in the direction of the Duomo, the biggest and gaudiiest church in town. The streets were standard Italian, tall and narrow, usually with negligible footpaths, but cleaner and less seedy than those I’d met further south in 2002.
Then I was walking in the shadow of the duomo. Yep, it was still big and it was still gaudy. I was impressed by the detail. No part of the surface was wasted. If it wasn’t carved or ornamented, it was coloured or textured. Everything contributed to the overall effect.
At the far end I turned and headed up another cathedral-like street looking for the Galleria della Accademia, home to the giant statue of David. I expected the place to be closed, so I wasn’t disappointed by what I found. I noted down the open times. Perhaps I could pick it up tomorrow morning.
Back for another pass by the Duomo. Families were feeding the pigeons out front. The place was open, but I didn’t feel like going in. I’d achieved my goals for the day and even though it wasn’t even 15:00 yet, I felt no desire to try for more.
On the way back to the station I walked through the main access, an underground shopping mall. Halfway through there were some pay-toilets, so I stopped to lighten the load. Then I walked on to the station’s main hall, with stops in a couple of shops.
When I got there I suddenly realised that I was missing my red portfolio. I thought back quickly. The last time I knew I had it was the toilet. I dashed back through the mall, to be met partway by the woman who maintained the toilets. She handed me back the truant folder. I really needed to find a way of attaching the thing to me.
Back in Pisa, it was laundry time again. I found a laundromat just a stone’s throw from the hotel.
I went over my options for the next day. On balance I preferred to give Naples more time and forget about Florence for this trip. That meant an early train was an option. There were four Eurostars that went from Florence to Naples without requiring a connection at Rome. One required too early a start and one got in too late. Of the remaining two, one involved a connection leaving Pisa ten minutes after the other, but it arrived in Rome almost 40 minutes later. So I selected the earlier service.
EurostarI was up early the next morning. In fact, I almost caught the 6:55 train, but it closed its doors on me. So I wound up on the 7:27. I already had my tickets, bought the day before on return from Florence.
I’d expected it to run late, but surely it couldn’t run late enough to make me miss the 8:53 Napoli Eurostar. So I was relieved when it pulled out of Pisa only two minutes late. I was astonished when it pulled into Florence right on time (8:38). I grabbed my pack and swung onto the platform, feeling pretty cocky. I had 15 minutes to get to my Eurostar. Piece of cake!
In the main hall I looked at the arrivals board, negotiating the information with a practiced eye. There it was: destinazione NAPOLI C. LE, ind.suss. ROMA TERMINI, ore 8:53, rit. 10’, bin … bin … Which bloody platform was it on?
Suddenly I was no longer the seasoned traveller, lounging casually towards the next train, pack slung easily over one shoulder. Instead I was a lost and lonely figure standing forlornly in a big, foreign place, anchored to the spot by my baggage.
A station official wandered by and I stopped her, asking the inevitable question of the distressed monophone: “do you speak English?”
She admitted to speaking a little English. I showed her my Eurostar ticket, then pointed to the board. “no binario”, I said in my best Italian accent. She laughed and explained that it was because the train hadn’t arrived yet. It was running 10 minutes late (“rit. 10’”). When it came in, the board would be updated.
It made sense. I thanked her and slunk away. Figured. The Pisa train, which I’d expected to be late, had delivered me on time. The Eurostar, which I’d expected to be on time, was late. Still, I guessed it was better this way than the other way!
In due course the train acquired a platform number and I walked over to watch it pull in — at 8:48, still 5 minutes ahead of its nominal departure time. I had panicked over nothing. In the end it pulled out at 9:05, 12 minutes late, and lost another 11 minutes en route, arriving in Naples at 12:53. Not one of Trenitalia’s better efforts.
I was seated next to an attractive Italian girl, so I put myself on my best behaviour and we got on well enough for two people without a common language (or at least none that she would admit to). When she got off at Rome, I was left with an empty seat beside me and another attractive girl in the seat opposite me. She looked Sudanese: her skin gleamed in the sun like fine dark chocolate. Again, we got on well. It was one of those days.
Partway through the Rome to Naples leg, I decided I needed coffee, so I made my way to the food cart. When I got there, I discovered that they had only a few coins for change and could not change notes. Fortunately I had enough coins. Others weren’t so lucky. Then the guy wanted me to move my coffee to a table to drink, even though the train was rocking and there were no other customers waiting. This is not the way to win customer adulation.
Out of spite, I went to the most distant table, finished my coffee, and left the cup on the table. Normally I would have courteously thrown it in the waste bin at my elbow. They’d have to come over and clear it themselves. The state of the table surface suggested that cleaning it was not frequent.
Napoli — SpaccanapoliNaples. I crossed the main floor of the station like I did it every day, missing the eyes of the massed wall of predatory taxi drivers. Nor was my disinterest feigned. I knew exactly where I was going. The only question in my mind was, would they have a vacancy?
The view from the front of the station was unchanged: still the same chaos and mess. I cut through it, jaywalked across the road, and walked up past the souvenir shops that lined Piazza Garibaldi. A couple of blocks up I turned right, then left at the next corner, and there it was: Hotel Zara, where I’d hoped to stay in 2002 but couldn’t find.
They had a room, €25. It was a narrow crib with no toilet or shower, but it did have aircon and a washbasin. Naples was a stinking, steaming sweatbath after the cooler north. I took it.
I turned the aircon on, dumped my gear, and headed out to see the city. I had walked out of the train station just 15 minutes earlier.
I didn’t like Naples in 2002, but I didn’t really give it a chance. I was determined to remedy that this year. I made my way back to Piazza Garibaldi, then down to the monument to him at the far end. There was a street market going on there. I needed a pair of walking shoes, but found nothing suitable during my walk-through.
From the market I made my way through some narrow streets until I came to one that initially looked no different. But it was, for this was the famous Spaccanapoli, the “Naples-splitter”. It’s actually not one street but about three streets running end to end.
It’s a street of shops and churches. Most of the churches held little interest for me. As a rule I tend to avoid religious edifices and religious art. The exceptions are a few that transcend religion, such as Aya Sofia in Istanbul or, yes, David. Endless sappy renditions of Madonnas and skin-and-bone messiahs bore me.
But there was an exception along here. I’d tried to see it in 2002, and had got as far as the ticket office. Like Moses on the border of the promised land I could see it, but I was turned away — it was too close to closing time.
My introduction was a photo in a guidebook. It showed a nun walking down a path beneath vine arbours that were upheld by decorated columns. A scene of serenity and peace.
The Cloister of the Clarrisans is a roughly square courtyard faced with fresco walls and decorated tiles. The columns of the arbours were painted in green and brown motifs that merged with the vines that once grew on them. It must indeed have been a lovely and refreshing place in which to walk and think.
Alas, the decorated columns now stand bare, the paths between them baking in the glare of the sun. Without the greenery to balance them the columns look clumsy and somewhat pathetic, like plane trees pruned for winter. Incongrously, some plain white columns were allowed to keep their vines. Perhaps someone with the soul of a museum director decided the decorated columns were too valuable to allow them to be damaged again by vines. The seats were roped off to prevent people stting in them. To preserve the body, the soul was evicted.
The courtyard was still worth a wander, however. The place was not overtly religious. The designs on the backs of the seats were scenes of hunting, fishing, commerce and dancing. A few figures in some seatbacks looked unfinished. The vines painted on the columns still gave an air of what had been lost. And in the portico, the watercolour frescoes still surged with life and colour.
Partway round, a bronze monk stood with arms outstretched, caught in mid-twirl. I didn’t know his true meaning, but he seemed to be dancing, inviting the visitor to join him in enjoying the gift of these surroundings. Or maybe he was an earlier-day Julie Andrews.
In a room off the portico, a huge nativity scene had been set up, using dozens of doll-sized figures. I’m no connoisseur of such things, but I was impressed by the loving effort that had clearly gone into its creation.
The watercolors themselves were well executed and had recently (several years back) been philologically restored. Religion crept into some of them. I enjoyed the Garden of Eden picture, where God looks suspiciously like a monk. It does raise the question, of course. If we are made in God’s image then God looks like us. So what does God wear around the house?
Other scenes, set in classical times, went to some effort to put their subjects in attire and weaponry suitable to their time, rather than the time of the artist, avoiding the tedious anachronism made by many an old master. Mind you, they didn’t always get it quite right. Some of the Greek myths looked more Roman than Greek.
Overall, I spent a pleasant half hour in the courtyard. But I decided to push on and see if I could squeeze in another sight today.
The Archaological Museum has the best collection in Europe of things taken from the buried Vesusian cities. It was quite nearby, just uphill, and I thought it should have been open. But it wasn’t. Nobody there spoke English and I couldn’t find a notice of the hours. I discovered later that it’s closed Tuesday, not Monday. Damn! In fact I never did get in this time to supplement what I saw in 2002.
Disappointed, I headed down towards the bay. At Piazza Dante I was tempted to switch to the subway, but in the end I kept on and finished my afternoon walk by coming home down Corso Umberto I.
Back at the hotel, my room was deliciously cool after the humidity outside. I stripped off and lay on the bed, luxuriating in the downdraft from the aircon. I drifted into a doze, waking with a start an hour later, completely refreshed.
I decided to use my new energy to explore a bit and find a good place for dinner. In the end I wandered through the railway station, checked out the Circumvesuviana, and wound up at a little family-run place in a small street just off Corso Umberto I. My appetite was ferocious, and I must have impressed them with my damn-the-budget attitude, because after I had finished and paid, the waitress brought me out a free drink. I raised it to them and knocked it back like a pro. It tasted like ouzo but could have been raki.
It definitely had a kick. Between the aniseed firewater and the demi-bottle of wine I’d downed, I wasn’t very drunk but I was feeling very cheerful as I walked back to my hotel. Fortunately my traveller’s instincts were still there. Naples is not a place where a lone drunk should leave the lighted strip by night, and no matter how much my gaze might wander down facinating, dim side streets, my feet bore me safely home by the brightest, most populated route.
I had reason to be cheerful. The headlong journey from Paris with its one- and two-night stopovers was behind me. I now looked forward to kicking back with four nights in Naples, an easy two-hour jaunt back to Rome, then six full nights in Rome.
PompeiiI sprang out of bed the next morning. Two years ago I’d wandered through the Roman town of Pompeii for seven blissful hours. It hadn’t been enough. I’d vowed to return someday, and this was that day.
The first and almost the only blemish in the day was at the ticket office. I was the first person in the queue and I was buying the €18 combination ticket, but they had no change for my €50 note. Preposterous! This was a world-class attraction, middle of a working week, and the people running it weren’t capable of arranging to start the day with a cash float? After they had fluttered around for a bit and I saw that people at other windows were going through ahead of me, I reluctantly “discovered” a couple of €10 notes. It cleaned me out of small notes, unless I dug into my money belt. I had to hope the next place could make change. Since the ticket was my biggest planned item for the day I’d counted on using it to break that fifty into more useful denominations.
Never mind. I went around, and down, and then I was climbing the modern steps laid down on the ancient paving leading up to the main modern entrance, the Marine Gate (so-called because it faced the sea).
Stepping across the sockets and bracings of the vanished gates, I toook a deep breath. “Well,” I muttered, Sam-wise, “I’m back.”
The gate ran through a tunnel beneath the wall and emerged on Via Marina, which ran directly to the Forum over the crown of the hill.
On my right was the Temple of Venus, and then the Basilica. Beyond the Basilica, the street opened onto the Forum. Where the street came out there was once a stepped arcade, but no real trace of that remained now.
The Forum was the heart of the town, a vast rectangular plaza surrounded by municipal and religious edifices. The central square was once paved but now it was a huge lawn. It was also once surrounded on three sides by double-storeyed porticoes that were decorated with statues and monuments. Today’s decidedly more open-plan ruin was the result of centuries of opportunistic quarrying.
After a while I saw tour buses disgorging their hordes, and I wanted to stay ahead of the swarm, so I headed off down the main street, Via dell’Abbondanza. From the southern end of the Forum this street runs east almost a kilometre to the Sarno Gate.
Although Pompeii was well preserved by the ash, it had not been as well preserved by its excavators. Many of the buildings were reduced to shells by careless diggers and neglect, and usually no effort was made to restore them. A layer of mortar on top of the surviving courses was about the extent of the effort.
2.3 million annual visitors at €10 per entry represents an income of around €23 million. After subtracting wages and administrative overheads (eg a generous 100 staff at an average of €40,000 each would still only cost €4 million) and taxes (who knows, but most of that should come back via government grants) there should still be a substantial amount available to spend on maintenance. Call it €15 per square metre spread over a square kilometre of area. That’s not bad considering most of the buildings won’t need significant work every year, that only 60% of the town has been excavated anyway, and that most of the cost of major restoration work is paid for by sponsors. So where is all the money going?
Despite these observations, there were parts of Pompeii where the damage was so slight that I felt separated from the Romans by only months, not millennia. But the eastern part of Via dell’Abbondanza was not one of these. Gutted shops and tumble-down doorways lined the street. Through the gaping holes I could see the mosaic floors, some of excellent quality, still in good condition when excavated but now starting to break down under the assault of weeds and weather.
I turned off this depressing bombsite at the Via dei Teatri and headed south into the theatre district.
At the end, I went through a gate into the so-called Triangular Forum, a park and religious area serving the theatres. There was a large area marked off by orange plastic where an archaological dig was going on, but there was nobody around. I decided to come back later to see what was happening.
Next door was a temple to Artemis (the Temple of Iside, or Isis). The place was in good shape, with stucco decoration stiill clinging to some walls. The winged figures illustrating this pagan temple demonstrated the debt owed to paganism by the angels of the catholic tradition.
The street outside (Via del Tempio d’Iside) was clearly a heavy traffic area, probably a bypass for traffic headed to or from the Stabian Gate, because there was no vehicular access to the Forum from Via dell’Abbondanza. The wheel ruts were deep and well defined. The carts had consistent and surprisingly tight turning radii, for their wheels had carved sharp ruts where they turned right into Via dei Teatri.
The ruts were even deeper in Via Stabiana, the main route north from the Stabian Gate. At the Holconius Crossroads, where Via Stabiana met Via dell’Abbondanza, a few stubby columns and a marble inscription marked a monumental four-sided arch built by the rich Holconia family. This once blocked traffic from turning west here, which is why the carts turned down Via del Tempio d’Iside instead.
I turned east. This was the best preserved part of Via dell’Abbondanza, where the veil of time was thinnest. Some walls still preserved political slogans and other grafitti, now mostly protected by sheets of plastic that were so grimy as to deny the visitor a view.
The Fullery of Stephanus, clothes washer and fabric dyer. The fabrics and wooden fittings had rotted, but the concrete basins remained, as did some of the frescoes that decorated the walls. The frescoes had survived fire and mud but were now well covered with the tracks of vermin — those who, insignificant beside something grand, eased their sense of unimportance by scratching their initials into it or chipping pieces from it, thus progressively ruining it for later visitors.
I saw a 2003 docu-drama on Australian TV in 2004,Pompeii — The Last Day, that told the story of this little section of Via dell’Abbondanza, fleshing out its last hours. The story glossed over some things. The fact that most of the staff of the fullery died here, for example, huddled behind the door that did not save them.
Most would have been slaves, but one body, presumed to be that of the owner, had more than 1,000 sesterces on it. At the time, 6.5 kg of corn cost 3 sesterces, and the same of wheat 7.5 sesterces. A pot or a plate cost ¼ sesterces (1 as), and a bucket cost 2¼ sesterces (9 asses). Buying a tunic cost 15 sesterces, and washing it cost 4 sesterces.
These costs don’t really translate into modern equivalents, but running a household of three (two plus a slave) cost one housewife just over 6 sesterces (25 asses) per day for food and household goods. My own costs (household of one) run to about AUD 10 per day for food, goods, power and gas. Multiply by 2.5 to get a household of three and you get a ratio of 1 sesterce = $4, or even more neatly, 1 as = $1. That makes Roman bread expensive ($2-8 per day), but also means everyday clothes were cheap. I can get a perfectly good plate for $1, but a pot will cost more. I can do a week’s washing for what it cost the Romans to wash one tunic.
[2024 note: I forgot to include my work lunches in my 2004 calculation. Regarding clothes, the Romans also weren’t paying 2-4 as per day for a home washing facility. That was covered by what they paid the fullers, if they didn’t wash their own clothes by hand and dry them on a line almost for free. Cost comparisons are hard.]
Next door, the House of the Larariuim of Achilles, was in even better nick with whole walls practically undamaged. At the back of the peristyle was the little arched niche with the scene featuring Achilles that gave the house its modern name.
I was now well into the best-preserved part of the town. Many buildings had been extensively restored, with roofs and even second storeys. Alas, two of my “musts”, the Houses of Polybius and the Chaste Lovers, were both closed for repair. Gah.
The Thermoplium of Vetutius Placidus was open, in front, anyway. This shop featured a rather good frescoed lararium and with its roof, gave me a good sense of reaching into the past.
From here I headed on east. So far my biggest targets had all been closed. There were two chances left too salvage something from Via dell’Abbondanza.
Eureka! The houses of Loreius Tiburtinus and Venus in the Shell were both open.
The House of Loreius Tiburtinus, so named from political grafitti on it, was apparently last owned by one Octavius Quartio, whose seal was found here. Although the atrium was roofless, it had its walls and was in good nick. It even retained its doors, though the large nails sticking out of them suggested that a lot of facing had been lost.
Octavius Quartio was a devotee of Isis, and he imposed his beliefs on the decor of his new house.
The main feature of the house was its long, elaborate garden. The central features of the garden were two euripi, ornamental pools with fountains and cascades. Although the euripi had been restored and looked splendid, they had lost the statuary that used to decorate their edges.
I had fond memories of this garden, although it was only when I got here that I could be sure this was the place. In 2002, I ran out of water; but by the back wall of the garden I found a leaky modern tap and refilled my water bottle. They’d repaired the leak since 2002 but the tap was still there.
To one side of the upper euripis was a triclinium, whose back wall was a shrine. As with the euripi, it had lost its statue. How hard would it be to put up a cheap concrete casting to at least suggest that which was carted away?
The house’s frescoes are in good condition but really aren’t that good. The figures are awkwardly proportioned, badly posed, and their execution is mediocre.
Next door was the House of Venus in the Shell, so named after the subject of the large mural on the back wall of its peristyle. This house was less pretentious than its neighbour and lacked a water feature, but was comfortably proportioned and well preserved.
The mural was nicely arranged but the pose was a little awkward — the right leg of the Venus looked like it had been broken at the knee and twisted sideways. It was well executed in places, poorly so elsewhere. But I liked it a lot. I liked the other murals in the peristyle, as well: paradisical gardens with statues and birds.
The rooms had some fine Fourth Style frescoes, but some vandal had “collected” the best centerpieces.
All in all, one of the best-restored houses and a place where the Romans are separated from us by only the thinnest of films. It’s a shame that we don’t know anything more about the owners than we have discovered from their taste in decoration.
Next door, a disappointment: the Estate of Julia Felix was closed. The estate was a former mansion converted into a sort of commercial-residential campus. It had some of the finest and most important frescoes in Pompeii. Important not so much for their considerable artistic value but because they illustrated life in Roman Pompeii.
South down weed-grown Vicolo dell’Anfiteatro, and I was standing outside the Ampitheatre.
In 2002 this structure was swarming with tourists. It was a major rest-stop for tired visitors. This year, this early, it looked deserted. The outside staircases were blocked off. Disconsolate, I wandered down the side until I reached the gladiator’s entrance. It was open!
Inside, there was just one tourist standing in the middle of the oval. Three others had found a gap in some bars and were wandering around the spectator seating. Nobody else. I’d planned to rest here, write up some notes, clean out my camera’s memory. Instead I decided to leave. Without the bustling life of 2002, it was a desolate and lonely place. Sometimes that's good, but not here. Stadums are built for people and bustle. A desolate stadium is a terrible thing.
I wandered around the Palaestra that occupied the far side of the open area around the Ampitheatre. It was closed — which didn’t stop a group of young tourists from hopping the gate.
Around the far side, off via di Nocera, I found a pleasant surprise, the House of the Garden of Hercules. The house was nothing special, but the garden (created by demolishing its neighbours) was lovely. It was a commercial flower and herb garden in Roman times, for perfume making. It contained a summer triclinium that proved that despite its commercial use, the garden was pleasant even in Roman times. The triclinium was reduced to its rock-and-concrete core, but here and there patches of the red mortar with embedded small white tesselae survived to suggest what it looked like in Roman times.
The statue of Hercules that gave the house its name was found nearby, in a small shrine set against the wall.
The Nocera Gate opens on the biggest and most impressive of the city’s surviving necropoli. Eumachia, who built an imposing edifice facing onto the Forum, is buried here in a family tomb shaped into an exedra. The tombs extend for some distance from the crossroads outside the gate, mostly on the south side of the east-west street but on both sides of it heading east. They once extended several kilometres to the east, but only a hundred metres or so is included within the boundaries of the site.
In the middle of the crossroads is a pillar erected by Suedius Clemens, envoy from the emperor Vespasian, who demolished various structures including tombs and a stable that had been illegally built on public land.
The tombs are a varied lot. Some are buildings, some are enclosures. The local custom was cremation followed by interment (along with a coin) in an urn in the tomb. Many people from the same family might share a tomb. Each burial spot would be marked by a small bust, with an inscrption. If the tomb was a building, the busts might be lined up in niches outside. In some cases the busts were etended into complete statues.
Most of the tombs now lie open and empty. The necropolis is home mainly to lizards and cats, not dead Romans, although no doubt some are still buried there.
I went back through the gate and followed my left shoulder around the first couple of corners. I was looking for a place I remembered from 2002, possibly the most touching reminder of the day that ended Pompeii.
The Garden of the Fugitives was a commercial garden and vineyard. During the eruption, some of the household, fleeing from the descending fury of the volcano, were trapped in the south-east corner of the garden. There they died, probably overcome by fumes, and were buried by the ash.
Who were they? There were two or three women, three or four men, and several children. One child appeared to be a teen-aged girl. One man appeared to be carrying a sack, although later research debunks this. My guess is that they were the owners and their household servants.
They must have huddled in the shelter of the house till it was too late, until the roof collapsed beneath the ash, and the street doors were jammed by debris. They may have run into the garden seeking a side gate, which was also blocked. Then they saw a fresh cloud of ash bearing down on them, and they fled in panic until stopped by the wall.
When their bodies were found, their shapes had been preserved as hollows in the ash. Plaster was injected into the hollows and then the ash was removed, giving us a vivid picture of the last moments of the unfortunate fugitives. However, sadly, the neat line we see today is artificial; as pictures of the excavations show, the bodies were more randomly scattered, and were moved into today's lineup.
They lie on their sides, arms drawn up in futile gestures of protection, or sprawl face down, face shielded by their arms. A child lies on its back. A woman, apparently young, presents a rounded hip. One man has raised himself on one arm and appears to be looking along the row of dying people. But he probably couldn’t see much: he must actually have forced himself up from the drift of ash that was smothering him and that supported his body in that frozen final position after he died. His elbows still rest on mounds that are actually above the ground level shown by other bodies, supporting this hypothesis. So the others were already buried when he reared himself up, gasping for air.
The mixture of age and gender means that there’s an identification here for everyone. “That could have been me.”
From the Garden I headed west. After the House of the ship “Europa” I tried to follow back streets to the houses of Menander and the Ceii, but they were blocked off. After adminring a Thermopolium and failing at the House of Julius Polybius, in due course I found myself back on Via dell’Abbondanza, retracing my steps to the Holconius Crossroads.
Instead of turning south to find the missing houses, I turned north.
I bypassed the Stabian Baths, which were overrun with tour groups, and when I saw the mob outside it, I bypassed the Brothel as well. So my next stop was the House of the Boar, so named for a fresco on the back wall of the garden.
The house was wall to wall frescoes. Even the skirting boards were painted. The “marble” wall facings were frescoes. There were even frescoed “tapestry” “windows”, billowing in an imaginary breeze and revealing hunting scenes through the gaps.
I headed north to the House of the Vettii, closed in 2002. Tragedy! It was still closed. I did see the very famous picture of the man weighing his phallus against a bag of money. Part of the wall has flaked away so I thought I couldn't see the money-bag, but on reviewing my photo I can see it clearly. My eyesight was never good.
I crossed the street, entering the House of the Faun by the rear. Alas, it was clogged by tour groups. I gritted my teeth and went in.
Distracted by the mob, I missed the famous mosaic of Alexander and Darius, which of course was a spot irresistable to tour guides who wanted to listen to their own voice. But at the south end, I forced my way through the press in the atrium to see the replica of the statue of a faun.
It’s a shame they haven’t reconstructed this house. The exposed floors are giving way to weather and trampling feet, and yet the structure is so well understood that a philological restoration is possible and would produce a magnificent example of Pompeian architecture and First Style decoration.
Out on the street, Via della Fortuna Augusta, I headed west to the House of the Tragic Poet. It looked closed, so after snapping a poor photo of the CAVE CANUM floor mosaic through the bars, I moved on through a nearby arch into Via di Mercurio.
The House of the Dioscuri (Castor and Pollux). The frescoes that gave the house its name were ripped out, are now in the Museum, and have not been replaced with replicas. However, I spent twenty minutes here. Not because it was worth twenty minutes, but because I was overdrawn at the memory bank. My camera memory cards were all out of space. I’d been in Pompeii 3½ hours and I’d taken more than 300 photos. I was averaging a shot every 40 seconds! I also needed a rest to let my head sort of the impressions. So I decided to invest some time dumping the entire accumulation onto a storage card.
My next stop was the House of Meleager. More of those “tapestry” walls, this time with marine scenes below them. A roomful of columns: the columns were painted to resemble polychrome marble. In four minutes I was out again — the houses were good, but I was getting itchy. There was bigger game ahead. I headed for the Herculaneum Gate, passing the (closed) House of Sallust and a bakery.
Beyond the gate was another necropolis, well lined with monumental tombs. Behind it lay the Villas di Diomede (closed for restoration), di Cicerone (closed) and delle Colonne a Mosaico (ditto). At the end was a long vine-wound arbour, a very pleasant pathway after the dusty sun-blasted streets. At the end, it turned into steps that led down to the Villa of the Mysteries.
This was the heart of the day, and the Big Sight. Pompeii in Pictures has a massive set of pictures taken here (and also offers many more taken around Pompeii).
The Villa of the Mysteries took its name from the overly famous frescoes in one room. But it was a big building and must have delighted the people who built it around 160-190 BC. It certainly delighted those who renovated and extended it around 80 BC, which is when the surviving Second Style decorations (including the Dionysiac frieze) were put up. However, after the earthquake in 62 AD it passed into hands that were less concerned with its qualities as a residence and more interested in using it for a winery. In this sense the eruption of Vesuvius was fortuitous, because it preserved for us some beautiful frescoes that would otherwise have been destroyed.
The villa was built on a slope. To provide a level platform, a windowed cryptoporticus was built along the slope and the house was erected partly upon this platform. The seaward walls had large windows, so it is obvious that the site offered splendid views. The sea was much closer then, so the view would have been over green vineyards and brown farms, down to the blue sea. Today there’s a clutter of modern construction, and though the ash was cleared to reveal the house, more ash still stands in huge hillocks around it. The view has been lost.
The modern entrance is from the south side, but the Roman entrance was on the east, off the Via Superiore (High Road). I think it’s a shame that the path was not extended a little to the right to allow us to use the original entry and so see the place in its proper order. I actually intended to make my way through the house to the entrance to do just this, but I got distracted along the way. I could write my visit that way, but let’s stick to the chronological experience.
I came down into a porch (portico) that opened on a strip of garden, and I made my way around to the exedra on the west side. This was a semi-terrace with huge windows that would have been a perfect place to enjoy the view. The walls behind it, and those behind the garden had huge windows.
I had planned to start with the Room of the Dionysian Mysteries, but it was jammed by two tour groups. Tourists stood four deep at every opening while the guides gabbled, one in French and one in German, each trying to be heard over the other. I went into the biclinium next door, which featured a lesser but still famous image of a dancing satyr, but since the tour groups showed no sign of moving on I decided to come back later.
From the exedra, moving around to the north, I went down to use the toilets. Then I temporarily exited, going down the road to a restaurant, where I bought a takeaway lunch (the time was now about 12:50). This was slightly risky, as technically the Villa is an exit point only: if you go out through the turnstile you’re not supposed to come back in. But I checked with the guards before I went out and they didn’t have a problem with it — a marked contrast to the attitude I encountered at Herculaneum a couple of days later!
Back in the Villa, I looped through and arrived back at the Room of the Mysteries to find it almost deserted. Excellent!
The room was roped off, so the only views were from the entrances and window. But the frieze was spectacular even from these limited vantages. On a background of red panels, someone had painted a complete illustration of the Dionysian Mystery. The quality was a little uneven, suggesting that several artists of differing skill worked on it, but the unity of its conception minimised this.
I could parrot the stock explanation of the cycle, but you’re better off watching a video on YouTube or getting a good coffee-table book on Pompeii.
Most tourists stood in the main doorway to see the room, which was unsatisfactory because they were looking down the long axis: only the short far wall was undistorted. But there was a window in the outer wall. It was vertically shuttered, but an eye or a camera could peer between the slats to see the long inner wall at a good angle. The window may have been put in by the wine-makers, obliterating some of the frescoes. Interestingly, none of the books I used for reference showed the window in their 360° plans of the frescoes! They treat it like a blind spot, omitting it.
I now made my way through the atrium to the peristyle. For some reason the wine makers built a wall between the columns. Possibly they were using the portico as a temporary storage area for wine or grapes and needed to control the climate. It darkened the portico.
In the garden in the middle was an entrance to the cryptoporticus. The wine makers had walled up the windows of the cryptoporticus and were using it as a wine cellar. The steps went down west, and at the bottom a metal gate blocked a tunnel that struck off north. The tunnel was dark, but my camera flash showed that after a few metres the ceiling lowered and it turned west again. Presumably this dog-leg was to take it around the water tank below the impluvium in the atrium, which would have blocked a direct path west into the cryptoporticus. There was a large arched void at hip height in the east wall of the tunnel.
I found the main entrance. It was plugged. This part of the Villa was overgrown and had many broken walls. There were no fancy decorations here to attract restoration, as the rooms to either side (furthest from the scenic views) were merely stables and servants quarters. But there’s no excuse for neglecting their repair as these mundane areas could give visitors a real perspective on life here in Roman times. [2024 note: they appear to have been cleaned up a few years later.]
Through a broken wall I glimpsed a display case. It contained a cast of a Pompeiian, possibly someone who’d lived or worked here.
I went back through the peristyle and into the kitchens. There was a hole in the far wall, through which a tour group was squeezing its way. Gah.
I waited till the mob was assembled and the guide was quacking, then went out through the hole into a portico. A second row of pillars down the middle divided it into two naves. It would have been a pleasant place to while away wet days, or to exercise (eg running).
I went west, looped around through some small rooms, passed through a small atrium with four pillars, and found the baths. They were quite compact but included the usual set of hot, tepid and cold rooms. The “tetrastyle atrium” outside would have served as a small palaestra and the whole sequence including the double-naved portico would have been an excellent gymnasium.
I wandered west, looking into the Second Style rooms along the way, and found my way back to the atrium. Somewhere here I noticed some plexiglass on the wall. I was puzzled until I noticed the grafitti beneath it. A Popeye head wearing a laurel: possibly a caricature of the owner or some other bald old coot.
Finally, it was time to go. I’d spent an hour and 20 minutes wandering the Villa. Now I had scratched this itch I could look with more interest at the remainder of Pompeii.
I retraced my steps towards the Herculaneum Gate. But at the wall I turned east, walking outside the town to the Vesuvius Gate instead.
There was only a small necropolis here, and I was soon headed south. Most of the places I wanted to see turned out to be closed, notably access to the House of the Centenary, although I enjoyed the House of the Big Altarand theHouse of the Golden Cherubs. I eventually wound up at the theatre district, which I’d bypassed earlier in the day.
There are two theatres, the large open-air one and a smaller odeon that once had a roof. South of them is a small palaestra that was apparently used as the gladiatorial barracks.
And so I was back at the Triangular Forum. By this time the archaological dig was operating. They sounded French. Students were digging and sieving and measuring.
I headed north into the centre of town. The Brothel was less busy now, although I suspect it was never deserted. The doorways that once admitted randy men were now filled by as many female as male visitors.
Only the ground floor was accesible. In fact, I could see no way to reach the reconstructed upper floor! Never mind, I had fun photographing the illustrations of the house specialities. The beds looked a bit hard, though.
I continued my walk through the north-west suburb, investigating a lot of ruined and overgrown structures, but eventually the munchies struck again and I headed to the Forum Baths, where there was a cafeteria.
Fresh fed, I finally came back to the Forum, entering from the north through a monumental arch. On the left was the Macellum, or market place. There would have been fishmongers stalls in the middle and others around the perimeter.
Next south was the Sanctuary oof the Public Lares, then the Temple of Vespasian, and finally the Building of Eumachia, she whose tomb I’d seen outside the Nocera Gate. She apparently patronised woolgrowers and fullers, so this may have been the HQ of the fullers guild.
I walked south from the Forum down Via delle Scuole. As usual, the places I most wanted to see were closed. But I was able to peer through holes into one house off Via delle Scuole where there were some lovely floors and frescoes.
Worried by the annual trampling of five million feet, the people in charge keep closing more of the town. Stupid! This compresses the traffic, causing the open areas to deteriorate faster. If they opened more areas the traffic would become more diffuse and less damaging. Of course, what they’d really like to do is to close the whole place — except to archaologists and official visitors, of course. But that’s not feasible. It would badly damage tourism in southern Italy and it’d be hard to rouse public enthusiasiasm for paying to maintain places the public weren’t allowed to visit.
In many places the footpath has disintegrated. there’s nothing left to damage except the lead pipes and other structures below the footpaths. So why not replace the vanished footpaths with a rubberised surface that would be friendlier on the feet, thus taking traffic off the roads, and would also absorb the impacts better than stone or concrete, and which would stop the destruction of the pipes and sewers.
This quiet part of town still had most of its paving. It would once have been a plum residential area, with lovely views out over the walls. Glimpses of those views were still there, looking out through the ruined atriums. There were gateposts at the Forum that suggest this might have been a closed suburb.
Back to the Forum. I walked past the municipal buildings at the south end — the Comitium, the Hall of Aediles, the Curia and the Hall of the Duumvires. The Basilica.
I turned north into the Temple of Apollo, where half a statue of Artemis ruefully faced a statue of Apollo across the ruined forecourt. Nearby was the roofless temple proper.
Back out into the Forum, where the Holitorium had been converted into a storage area for excavated odds and ends. The Forum Holiitorium was the grain market. The place holds several plaster casts, including one eloquent one of a dog that must have been left chained up.
The public toilet was now a trench around some walls, over which the joists of the vanished seats still jut.
Back into the Forum, and through the Temple of Jupiter. Done. But it was still shy of 18:00 and there was still more of Pompeii to see. I headed into the west.
The House of Pansa, last owned by Cnaieus Alleius Nifidus Maius,was another massive compound building occupying its entire block. Looking back down from the north end, I noticed the rising moon framed by the broken pillars of the peristyle.
On the corner of Via Consolare and Vico di Modesto was a thermopolium, Taberna Fortunatae. It was a peach of a location.
But time was drawing on, so I went back to the Forum. I’d missed the Mensa Ponderaria, the office of weights and measures.
Ducking into the Temple of Apollo, I had fun taking a photo of Apollo apparently holding the moon.
Then it was time to go. The light was fading and the sky was going red. Out through the Marine Gate. Looking back, I saw the top of the gate flushing red in the sun. It was 18:47. I stood here at 8:32 this morning, so all up I’d spent 10¼ hours in the city.
On the train back to Naples I noticed a woman I’d helped with some directions earlier in the day. She noticed me and we chatted away the rest of the journey. She was from Pierto Rico. We exchanged business cards but I managed to lose hers.
That night I was too tired to go far for dinner, and I ended up at one of the tourist places on Piazza Garibaldi.
CapriThe Capri boats departed from the far end of the city, at Porto Beverello. There was a 7:25 service. I walked down and got there about 7:20. Tickets weren’t sold at the gangplank, only at the ticket windows on the far side of a nearby building. So I went there, resigned to missing the boat. I asked for a ticket without specifying a time, to see what the they thought. They gave me a ticket for the 7:25. I checked my watch: it was 7:25.
I scurried back round the corner. The boat was still there. People were still lined up. So I lined up too, and got aboard. It was 7:35 before the thing pulled away.
Capri was a dragon-back on the horizon ahead, a crocodile cruising the blue waters. It seemed a good omen.
As we approached, the left end of the island reared up sheerly from the water. There was a structure on top, about where Tiberius’ palace should be. But it wasn’t Villa Jovis, it was the Church of Santa Maria del Soccorso, and the tall thin thing beside it was a statue of the Madonna and Child. Legend had it that Tiberius would force prisoners to jump from the clifftop near there. True or not, it was plausible. It was a straight drop, with just a couple of bounces near the bottom.
The main port of Capri was the Marina Grande. Capri town roosted on the cliffs above it. There were two ways up: bus or taxi aling a twisting road, or the less exciiting funiculare. Fortunately I didn’t have to choose immediately, because I’d already decided to see the famous Blue Grotto first, and the port was the departure point for that.
But there was no queue yet for the funiculare. Seeing the Grotto early may have been a mistake. It was 8:20. The first boat did not depart until 9:00, and much can be done with 40 minutes. Instead I spent most of that time pacing the pier. I did go on a short walk to find breakfast.
Eventually they had drummed up enough bodies at €8 each. We all piled into the indicated boat and were off.
Getting to the Blue Grotto from Marina Grande took us along the length of the island. Cliffs shouldered abruptly from the sea that foamed at their bases. Seagulls wheeled around fushing smacks. Yachts anchored in the occasional coves — a fold of rock, a precipitous stair, and a handkerchief beach.
Above us, buses crept along the road that had somehow been hacked from the flanks of Mount Santa Maria. Technically Via Provinciale di Anacapri, it was nicknamed the “Santa Maria Highway”, and somehow I doubted the name of the mountain was in the forefront of their minds when they called it that! At one point all else had failed and they’d built the road on scaffolding. Massive scaffolding, true, permanently anchored deep into the rock, but from this distance it looked frail.
Partway there, I noticed some peculiar structures on the shore, at a bigger cove than most. The so-called Baths of Tiberius, actually attached to a villa maintained by Augustus. From the sea they looked ragged and unimpressive.
Caves appeared now and then in the cliffs. Most were small, but some could have taken our boat. And then we were approaching another — and there was a boat coming out of it, and other boats waiting to go in. The Blue Grotto.
We pulled up and our driver started incomprehensible negotiations with the men in the rowboats. It looked like this could take a while, for though we were supposedly the first boat from Marina Grande, a couple of other boats were already here — probably charters. What’s more, other boats were coming from Marina Grande. It was going to get busy here.
The negotiations came to an end and some of the rowboats came alongside. I thought I might have to wait, but one of them had room in the bow for a single body.
We were rowed over to a boat hung with signs. Entry €4 + Boat €4.30, and just in case we didn’t understand, Total €8.30. Welcome to Capri, playground of the RICH and famous!
We paid up meekly and our boatman lined up for the approach to the grotto. A chain ran inside. The boatman would grab the chain, wait for the water to recede, and pull his boat through when the opening was largest. He indicated to us that we had to scrunch down in the boat, as low as possible. It was easy to see why. When a wave came through, the opening almost disappeared. He had to time it just right or we were going to sink; but even if the boat got through, there was no guarantee our heads would.
And then, with a pull on the chain, we went in.
Initially, I was disappointed. The famed blue effect looked small and dingy. But then my eyes adjusted, and we were afloat in the night upon a sea of blue light. It was gorgeous and exotic. And then, to top it off, our boatman started singing, waking the echoes. Yeah!
We cruised around the cave several times, and then we were back out in the open. I checked my watch. We had been inside for just five minutes. It had seemed much longer.
Our boatman wanted a tip from each passenger. He didn’t specify how much. I pulled out a €5 note. It must have been right, because he was very polite and friendly to me after that.
Back at Marina Grande, the queue for the funicular was impressive. So was the queue to buy tickets. Still, after fifteen minutes I reached the head of the queue and squeezed my way into a minor cavity in the mass of bodies that occupied the next car to leave.
At the top, we erupted into Piazza Umberto I, forced along a path and up the stairs by the press of bodies behind. I spent a minute admiring the view, another minute navigating the square, and then I struck out eastwards.
I had two maps of the island, but soon discovered that neither corresponded with the other or with what I was actually seeing. Naturally, I immediately got lost. When the street (Via Camarelle) started bending south I retraced my steps to a side street and eventually found myself on Via Croce, having wasted 20 minutes. For the record, the route to Villa Jovis left the Piazza as Via Botteghe, almost immediately became Via Fuorlovado, then became Via Croce, and finally (after crossing Via Sopramonte/Matermania) became Via Tiberio, which name it kept the rest of the way to Villa Jovis.
Within minutes now I was out of the town and could see the Villa ahead of me on the skyline.
To say I was out of town is slightly misleading. Most of Capri is built up. I was walking past houses most of the way to the Villa. But there was a clear difference between the shoulder-to-shoulder town houses and the suburban-style houses elsewhere.
It was all very pretty and well maintained. It was refreshing to be on streets where most of the traffic was foot traffic. The views were grand. The gardens were spectacular. As you’d expect: the price of real estate was prohibitive, and those who could afford to live here could afford to employ gardeners, if the mortgage didn’t eat up their reserves.
Eventually Villa Jovis loomed ahead. I was passed by shoals of teens on a school outing, but caught up when they had to stop at the ticket office and wait for their teacher, puffing far in their rear. I fumbled out the €2 fee, verified that there was no map available, and went up the steps.
The place was a complete ruin. Generations of archaologists and collectors had stripped it bare, and the locals had used it as a quarry. It was hard to conjure the ghost, even using the occasional signs that told you what you were looking at. Too many pieces were missing. Tiberius built high, up to four storeys, but only the cisterns and foundations remained. The cisterns had been too solidly built, using Roman concrete, to be easily prised apart by the scavengers.
The main building was rectangular, built around huge rainwater cisterns. The imperial apartments occupied the north face, guest quarters the east, the baths the south, and the servants and facilities were left with the west. Tiberius also had a separate lodge linked to the north side. Below this was another cistern and a barracks.
However, this did let us see clearly what had attracted the Romans here in the first place. The views in all directions were eye-boggling. All that was needed to perfect the location was a good tall structure with balconies, big windows and all mod cons.
There was another structure here that wasn’t ruinous. The Church of Santa Maria del Soccorso was probably built using stone pillaged from Tiberius’ palace. It stands serenely above the ruins, symbolic of the empire that Christianity first grew upon, then strangled, then attempted to supplant. The father here was once entrusted with the care of the ruins, after they were excavated. He allowed them to become overgrown, and allowed local farmers and graziers to appropriate parts of them. The eternal disdain of the Catholic Church for that which it did not own and which it had no hand in creating.
I went down the far side, through the guest quarters. Excavations were still going on along the south side of the palace. There didn’t seem to be much left for them to find.
On the way down, I was took a side way into the Parco Astarita — notable mainly for its views. There was a mob of goats under some trees on a headland. As I watched, one of them picked its nonchalant way down a cliff-face I’d hesitate to try in climbing gear.
Back in Capri, I headed for the bus station. But when I got there, the queues for the dwarf buses to Anacapri were endless.
If I’d been thinking straight, I would have taken the hint and walked south to the Gardens of Augustus, but the sun had penetrated my skull and left me with a fixation on getting to Anacapri.
At that moment I saw an answer. Moments later, for an agreed price of €12, I was lolling in the back of a big open-top taxi, cruising out of town towards the Santa Maria Highway.
The road clung to the mountainside. There was so little scope for the road that it was forced to turn around every contour. However, the views from the taxi weren’t what I’d hoped. Most places the road was bounded by a wall that was just high enough to block the view down.
Several places above the highway contained small shrines to the Madonna. Perhaps the locals felt a little extra attention might be required for those using this road.
Eight minutes and about three kilometres later, I climbed out of the taxi into the overcrowded Piazza Vittoria at Anacapri. There was nothing here I wanted to see. I didn’t stop. I headed for the Mt Solaro chairlift.
Monte Solaro, 589 metres, is the tallest point on Capri. Today you can drive up, but it’s much more fun to take the kilometre-long chairlift.
Although the chairs run continuously, getting on was easy. The attendant walked me out between chairs, made me place my feet on a pair of red foot-shaped marks. The next chair scooped me up, the attendant banged a bar down across the seat to hold me in, and I was off, swaying wildly.
The chairlift cut above the back yards of Anacapri. Riders got a bird’s-eye view of what the locals were up to. Not surprisingly, the locals avoided doing anything interesting, except for one exhibitionist who’d turned their gaarden into a little fairyland. Statuettes, clothing maniquins, garden gnomes, rocks, pebbles, bits of glass, all had been pressed into service by some imagination.
The views out were good, but because the slope looks out to sea, weren’t spectacular.
At the top, I raised the bar and the attendant grabbed the chair, retarding it enough so that I more or less lunged out of it.
A brief walk brought me out on top of the mountain, and to bitter disapointment: clouds were sweeping in. There was no view east or south, just a formless white haze. Even the mountain was starting to disappear.
Sad, I went downstairs and used the toilets, then went upstairs and bought a demi-bottle of a local wine. Taking this consolation to a table that should have had a spectacular view, I settled down to wait it out.
I was in luck. The clouds were starting to clear. The east end of the island appeared, and then the mainland. And then the view was spectacular.
Eventually my wine was gone and the view had restored my enthusuasm. It was time to move on.
Tipsy, I returned the way I came. The crowd down in the Piazza was a little smaller than earlier, but I was still only passing through. My fixation on reaching an objective robbed me of seeing Axel Munthe’s collection in the nearby Villa San Michele. I was missing so many opportunities!
The way down started gently, but soon became steeper. The views were wonderful.
Shortly I saw stairs coming down the cliff to my right. They passed beneath the road and continued down. These were the Phoenician (actually Greek) Stairs. Until the road went through, these were the only way by land between Capri and Anacapri.
I crossed the road and started down. As I did, two tourists toiled past on their way up. They were young and fit, but obviously suffering. Yikes! Still, I would have it easier. Right? I was going down.
The stairs went down relentlessly at first. They actually passed beneath the foundations of that huge scaffold I’d seen from the boat earlier. Close up, it looked less flimsy.
I also passed a church, the Cappella di Sant’Antonio. I wouldn’t mention it except that in the top of the window I saw a red light. Looking closer, I realised it was on a closed circuit camera.
The relentless grade started to tell on my ankles, but it never got too uncomfortable. I took a couple of breaks, at spots with good views. And then, finally, the way levelled out, became a path, and dived into a belt of trees. I was down.
Well, almost. The way continued down. But now it was running through vineyards and small farms, with houses scattered here and there. I encountered a snooty cat: black and glossy but so “I’m trying to enjoy the sun right now don’cha know?”
My maps again proved annoyingly vague and misleading, but with only a couple of false turns I eventually found my way down to the Baths of Tiberius (aka the Maritime Villa of Augustus).
The remains were a little more impressive than I expected, but still only amounted to a large foundation wall, one curved exedral wall and a few anonymous lumps. There was no real sense of the buildings that had been here.
With a little effort I could conjure large fish tanks from the rubble in the sea and a grand terrace from the exedra, but the rest of the place had vanished. All that remained was the view and a relatively easy central point of access to the island.
There was a pebble beach, but that probably wasn’t here in Roman times, as it was right where the fishtanks would have been. Unless what I thought was tanks was the remains of a pier, in which case the beach might well have been here.
It was time to leave. I walked back up the path, then took the way dwn to Porta Marina. En passant, I bought a kitschy souvenir and a ferry ticket. The ferry was ready to depart. I boarded, and watched the island recede.
On the ride back I hoped for some views of Naples from the sea. I didn’t really get them, but what I saw supported the notion that Naples looks lovely from the sea. The caveat is that central Naples still looks bloody awful from the sea. Perhaps we were too close! But the Vesuvian coastline shimmered beneath the mountain like a heat haze.
Coming in, we passed down the length of the immense cruise ship Star Princess, which I’d last seen in Port Phillip Bay.
If it was as flighty here as it had been there, there was every chance it would sail tonight …
Off the ferry, I walked west towards Castel dell’Ovo, bypassing Castel Nuovo (seen in 2002) and Palazzo Reale (someday …).
A maritime monument interested me. It was set on the foreshore. The land side was ornate. The sea side was blank. What the?
At Castel dell’Ovo, I looked arround and decided that the view would be better with the castle than from it. So I moved on down and claimed a patch of wall.
Success! The moon was up, and Star Princess was visible. In fact, she was moving.
Over a period of 20 minutes I watched the huge ship glide out into the deepening sunset as Vesuvius turned gold, then red. And right at the end, the ship slid across the silhouette of Capri. It was a lovely end to the day.
When it was over I made my way “home” via some dimming streets, the National Museum (closed) and a long loop inland. Somewhere along the way I bought a pizza slice for dinner.
HerculaneumI was at the gates of Herculaneum before they opened, so I bought breakfast from a nearby cafe and sat outside the site to enjoy it in the morning sunlight.
Herculaneum was a two-hour afterthought in 2002. I was determined to give it more time this year, knowing that it had enough stuff to keep me interested.
At 8:30, I was at the ticket window. A minute later, I was inside. I had learned my lesson at Pompeii: today I was awash in small notes; but I used my comprehensive ticket for all the sites to get in.
Unlike Pompeii, most of Herculaneum was still buried, in part because the modern town was built on top of it. Initial excavation was via tunnel but over the years most of the areas open to the public had been laid open to the sky, except for part of the Palaestra.
The result was that the site sat in a deep pit, dramatically illustrating the volume of mud and ash that had buried it. The pit was fringed by modern buildings that impeded further excavations.
The site was roughly rectangular and was oriented so that its corners pointed more or less to the cardinal points of the compass. Although the ticket office was at the eastern corner of the site, getting into the excavation proper involved walking southwest from the entrance, down a long ramp that passed above the Palaestra and turned northwest at the southern corner of the site, then continuing to the western corner. Real entry to the site was thus from the west, by a ramp above what had been the beach and was now a riot of vegetation.
That beach had its own story. It had been used as a port, and was backed by barrel-vaulted storage facilities. These were visible today below the terraces that had once overlooked the beach. But 300 refugees were stranded on the beach because the sea was too rough to allow galleys to come ashore. They died there and in the storerooms behind when the pyroclastic clouds overwhelmed the town. The cooling ash and mud then gently buried the scene and preserved the carbonised skeletons, many of which were still entwined in terrified last embraces, and all the valuables they had snatched up in their flight.
Beyond the beach was the so-called “Inn House”. This inn had a terrace overlooking the sea, baths on the south side, and a huge garden. There didn’t seem to be many guest rooms on the ground floor, but the walls did not rise high, so it must have had a wooden second storey where most guest roims were located.
From the Inn I quickly walked through to the House of Aristides. This house was largely ruined, but in its ruin it showed its bones and the methods of its construction. Some of the techniques I saw used here and next door and elsewhere, such as opus vittatum, were not supposed to have come into common use until half a century after the eruption. Yet I’ve seen no commentary on what must have been an innovation. (I’m not qualified to write such a commentary myself, alas.)
Through a hole in the wall I walked through to the House of Argus. Less ruined, some of the walls here still had plaster. The plaster had been painted with frescos.
Several door sills showed signs of heavy use. I wasn’t sure whether the wear was Roman or tourist, but the worn doors didn’t now lead into anything enthralling so it may well have been ancient traffic. But the upper floors had been lost, the front of the house was still buried, and it was hard to conjure the ghost. I moved on.
Next door was the House of the Genius (a genius was a sort of protective spirit), of which even less has been uncovered.
There was a thermopolium on the west corner of Cardo III Inferiore and Decumano Inferiore. A good location for a food bar: I suspect Cardo III Inferiore led to a sea gate, the east corner of the intersection was the Central Baths, and the inn was only a few metres away.
At this pointed I realised a major difference between Herculaneum and Pompeii: Herculaneum still had its paved footpaths. They might have been modern concrete replacements, but the concrete looked old.
Across the street was the House of the Skeleton (they found a skeleton upstairs here). This place was in good shape. It was notable for the ornate lararium (shrine to the household gods). Some of the images on it were almost impressionistic in style. Elsewhere in the house I found a superb 4th-style fresco of birds on bushes, flanking a face.
I went back into the inn, and through it, and out the other side into Cardo IV Inferiore.
The House of the Mosaic Atrium was so named for the floor of the atrium. It was a huge and grand residence and still retained some of its personality. The aristocratic owners would have been horrified by the rag-tag and bob-tail casually wandering through it today.
Across the street and up, the House of the Bronze Herm still displayed the possible face of its owner, a man with large, deep-set eyes, an arching nose, and a hairstyle that suggested it had been combed forward to conceal a receding hairline. He had a confident tilt to his head. This house had been partially re-roofed, and with the head, the veil of the past was tissue thin.
Across the street was the House of the Alcove, where some furniture survived and several windows were still closed by iron grills.
Back across the street was the House of the Trellis, which was closed. I was interested in this house because it was built from opus craticum, where the walls were made from square wooden frames filled with mortar and rubble. This rechnique was popular in Rome. Given Herculaneum’s fiery death I was surprised that this perishable firetrap had apparently survived. More, it had even preserved its (carbonised) furniture. Since the furniture was burned I would have expected the wooden frames to burn and allow the whole mass to collapse upon itself. Yet there it stood, perfectly reconstructed.
It gave a clear picture of how this street looked in Roman times. But down at the end, where there had been blue sea and sparkling waves, there was now only a wave of ashy dirt rising much higher than the rooftops.
The place looked pleasant enough, with its balcony above the street, angled so that the residents could enjoy the sea views. The first floor flat even had its own street entrance, by way of a staircase.
Next door, the House of the Wooden partition was roofed and in good condition. This was an example of a well preserved Roman house. But the thing that touched me most was a bed.
It was wide, about a ¾-width by modern standards, probably a Roman double. The head end was well braced to provide firm support to the sleeper’s back, but there was a gap down by the foot that would have given the heels a softer rest. You could still see where leather bands had been secured to act as springs. Cover it with a feather or straw mattress and it would be comfortable enough, rather like a futon.
Somebody slept in that bed, 1900 years ago. Who were they? What did they enjoy? Did they survive the eruption, or were they perhaps one of the 300 who died on the beach? There was no mention of skeletons in the house, so it’s reasonable to assume they got out. More than that we’ll never know.
I wandered around the corner, past some shops in Decumano Inferiore, and entered the Mens Baths. These were not in good condition, being worn and dingy. It was hard to tell whether the wear was ancient or modern, but the floors needed restoration. Their mosaics were crumbling. But the sturdy walls survived, and even the ceilings.
The adjacent Womens Baths looked less worn, so I surmise the wear in the Mens side was largely ancient. One floor here even looked quite new.
On the east corner of the intersection of Decumano Inferiore and Cardo IV Superiore I found one of the more interesting dwellings, the Samnite House.
It was originally larger and presumably the owners were wealthy. The vestibule was decorated in First Style and was still quite impressive. But first the house lost its garden to its neighbour, and then its upper floor became an apartment with a separate street entrance. A change of owners, or at least in the circumstances of the owners, seems the obvious conclusion.
Continuing up Cardo IV Superiore I passed a food shop (closed) with reconstructed shelves holding amphorae. On the floor stood larger amphorae and large jars. In the back was an oven. The back walls were frescoed.
Next door was the House of Neptune and Amphitrite, so named for a mosaic that covered one wall in its ornate triclinium. Another wall had a nymphaeum in a similar style. The benches were permanent.
The House of the Beautiful Courtyard had a beautiful display, though the beauty was not physical. In one room I found a display case with two skeletons embracing. I don’t know whether they were found here, but the tenderness survived the loss of all flesh. A third skeleton lay between their legs.
The house was unusual in that the atrium had been converted into a surprisingly modern looking roofed courtyard (from which the house took its name) with a staircase and a balcony. The upper rooms opened onto the balcony.
Across the street was the House of the Black Room, so named for one room painted in the Fourth Style. The backgrounds of most Roman walls were either red or white, but while I was in Italy I saw several other surviving “black” walls, so the technique can’t have been too rare. I didn’t think much of it. It made the room rather dark and had not lasted well.
The house had other frescoes, though, some in excellent condition, and was well laid out for living in.
I left through the Decumano Massimo door. There were several shops here, but I merely glanced into them. I headed for the intersection at Cardo III Superiore, where I remembered the large and impressive Hall of the Augustals from 2002 — the Augustali were an organisation of freedmen who worshipped Augustus.
There were several archaologists here. Two were taking measurements. I courteously stayed clear of them. But the others were just milling around, talking loudly and getting in my way. Several times I lined up a photo only to have them bump me or move in front of the camera. They annoyed me so much that I took several photos and moved on just to get away from the jostling and the jabbering. By the timestamps on the photos, I was in there for just two minutes!
Working off my irritation, I walked briskly down Decumano Massimo to Cardo V Superiore and then to the House of the Corinthian Atrium.
Here the atrium was laid out like a peristyle, the roof held by six columns with a low wall between them. The well-head was offset, near the base of one column. Although the atrium was “Corinthian”, the columns were Doric. One room had an attractive mosaic floor. The centre was polychrome marble.
The Palaestra was now the only partially buried building one of whose tunnels was still open to the public, and therefore the one that brought closest to the experience of early tourists here. Only the street frontage was uncovered. The rest of the building is somwhere behind a cliff of volcanic debris.
The tunnel burrowed into the middle of what had been the grassy centre of the Palaestra, tracing the outline of the cruciform bathing pool in the middle. At the end was the huge ornamental bronze fountain shaped like a hydra. Alas, the side tunnels were closed. But only with a rope. There was nobody around, but I resisted the temptation to slip over the barrier and explore the dark tunnels. If I’d remembered that I had a maglite in my daypack I might have done it.
The House of the Deer was my favourite discovery in 2002, and I enjoyed it again this time. The house formed a huge cryptoporticus around a garden. Whoever built it exploited its location skillfully, aligning the garden to provide a view over the beach and out to sea. The terrace at the west end included a freestanding pergola, perfectly placed to capture the sea breeze on hot days. The rooms behind it all had large western windows. Of course, today’s view only went as far as the wall of mud around the excavations.
Apart from its superb design, the house was not looted of all its decorations by collectors masquerading as archaologists. It retained many of its frescoes, and copies of the statues and tables found in the gardens. It even retained its first floor. Of all the houses in Herculaneum, this one was closest to its original state. It felt like the owners were temporarily staying elsewhere with most of the furnishings in storage while the place was renovated. Even those walls that had lost their plaster were not pathetic ruins but were merely waiting for the new coat on which new decorations would be painted.
The statues were the most memorable items. A pot-bellied, drunken Hercules taking a pee. A satyr with an impressive penis. And two statues of hounds on deer, from which the house took its name.
At the end of Cardo V Inferiore the way passed through an arch beneath a tower, once closed by gates, and down two flights of steps to the beach. Gates off the steps gave access to the terraces overlooking the beach.
Today there was no sand visible. The beach was a long gully between the urban terraces and the walls of ash, overgrown with vegetation. But the town still loomed overhead as it did in Roman times, and the walls to left and right still displayed their barrel-vaulted warehouses and boat sheds.
The way led across the beach and into a tunnel in the ash wall. The tunnel was filled with the sound of water — a lot of water. There was some sort of facility there with a large open tank of water. Since the ash wasn’t there before the eruption I rather doubted the facilities were Roman, but what their purpose was I couldn’t tell.
The tunnel led up around a corner and opened out where I’d entered the town earlier this morning. Time for a toilet break.
Afterward I retraced my steps through the tunnel to Cardo V Inferiore, then turned onto Decumano Inferiore to check out some bits I’d missed.
The House of the Large Portal. This house acquired what had been the peristyle of the Samnite House. It still had some notable frescoes, including one that pretended to be a tapestry around the upper portion of some walls.
At Cardo III Superiore I turned right to take in the House of the Two Atriums and the House of the Tuscan Colonnade, which I’d missed earlier because I was so annoyed by the archaologists in the Hall of the Augustals. I also noticed a toilet attached to the Mens Baths.
I finally decided I’d seen enough. But there was one item left on my list, the suburban villas that included the Villa of the Papyri.
I’d noticed an open street gate near the toilets, used by cars and buses. The other buildings must be out there. But when I tried to go out, a fat guard stopped me. I explained I only wanted to go out, not come back in, but he still refused. The street was “dangerous” and anyway the Villas were closed.
I had no idea if it really was against the rules for tourists to walk out there, but it was obvious from his sneer that the real reason for his refusal was that he got some perverse satisfaction from it. I got angry, but there was obviously no use pressing the point here. Inside the site, he held the aces.
So I walked away, walked back up the long ramp to the ticket office, exited, turned left, walked, found a way down to my left, and ultimately found myself standing at the gate again, but this time I was out in the “dangerous” public street.
I called out to the guard and gave an obscene gesture. He almost popped a vein. He actually came out into the street and loomed over me, breathing heavily. I held my ground, grinned up at him and pointing down, said “Publico!”, then waved him dismissively back to his duty. I was hoping he would hit me: if he did it’d cost him his job, at the very least. And since I was so much smaller, if he did hit me he’d look like a bully. But although he went beet red, he backed down. Out here I had the trumps, and he knew it.
It retrospect it was not one of my prouder moments, taunting a bigger man who dared not hit me, but he deserved it and it drained the bile the earlier altercation had built up in me.
The suburban excavations were indeed closed, but strolling back to the train station through Portici’s dingy streets was a worthwhile experience.
OplontisMy next train stop was at Torre Annunziata, where a luxurious Roman villa was buried by the same eruption that took Herculaneum and Pompeii.
The villa is believed to have been built originally in the mid-first century BC. A century later it may have been owned by Poppaea, second wife of Nero. It was damaged in the earthquake of 62 AD and repairs may have halted or slowed down after she died in 65 AD. It was still being repaired in 79 AD.
I had no map of the area, so getting to the villa involved walking through the streets following a set of signs that were never placed where they logically should be. But I got there.
As with Herculaneum, the Villa was down in a hole. I got a good view over the site from the top of the steps. I took that look at leisure while emptying my camera memory. I had no plan of the site, so I would be forced to rely on my own resources to make sense of what I was seeing. I later found a plan on the net at www.oplontis.1to1.org [original link rotted, replaced with Wayback Machine snapshot from Dec 2004]) that I used to make sense of my impressions.
I entered through the so-called Rear Salon, bypassing an excursion of French archaological students. The peristyle and atrium were visible through a big window at the south, but I could see no obvious way to get to them. I went back out and made my way through some ornately decorated rooms towards them. But I got disoriented and went left where I meant to go right, and wound up at the south side of the Villa.
I went back north and found some utilitarian rooms. There was a small perisyle with a cellar entrance in it. Nearby was a room stacked with wine amphorae. Next to it was a small communal toilet.
I found a long corridor heading east. This brought me out in a series of rooms opening onto a porch overlooking a huge rectangular swimming pool. The steps in one corner of the pool gave away its nature.
This would have been the best part of the villa in summer, sunny in the morning, shady in the afternoon, with the pool nearby for a plunge on hot days. It probably doubled as a palaestra.
Walls here were decorated in Fourth Style as a fantastic garden. The theme extended throughout the whole suite, with internal windows and doors providing lovely perspective effects and square light wells (painted in the garden theme) providing abundant light. The main rooms looked like they had been panelled in marble, with niches containing statues.
I headed west around the south side of the villa, finding more beautifully decorated rooms, and eventually I found the atrium, the main room of most Roman houses. Here too were more beautiful frescoes.
I explored the rooms off the atrium then headed west until the excavation ended and I had to turn north. The entire building had not been uncovered, probably for the same reason as at Herculaneum — too many modern buildings would need to be bought and demolished. Perhaps as the trash is demolished in future the rest of the villa will emerge.
This was the main living area, where the household amenities clustered — the kitchen, the baths, a small private atrium with a fountain (ornamental, but probably also used as a source of water for the kitchen). I didn’t see anything I could definitely identify as a bedroom, but many of the rooms clustered around the main atrium could have been used as such.
Then it was time to go. Oplontis had proven to be a gem, and I marked it down for a longer visit if ever I returned, but my cumulative ticket included two other places, Boscoreale and Stabia, and I wanted to get at least as far as Sorrento, even if the Amalfi Coast was now looking doubtful.
If I’d known how the rest of the day would go, I would have spent more time here then bulleted for Amalfi. The day would have been great. Instead it trailed off in faulres and was merely good.
Back at the station, I took the Boscoreale train. This goes on to modern Pompei (the Pompeii archaological site is reached via Pompei Scavi, on the Sorrento line). From Pompei it is possible to return to Naples around the back of Vesuvius via Poggiomarino and Ottaviano.
At Boscoreale, my plans fell apart. The signs to the Antiquarium pointed down roads with lunatic traffic and no pedestrian facilities. To walk was to invite disaster, and I didn’t even know how far it was.
Eventually I discovered that there was a bus from the station that went by the Antiquarium but that the next service was not due for at least 30 minutes. I weighed up the time this would consume there and back and concluded that the price was too high. A train was due now that went back to Torre Annunziata, so I took it.
At Castellammere, Stabia, the signs pointed the way and I set out. Down a long street, and up another. When the footpaths ran out on a busy highway intersection, I gave up. Two duds.
And so I came to Sorrento, three hours after leaving Oplontis, feeling hot and discouraged. I followed the road down to the harbour and there I stopped, about 16:45, sitting on the waterfront of the port with a capucchino in front of me and a lasagne coming. My legs were sore, my feet were sore, my heart was heavy, and it was too late to try for Salerno via the Amalfi Coast.
I could take a ferry back to Naples. I could, but it was about to start raining. Odds on the ferry trip would be lousy — and I was already on a downer. One more disappointment would be too much.
Instead, having at least enjoyed a nice dinner in a pretty location, I took the bus back up the hill and then the train back to Naples.
It was time to go to Rome.
All roads lead hereIn the morning, I did my laundry. I’d tried to do it last night but I couldn’t find the place. The guy tried to scam me — I gave him a €10 note, he gave me change, then a minute later he came out waving a note with a big hole burnt in one side, insisting I’d given it to him. Since I knew it wasn’t the same note, I stuck to my ground and eventually won. But what was he thinking? The best he could get out of it was to foist the damaged note on me. But he was in a better position than me to change it at the bank. Laziness, I guess. Easier to palm it off on a dumb turista.
The weather was chancy and the whole city was full of sleazy, bad-tempered people. Perhaps they’d always been there, but locked up in offices for the working week. Or perhaps it was just me. I decided the day was shot — I didn’t feel like trudging up to the Museo again — so I shut the chapter on Napoli.
And so I came to Rome. A short spin in the Eurostar and I was walking out of Roma Termini. It was unchanged from 2002. But in 2002 I had my hotel pre-booked. I always like to know where I’ll be staying on my first night off the plane. But this year Rome was the end of the line, not the begginning, and I was going to do it the hard way.
I headed towards Piazza della Repubblica. My vague plan was to feel out the streets off Via Nazionale. However, I turned off short and went up Via della Viminale instead. After that I lost track of where I was. I tried several places but they were either full or too overpriced. Eventually I came across a place with two hotels sharing a building on alternating floors. I tried Hotel Giarda first.
The price was right — €65 for full ensuite facilities. But, the desk man explained, it was a special price because the neighbours were having a reception tonight. It could be noisy. I smiled and said I’d take it … for six nights at that price!
I’m not sure who came out ahead on the deal, for indeed I got no sleep that night, but the location was perfect and the room was good.
I stowed my pack in my room and checked my watch. 14:00, near enough. The weather looked good. I decided to see if a walk in the Forum might fix my mood.
Down to Via Cavour, turn right. Down until I saw familiar ruins at the end of a side street — Via Annibaldi. Down Annibaldi, down some steps, across Via dei Fori Imperiali, and there I was, back at the Colosseum.
The place was bulging at the seams — I found out why later — so I stuck to plan and skirted it until I reached the Sacra Via — the Sacred Way, passing in front of the Arch of Constantine. The route here was lined with hawkers. It was probably the same in Roman times.
I joined the glacial flow of people pouring up the Sacred Way. Up toward the Arch of Titus. Atop the slope to my right was what remain of the Temple of Venus & Rome, now partially overbuilt by a church. To my left were the ponderous remains of some Baths.
There were wheel ruts in the road surface, which was the original polygonal Roman paving. With the columns of the Temple looming above, the Arch of Titus ahead, and the ancient ruts beneath me, the tissue of the years was very thin here. I could easily be travelling in two millennia at once. My eyes saw what remained, but my mind’s eye saw what had gone.
I did not pass through the arch yet. There was a street up to the left that led to Nova Via, New Way, serving buildings to the south, and to Clivus Palatinus, which led up onto the Palatine. I walked up New Way but didn’t get far before the route was blocked. There was a path down to the Sacred Way but I chose to retrace my steps.
This time I passed through the Arch of Titus. The Sacred Way descended towards the Forum proper down the slope of a ridge called the Velia. If you’ve seen the film Gladiator then you may remember the monumental perspectives showing the Forum during Commodus’ entry into Rome, with the Colosseum dominating the background. No. Thanks to the Velia, it never did that.
I followed the Sacred Way as it curved around, but only as far as the Basilica of Constantine.
Today we think of basilicas as religious buildings, but in Roman times they were places to meet, to lecture, and to make and deal out law. For a long time the biggest in Rome was the Basilica Julia, 100m long by 50m wide, dominating the south side of the Forum. Built by Julius Casear to replace a previous building it was periodically repaired and restored for more than 450 years, but today it was a few steps and some column stumps.
Constantine’s edifice, actually started by his rival Maxentius after 300 AD, was bigger, up to 100m long by 65m wide, and still had some of its walls. Only the north aisle and the east and west walls survived but the aisle still had its three 25-metre arches. The place must have been as impressive as the Church of Santa Maria di Angeli (part of the former Baths of Diocletian) and the Pantheon still were today, with polychrome marble walls and floor and an effortless mastery of enclosed spaces.
I went back to the Sacred Way and continued west, finding the circular “Temple of Romulus”, so named after Maxentius’ son. This is mis-named. It may have been a municipal building. The converted church behind it was certainly once a municipal structure, as a famous marble plan of the city was found on its north wall.
Next door, the Temple of Antoninus [Pius] and Faustina was also converted into a church. It retained its original columned pronaos, but the rather distinctive horned façade dated from the 17th Century.
On the south side opposite was a ruined pile of stone: the Regia, palace of the Roman Kings. The Sacred Way split around it. The main drag went around the north side.
On the south side of the south fork was the remains of a tholos temple. This was the very famous Temple of Vesta, where the Vestal Virgins guarded the sacred fire. Behind it, a large courtyard marked their home, the House of the Vestals. It had at least two storeys, with porticoes facing the courtyard.
I now entered the Forum proper. This was marked on the east by the Temple of Julius Caesar. The great man was supposedly cremated on the circular altar here. This altar had survived the years, although it was by now rather crumbled, and I saw fresh flowers laid on it.
South of here was the Temple of Castor, first built around the time of the Greek-Persian wars. The current structure was built 500 years later.
Looking west from the Temple I could see down the length of the Forum to the few other great structures that survived: the Arch of Septimius Severus (200 AD), with the Curia Senatus, or senate house — which survived beause it was converted into a church — to the right of it. Above them on the brow of the Capitoline Hill, blocking off the far end of the Forum, loomed the surviving part of theTabularium (state archives), now serving as the foundation for a museum.
In the middle of the Forum was a paved plaza. It was flat but not empty. the south side of it featured a row of free-standing plinths, some still with columns on them. The columns were once topped by statues, probably of Roman notables. Larger plinths marked the sites of equestrian statues of emperors.
Harking back to Gladiator again, the plaza was not the enormous open space you see in the film. From the Temple of Julius Caesar to the rostra beside the Arch of Septimius Severus was about 120 metres, and from the Basilica Julia to the buildings on the north side was no more than about 60 or 70 metres. To put it in perspective, you could set the plaza down in the middle of the MCG (the playing field is about 160 x 140 metres and the MCG as a whole is bigger than the Colosseum) and have room to walk around it without leaving the field.
In Roman times it would have felt almost claustrophobic, as it was surrounded by enormous buildings. I’ve already mentioned the Basilica Julia, a single edifice almost as wide and long as the Forum, running along the south side, and the Tabularium on the west. On the north, Basilica Aemilia was only a little smaller than the Julia. The basilicas were about the same height as the Curia (say 20 metres, the height of a modern 5-storey office building), with 15-metre-tall double-colonnaded frontages above the Forum.
The Julia was now a sad sight, reduced to its floor and the steps outside, with just ragged stumps of columns lining the vanished walls. It was fenced off, so I couldn’t walk up the steps and along the ancient aisles. The fence was just a low railing, but if I’d jumped it, someone would have popped up to spoil the party.
From the end of the Julia I could look north along the line of the Imperial Rostra, large balustrades overlooking the west end of the Forum. The modern “rostrum” comes from them. Here was where demagogues and orators would deliver their harangues. In Roman times the faces of the rostra were decorated with the iron prows (rostra) of enemy ships defeated in battle. The rostra were originally over by the Senate House — they were moved here by Julius Caesar when he was restoring that building.
“Triumphs”, ceremonial parades honouring a victorious general, would wind along the sides of the Forum then climb the Capitoline Hill to the Temple of Jupiter by way of the Clivus Capitolinus. Standing on the steps of the Julia would give you a ringside seat.
I wanted to walk up the Clivus Capitolinus to the Porch of the Twelve Divinities but the way was closed for restoration.
Below the Clivus Capitolinus was the Temple of Saturn, and eight columns from its pronaos still stood. It faced north behind the rostra. It housed the Treasury, and every year the “Saturnalia” was celebrated here around the summer solstice (17 December). On this day, presents were given. Sound familiar? The early christian church set Christ’s mass to fall on the same day in order to steal the festival from the pagans. The modern Christmas celebration, where presents and Father Christmas are more prominent than church services and Christ, demonstrates that this move was not entirely successful. The pagan religious element was indeed subsumed, but the core rituals of the Saturnalia survived.
On the other side of the Clivus Capitolinus, beyond the Temple of Saturn, stood three columns of the pronaos of the Temple of Vespasian, and beyond that was a flattish area behind the Arch of Septimus Severus, all that remained of the Temple of Concord.
Near here behind the rostra was the Golden Milestone, heart of the Empire’s road system. A few metres along from it was the Umbilicus Urbis, navel of the city. These icons marked the epicentre of the Roman Empire. If all roads led to Rome then this was where all roads ended.
The centripetal nature of the Roman Empire is hard to grasp today. Unlike the capitals of modern states, Rome was not built to serve the Empire: the Empire was built to serve Rome. When this cosy relationship finally broke down, so did the Empire. The nearest modern comparison is Russia, which built itself around Moscow.
Since the way up was blocked, I headed over towards the Arch of Septimius Severus. Twenty metres tall, it dominated this end of the Forum, but it was a late addition — 203 AD. The Arch was not as solid as it looked — there were apparently four rooms up there, reached by an interior staircase not open to the public.
I passed through the Arch and stood upon the Comitium, the forecourt of the Senate House. The Comitia Curiata, a group roughly analogous to a city council, would meet here to debate and vote. Contrary to popular belief, Julius Casear was not assassinated in the porch of the Senate but rather in the portico of Pompey’s theatre (see later). The Senate had been damaged by fire and was being repaired and reconstructed at the time. It must have suffered another disaster later because Domitian also rebuilt it.
It was closed in 2002 and it was closed today, so I have never seen inside it. But although it was restored to its Roman form in the 1930’s it looked nothing like the semicircular movie versions. My reference books tell me that it had three ledges down either side and that the emperor sat at one end, near a statue of Victory.
Here was the Black Stone. A square of dark marble marking one of Rome’s most sacred places. Beside it steps descended into the crypt. Traditionally the Tomb of Romulus, it may actually be a sanctuary of Vulcan.
It was only about 15:30. I still had plenty of time in hand so I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon up on the Palatine, one of my favourite spots in 2002.
Serendipity! Today entry was free. This was not an unalloyed blessing, as it meant that the serenity I found there in 2002 would be shattered by the crowd. But this late in the day, the worst hordes would probably be gone.
The way up was by the same stairs as 2002, but things looked different. A nymphaeum on a landing was more overgrown and run down. I also noticed statues and other things I didn’t remember from 2002. Odds are I simply overlooked them — a major advantage of taking a second look at something is the opportunity to correct oversights.
At the top were some buildings that probably belonged to later periods, and an incomparable view back to the Forum and the Colosseum. But scattered across the hilltop ahead of me were the ruins of the palaces of the emperors.
The English word “palace” came from the name of this hill. The Palatino was always high-status real estate, but starting with Augustus most of the emperors made their homes here. Imperial constructions gradually pushed everything else off the crest, though some houses still clung to the slopes.
Augustus’ own house was modest in size. Tiberius built the first palace, but most of that was eventually razed in the Middle Ages to make way for the Farnese Gardens. Its massive foundations were still visible today from the Forum, along with later work done by Hadrian.
Nero added extensions to connect Tiberius’ palace with his own Golden House down in the valley. These were demolished to make way for the third, final and grandest palace, that of Domitian (81-96 AD). Once this structure went up all subsequent imperial building on the Palatine amounted to remodelling, renovation and extension of the existing complex.
I headed east into the private section of the palace, the Domus Augustana. This two-storey section included the Stadium, the exedra overlooking the Great Circus (Circus Maximus), and several peristyle gardens. Only the lower floor survived, and that was largely below the modern ground level.
I walked through what had been the main entrance, then crossed the First Courtyard (a peristyle) to the northwest corner of the Stadium. I made my way between the Stadium and the Second Courtyard to where the remains of the upper floor of the imperial apartments still bulked, and through these ruins to a lookout over an ornate peristyle with a fountain pool. This peristyle was down on the inaccessible lower floor. In Roman times there was a two-storeyed colonnade all around it. The colonnade gave access to the rooms and suites where the emperor and his family actually lived and slept.
In Roman times it must also have been both beautiful and comfortable. It was still grand.
A triclinium faced onto the garden on the west side. Beyond the triclinium was a complex of rooms around two enclosed fountains that would have been a pleasant place on hot days.
At the south side of the garden a large door went through to a vestibule that in turn gave access to the huge exedra overlooking the Great Circus. This exedra had rooms opening off it that were probably used the way marquees are used at modern racecourses — for drinking, eating, adjusting hair, clothes and makeup, and so on. My reference books don’t label any rooms as toilets but there must have been some.
I headed north up the middle of the palace, past the (closed) stairs down to the sunken peristyle, and into the official section of the palace, the Domus Flavia.
My first encounter was a monumental triclinium, the so-called Dining Hall of Jupiter, where state banquets and such would be held. This was flanked to east and west by large nymphaeums, and there was an apse on the south that was probably where the emperor would sit.
On the far side of the surviving nymphaeum there was a tall structure I never satisfactorily identified. In 2002 I thought it was the House of Livia, but it was too far south. It appeared to have been built on top of the Temple of Apollo. Chances are it was an intrusion from later times.
North of the triclinium was the Third Courtyard, featuring an octagonal labyrinth in its center, possibly a fountain. This courtyard separated the triclinium from the complex to the north of it.
But first I took a detour into the Museum, an odd building constructed around the ruins rather than on top of them. Only part of the Museum was open, but at least it was accessible without the “take a number” hassle that the guidebooks mentioned.
It contained bits and pieces dug up on the Palatine, and also displays showing the development of the area from archaic times. Since the area to the southwest that contained the Iron Age remains was closed, these displays were the best view I could get of what once was. Not that it mattered, as today we’re not sure exactly where on the Palatine places such as the cave of the she-wolf are supposed to have been.
I left the Museum and toured the north rooms of the Somus Flavia: the Throne Room and the Basilica.
The Aula Regia, or Throne Room, was an ornate barrel-valted hall 45 by 32 metres. The struts supporting the vault broke the walls into twelve huge bays that contained black basalt statues. At least two were of Hercules, one of Bacchus, and one of Jupiter. The others were probably of the same kind — gods and heroes.
There was supposed to be a round pergola, decorated to resemble the night sky, where the emperor would appear in state. By modern standards this would be a very strange arrangement for a throne room, but fortunately the baldacchino in St Peter’s Cathedral shows how it might have been done. It probably stood in the apse at the south end of the hall.
There was a door at the north end, allowing entry from a large colonnade that ran around the north and west corner of the palace, facing onto a paved area.
West of the Throne Room was a basilica, which might have been a courtroom, a waiting room, an auditorium, a private audience chamber, or a combination. The main door to the Throne Room might have been closed except to let the emperor through: guests may have been conducted into the Basilica and then into the Throne Room. There was a cryptoporticus below it that connected with a passage built by Nero that led away to Tiberius’ palace.
I headed west across the roof of the House of Livia, buried when the ground was levelled during construction of Domitian’s palace. Bits and pieces had been unearthed in recent years, although the main part of the structure was marked only by skylights and was closed to the public. I did find the passage, now roofless but with its mosaic floor intact.
I headed back across the hill to the east end. I was going to explore it, but a new plan shaped itself. It was only 17:30. What if the Colosseum was also free? I hadn’t been planning a return visit, but I couldn’t argue with the price! I made my way down to the exit onto Via di San Gregorio VII. There I turned left, towards the Colosseum.
The entrance wasn’t where I remembered it. In fact, I walked almost around it before I found the way in — and entry was free.
The Colosseum was once about 190 by 160 metres, and 45 metres tall. That’s big, but contrast it with the MCG, 280 by 240 metres and even taller. The ancient Romans were awed by the size of the ampitheatre their emperor built, but today many places boast bigger stadiums. However, none of those can match the mystique of the Colosseum. For centuries, men and animals fought and died here. So much suffering marks a place.
This place survived where so many other great buildings were quarried almost down to the last stone only because a Pope decided to memorialise the relatively small number of Christians martyred here (as opposed to the larger number killed in the Vatican Circus). We owe him no thanks, as the Popes were largely responsible for the plunder of stone from the great structures of the Forum in order to build inconsequential churches.
The floor of the arena was long gone but a modern platform had been built across the gap. I walked across it in 2002, but today it was closed. I guess freedom has its price.
I walked around the circumference, not noting much I hadn’t seen in 2002. I was right, I’d done it so thoroughly last time that seeing it again was pointless.
Hello, steps up to the top level. And behold, here was something new. Serendipity! The gallery here had been decked out with screens and projectors telling the story of the Forum excavations. On pedestals along the walls stood statues and busts found during the digging. Going by the security precautions, which included pressure sensors and cameras, most of them were the priceless originals, not copies. Wow!
One that particularly caught my eye was the stump of a column inscribed with antique letters. I recognised it from the description in my Blue Guide. This was the most important find in the crypt beneath the Black Stone. The inscriptions on it apparently included sacred, for the king, attendant, and beasts of burden. I’d dearly wanted to see this column, and here serendipity delivered it.
Finally it was time to go. The Colosseum was about to close and I was dog-tired. But I didn’t go far, just across the road to one of the restaurants facing the Colosseum. Picking a seat with a good view I ordered dinner. Here’s my diary entry:
19:08 Dinner by the Colosseum. A guy is playing the accordian — shortly he will come and ask for money. There was a minor pink sunset behind the stone pile. It’s cool, even cold after the rain earlier. One of Rome’s innumerable water fountains trickles into a worn basin in the footpath. People drink from it from time to time. No.3 trams — Trastevere Station — rumble past from time to time.
When I planned my 2002 trip, I wanted to start in London, go to Paris, then on to Rome. This itinerary had to be truncated to fit everything else in, so that year I started in Rome.
But I had now completed the original itinerary, and even linked it to my 2000 trip. In 2000 I flew from Melbourne to New York. In 2003 I flew from New York to London, then took the Eurostar to Paris. And this year I’d made my way from Paris to Rome, closing the loop. Even if I never travelled again, this fulfillment of old plans was an achievement I was proud of.
And here I was, comfortably settled in the heart of my favourite European city with almost a week left in which to explore and enjoy it. It couldn’t get any better than this.
San SebastianoI had planned to be out early the next morning for my walk up the Appian Way, but I was slothful. By the time I walked down to Circus Maximus it was nearly 9:30, more than two hours late — I should have been walking out the Gate of San Sebastian by then. So to make up time I scrubbed my planned Tiber-side start. I walked across one end of the Great Circus for form’s sake, then headed up Via Terme di Caracalla.
In Republican times the city was protected and defined by the Servian Walls, built by Servius Tullius in the 6th Century BC. These ran past the east end of the Circus Maximus, and there was a gate here — Porta Capena — that marked the start of the Appian Way. When Aurelian built new walls in the 3rd Century AD, the necessity of enclosing the places where Rome had overflowed its old walls meant that the first Roman mile of the Via Appia was enclosed. The new start of the highway was set at Porta San Sebastiano.
However, for most of Roman history and during the height of the Empire, the Appian Way started here. Rich tourists setting off on the Grand Tour who lived in the Aventine, the Campus Martius, or the slopes of the Palatine would have passed out through this gate, and those living in the new suburbs would have joined the highway along this first stretch. It was the logical start for any walk.
Fortuitously, the modern road was divided by a nature strip bordered by trees. This tree-lined “avenue” made it easy to tear aside the veil of time and become an early Republican, setting out on the month-long walk to Brundisium, passing along the valley between the Aventine and Caelian hills through farmland on a road that was not yet paved. Or a later traveller, passing houses that were replacing farms on the hillsides.
Of course, the early traveller would not have to suffer the fumes of the cars that thundered by to either side of me — but the smoke from hearth fires would have been almost as bad.
500 metres along I reached the huge Baths of Caracalla. I went through them fairly thoroughly in 2002, so since I was still behind schedule I skipped them this time.
I passed down the north side and came to the confusing intersection at its west corner. At least half a dozen streets met here, and picking out Via di Porta San Sebastiano proved as tricky this time as in 2002. I picked the wtong street. Twenty minutes later, having realised that my map bore no relationship to what I was seeing, I was back at the Baths.
While I dithered, a nun walked past, accompanied by a couple of young women. On impulse, having no better ideas, I followed them towards a nearby police rotunda. Behold, the street sign above the police box pointed to Via di Porta San Sebastiano. Blessing the nun’s habit, I turned right. More signs soon confirmed that I was now headed up the right street.
This section probably looked much the same during the Empire: a paved road with narrow verges passing between tombs and walled suburban estates. Since there were no city walls, those living out here would have walled their properties to keep out undesirables. Since the road was the main danger, the walls facing it would have been designed to be tall and daunting, broken only by their heavy gates.
Although nominally free of the traffic restriction that made Sunday the perfect day to walk the Appian Way, this street carried little traffic. It was peaceful and picturesque, with only the occasional car to spoil it.
I reached Porta San Sebastiano at about 10:15, now only 1:15 behind schedule.
A museum was built into the gate, Museo delle Mura. It contained photos and models of the walls, and its vantage points provided superb views of the country inside and outside the walls. Once you could walk along the walls themselves from here, but now the walls were closed.
So much for the entree, it was time to start the main course.
I stepped out through the gate at 10:40, an hour and ten minutes behind schedule. I was now standing on Via Appia Antica.
Across the way, a policeman was stopping traffic. The rest of the week the Appian Way was a dangerous torrent of metal, but on Sundays it was closed to vehicular traffic except for the locals and the persuasive. Hence my presence.
I crossed Viale di Mura Latine, passed the horse watering troughs on the east side, and after about 100 metres I stopped to look around. The First Milestone, marking off one Roman mile from the Golden Milestone in the Forum, should be around here.
There. A white column half set into the wall on the west side. No wonder I missed it in 2002 — the map in the Blue Guide placed it on the east side!
Cheered by ticking off this two-year-old oversight, I headed on. The road probably looked much the same in Roman times, though with more tombs and fewer buildings. There would have been inns to serve travellers arriving after the gates were closed, just as today there are restaurants and cafés for modern travellers.
I soon reached the Church of Lord, Where Are You going? (Domini Quo Vadis?), built on the site of a famous incident in Christian lore but otherwise unremarkable. A street forked away to the left beside it: the way to Parco della Caffarella. If all went well I’d come back here by that route. For now I took the right fork, then the left a few metres further on, staying on the Appian Way.
I did look in at one restaurant I remembered: it had a picture of John Belushi-esque character wearing a toga and carrying a sign: “Veni vidi mangiai” — came, saw, ate.
At Nº 103 was the site of the vanished Second Milestone.
At 11:30, now only half an hour behind schedule, I reached the Tomb of Romulus and the Circus of Maxentius. The Tomb was closed but the Circus was open.
This racetrack, built by Constantine’s rival Maxentius, was almost as large as the Circus Maximus and much better preserved. Walking down the length of this colossal edifice and sitting atop the walls beside the track was the closest anyone could get today to the experience of the Roman circuses.
In 2002 the structures at the far end were open and I walked through them, but now they were fenced off.
It would take little effort and cause little damage to the archaological value of the site to restore it to functionality. The damaged walls and starting stalls could be capped by removeable wooden props resembling the lost masonry, some of the seating could be philologically restored, and the track sown with gravel. The result would be a huge tourist attraction, especially if occasional “chariot races” were staged and people were encouraged to wear Roman attire (which could be rented or bought outright on site).
I moved on, passing the Tomb of Cecilia Metella (seen in 2002 but this year it was bulging with tourists so I didn’t go in). I did make sure to spot the site of the Third Milestone outside it, however.
A little further on the relatively modern paving gave way to a section where the original Roman surface had been exposed. After centuries of neglect and traffic the polygonal blocks were not in good shape, which is why most of the road was repaved over the years with smaller, squarer cobbles, but it was a thrill to set foot on stones that had been here 2,000 years or more. The road would have been broken up and repaved several times by the Romans, but many of the blocks (the ones not too deeply rutted) would have been reused to keep costs down.
At Via Cecilia Metella I achieved a personal milestone, for my 2002 walk ended here when it started to rain. I checked the sky: no chance of rain today!
The section of the Appian Way from 3rd to the 5th Milestones was far more evocative than the section nearer Rome. The modern buildings stopped, so that more and more the road passed between tombs and Roman era structures. There were more extensive sections of Roman paving. The past pressed up through the ruins like a mist, becoming clearer and more real to my mind’s eye than the rubble seen by my body’s eyes.
The Fourth Milestone had vanished, but the Blue Guide told me where it had been. Lost in the past, I almost missed it.
I walked through the ancient Campagna. A car passed me slowly, and its slipping drive belt became the ungreased axle of a wagon. The tourists around me became Roman travellers and peasants. The fields and the houses in the fields needed no effort: they already looked the part. Tombs loomed up: rows of dead faces looked out upon the living world with dignity or resignation. Some were more relaxed; the occupants stood as though in a window, with their elbows on the sill. They had paused an idle moment to watch me walk by and to comment humorously to one another upon my outlandish appearance.
Birds wheeled across a sky spotted with strange comet-shaped clouds. Was that thunder? The Gods were out in force today.
I kicked a loose stone on the verge. The road was breaking up: the authorities were not taking proper care it it.
An intrusion: some form of wagon was sitting beside the way ahead, emitting a grumbling sound. I blinked, and it became a car. The past faded like breath across a mirror, and the modern day crashed in. Bloody hell!
I tried to reclaim the vision, but it was gone. For more than half an hour I had been an antique traveller, but now I was just a footsore modern tourist.
Ahead of me, the road bent to avoid some ancient tomb or other. My Blue Guide whispered “Fifth Milestone”. On the west side of the road here there was a tumulus with a tower: the Tumulus of the Curiatii. I climbed it and settled down to rest and digest what I’d seen.
The road ran below as it had for three millennia, a stone ribbon. It was paved with cobbles here, but that was merely a change in technology: for centuries travellers must have climbed this man-made hill to rest, to wait for stragglers, to enjoy the views, and each traveller had seen what I saw now.
This had been Highway 1 of the Roman world, the Queen of Roads. Iron Age traders marked it out. It had been paved to cement Rome’s grip on southern Italy. Romans off on the Grand Tour had passed below me. In all likelihood Hannibal had used it. Byzantine armies had passed up it, bent on recovering Rome for the Empire. Much later, tanks had driven up it bent on the liberation of Italy from the Italians.
Men passed: the road remained.
It was time for me to pass. My itinerary had run out at 13:00 at the Third Milestone, but I had been there at 12:15, 45 minutes ahead of schedule. I had more than made up for my late start. I had now walked far enough along the Appian Way to satisfy myself for now. It was time to put the time gained to good use.
When planning the trip, I hadn’t been sure what I would do with the afternoon if I finished the Appian Way early, so I deliberately left it completely blank. I’d had several possibilities in mind but a walk through Parco Caffarella was the one that had finally settled out.
I walked back to Via Cecilia Metella. According to the map in the Blue Guide I should be able to get into the path through Parco Caffarella off that street.
Disappointment awaited: the map lied. I could see where the path passed below the road, but I could see no way to get down to it. On the far side there was a gate down to some sort of facility, but it was locked.
I walked back towards the Appian Way, then turned right onto Via Appia Pignatelli. Maybe there was another way in — if not, I’d take a look at Maxentius’ works from a novel angle. Maybe also see his villa/palace.
The view was worth it, but I didn’t reach the villa. A path led up on the right towards a blockhouse or cistern of some sort. From the blockhouse, which might have been connected with the water supply to Maxentius’ villa, a trail led off in the direction I wanted to go. So I followed it.
It led me to Villa Sant’Urbano, where I found a map of the Park. On the map I saw that if I followed the way around behind the Villa Sant’Urbano I would meet up with the path drawn in my deceptive Blue Guide map. In fact, now that I had a good map the text description in the Blue Guide made sense. So I went.
My first objective was a sacred grove, the Bosco Sacro, which had been replanted in recent years. I didn’t find it: it may have been a patch of scrubby growth off to my right. I knew I’d missed it when I came to the Nymphaeum of Egeria. It sat alone in the middle of nowhere, but apparently one of the Roman kings (Numa Pompilius) would come here to consult the nymph Egeria. What they discussed, Blue Guide saith not. It was run-down and the water had turned green, but it was a pretty spot and I stopped for a few moments to lean on the railing and consult with the nymph. She wasn’t feeling talkative, so the conversation was rather one-sided.
The path now meandered through trees and clearings. I saw people in some of the clearings digging up plants. I was tempted to wander over and find out what they were up to, but since they were women and we probably didn’t even share a language, my intentions might have been misconstrued. Thus I passed by, no wiser.
Eventually the path came to a gate that opened on a lane, the lane brought me out on Via della Caffarella, and there I was back at Domine, Quo Vadis.
I walked back to the walls and turned right, walking along outside the circuit. It was just after 16:00 and I still had plenty of afternoon levt to me. I headed for Porta Latina. When I got there I continued on to Porta Metronia.
From here I could walk to the Colosseum along Via Navicella, but I decided to push on to the Church of St John in Lateran. When I got there it was probably open and there were things here that were worth seeing, but I was finally feeling the strain. I’m not big on living religions.
My main reason for walking here was to see the obelisk in the plaza. It was one of two that used to stand on the spina of the Circus Maximus, hence my interest. The Pope pinched them. The other wound up in Piazza del Popolo. However, I can’t blame the Pope entirely as both were originally filched from Egypt by the Romans.
I headed into the city. Somewhere I bought a slice of pizza — dinner. Then I found a friendly ATM and replenished my cash. A few minutes later I stopped in at the National Museum of Oriental Art. I was mildly interest by the museum, but more by the massive balconies out back. These could have graced ancient Rome, though they were rather too new for that.
When I got to Via Cavour there was a holdup: a large protest march by immigrants protesting against deportation. I couldn’t really blame them for not wanting to be sent back to the cloacas they thought they’d escaped from.
That’s all I remember of that evening. I was too tired even to write up my journal. But I slept well. All in all, it had been a superb day. And the exercise was doing wonders for my waistline.
The Maritime TheatreAnother slow start — I was getting lazy.
I had not planned the Tivoli excursion for today, but I was taking so long over major sites that I decided fitting both Hadrian’s Villa and the Villa d’Este into one day might prove difficult. So since most museums were closed on Monday I decided to see Hadrian’s Villa and let Villa d’Est take care of itself. Perhaps serendipity would throw up something, but if not, it was no biggie.
Getting to Hadrian’s Villa was a minor adventure in itself, involving a train ride to Ponte Mammolo, a walk in the unknown to find the correct bus stop, minor luck on the bus timetable (I didn’t have to wait long), an hour-long bus ride through one of Rome’s less attractive areas, a guess at where to get off, and a walk down to the site.
The bus went past some enormous marble quarries, the same ones that provided the Romans with most of their marble. Looking at statues and monuments and reading about artists going to the quarries to hand-pick just the right block, it’s hard to recognise the heavy-duty industry that must have been required even then to satisfy the demand. The marble was ripped out of huge terraces, tonnes of it at a bite. Most of it became building blocks. I’d probably seen some of the produce from these quarries in 2002, huge blocks of granular white stone sitting on flatbed wagons outside Mestre.
The guide books gave the impression that Hadrian’s Villa was outside Tivoli — 5 km from Tivoli, in fact. But the town had expanded so much that today the site was ebedded in the outskirts. I walked through suburbs all the way from the bus stop on the highway.
The footpaths had a disconcerting feature. They were quite high above the road, but wherever they crossed a driveway they descended to the level of the road. It was like walking along a sine wave. The priority of the builders was clear: cars first, pedestrians last.
It got worse. The last section had no footpath at all. I was forced to walk on the road. The site offered not even a token concession to pedestrian access. The assumption was that visitors would arrive by car or tour bus.
I faced one more obstacle when I got to the site. There was a gate in front of me and a building inside it. So I went through.
“Billet,” said the man. “Isn’t this the ticket office?” I responded. “No, ticket office is over there.”
So I trudged back across the carpark to the indicated building to buy my ticket. By the time I returned the gate was closed. It took a bit of looking to spot the smaller gate eleswhere that was the real entrance.
The route headed left. The first place I reached was the Greek Theatre, rather oddly located a long way from the action. Perhaps there was no suitable spot closer. Then again perhaps there was action here. There was apparently a gymnasium just out there to the north.
I continued along the path, which now curved right along the base of a retaining wall There was a building up there but as it was obviously not Roman I ignored it. However, when a sign pointed the way up to the Tholos of Venus I walked up some steps and back along the top of the slope to find the temple.
The temple was a half-tholos, like a shell facing east across the valley. But Aphrodite had her back to the sunrise. Was that how Hadrian would have arranged it? Where would the worshipper stand, in the curve of the tholos or facing it? Aphrodite should face the sun and be framed by the tholos. Her white marble would blaze in the dawn.
It still might, if she was here. But the original is in the (closed) museum. She was replaced by a copy. The copy’s back needed a scrub.
Later I discovered a long terrace that stretches from the Libraries towards the temple. Where it curves around the hill there would have been a good view west into the tholos.
I headed on along what a sign announced as Via Carrabile. The way led to and through a massive wall (the Pecile), into a massive peristyle. Massive, what a useful term. The wall, over a metre thick and nine high, was a solid mass of concrete faced with opus reticulum. It looked more suited to defending a city than walling a garden. In Hadrian’s day it supported a huge portico that extended around both sides of this wall and the perimeter of the garden. This garden was double the length of the Forum Romanum and half again as wide, four times the size of the Basilica Julia.
In the centre was a large pool. Ducks, geese and swans populated the landscape of shrubs and lawns that lay around the pool. There was also, inevitably, a sleeping cat. In the way of such things it’s possible that the cat was the true heir to this place, tracing his mongrel ancestry back to Roman times. He certainly looked the part, sunbathing beneath a shrub in his garden.
The place possibly doubled as a palaestra and a promenade in Hadrian’s day. It was the biggest enclosed garden on the site.
I had read that there was no drinking water on the site. That seemed unlikely, and the presence of a drinking fountain in the garden near the Hall of the Philosophers soon disproved it. I was carrying two full bottles, but if I ran short I now knew where to come for a refill. I took a big swig fresh from the running tap before moving on — no sense in wasting the opportunity.
I was oriented now, and I planned to work through the place systematically, finishing at the most evocative structure, the Canopus. Here was a doorway through into the Hall of the Philosophers, so I went through.
This may have been a reception room or audience chamber. The south end had an apse with a half-dome. The apse had a number of alcoves. Perhaps Hadrian kept statues of gods, heroes, relatives or past emperors here. In short, it looked more like a chapel than an audience chamber. Romans and Greeks liked having their gods convenient to hand during sports, so if the peristyle doubled as a palaestea then some sort of devotional facility is likely to have been nearby.
Just on the other side of the wall was one of the villa’s most intriguing structures, the Maritime Theatre. This comprised a circular portico around a circular moat surrounding a circular island. The island was completely filled by a complex building. The moat was crossed by two moveable bridges.
Nobody was really sure what its function was. It may have been a microcosm, an abstract scale model of the world in which the emperor could sit in state to give private audiences or to have his horoscope read. Or it could be a private study, a comfortably furnished retreat from the greater world, where he could relax and think. Hadrian had a subtle mind and his buildings often served multiple purposes, so I think it may well have served both public and private purposes.
The Theatre had a grand entry on the north. There was a private stair from the Theatre that gave access to the upper floors of the so-called “libraries”. The emperor had personal apartments up there in the first phase of building the villa. In which case, with the outside doors barred, the Theatre would be a secure private world.
The Theatre was the pivot on which the whole villa turned. Everything was focused on it. The emperor’s personal suites would logically be nearby, above the Greek Library and in the constructions between the Library and Winter Palace courtyards. Possibly the Heliocaminus was his private baths. The triangular peristyle attached to it would be the emperor’s own palaestra. By coming and going through the portico of the Theatre he could reach almost any part of the villa more directly than his guests, who would have to circle the central buildings or make their way via underground passages.
My Blue Guide placed his quarters further south, west of the fish tank. Actually that’d be the winter palace, positioned to catch the afternoon sun. The summer palace would be the one surrounded on three sides by peristyles.
The so-called Greek and Latin libraries were peculiar structures — for libraries. Like the Hall of the Philosophers, they were built more like chapels or auditoriums. The Latin Library may have been a shrine to Antinous. But why not give them a temple pronaos? Perhaps because Hadrian was an innovator.
They opened onto a formal garden. This would have been a nice spot, with its views, fountains and shade.
Around the east end of the libraries there was a confusion of masonry. Beyond it was the so-called Hospitalia.
This guest accomodation, it that’s what it was, was extensive. Bedroom floors had ornate mosaics: the rest of the appointments must have been to the same standard. It had its own kitchens and triclinia and what looked like a small baths. Some floors had suspensae, suggesting that they were heated. Windows and terraces overlooked the valley to the east. But it was confined to one corner of the villa. A comfortable hostel, easily monitored and controlled by a handful of guards.
My Blue Guide identified this as a residential wing for high-ranking staff. It also thought the main entrance was nearby.
The hardest thing to grasp about the villa was that most of today’s open vistas weren’t there in Hadrian’s day. The core of the villa was a complex of blocky buildings, joined to one another by common walls or by intermediary structures. There were three major peristyles, surrounded by two- and three-story buildings and often faced with two-story colonnades. You could have walked under cover from the Greek Theatre to the Golden Place with only one small gap, or to the Great Baths without a gap. Centuries of plundering had reduced the villa to a ragged shadow.
I walked southwest as far as the Heliocanimus, walking unaware through one end of the imperial palace — rather a modest structure if compared in size to some around it — then returned to the “Republican villa”, believed to predate Hadrian. Parts might predate Rome, although that seemed unlikely to me.
On the far side I crossed the main peristyle and entered the Hall of the Doric Pilasters.
This complex may have been a combination basilica and throne room. It had the right layout and the ornate decoration, and even had a foundation stone at the curved west end that may have carried a throne. Of all the “audience chambers” I saw, this one best fitted the label, and it certainly suited Hadrian’s taste for multi-functional structures. It formed the far boundary of the peristyle of the imperial palace.
The Piazza d’Oro — the Golden Place. This was an enormous compound east of the core villa. It had two main parts, a great peristyle and a sanctuary. The sanctuary was a complex of triclinia and libraries, backed by a monumental nymphaeum — a typically Hadrianic multi-use concept. You could eat, read and write in the sanctuary and exercise in the peristyle. This compound was probably more for his guests than for Hadrian, however. He might mingle with them here, but it was far too big for one man. Hadrian thought big, but that size was usually scaled to the building’s function.
I also explored an underground passageway that led between a service area and the Hall of the Dioric Pilasters. There were storerooms and what might have been a kitchen down there.
Heading west I reached the so-called Barracks, more likely storehouses, but it was well positioned to double as the fire station. It was speculated that the “throne room” in the Hall of the Doric Pilasters was an apse built to conceal the awkward angle of this utilitarian structure, but Hadrian had a record of demolishing bad or useless structures rather than building more useless structures to conceal them. If he left this place standing it was because it fitted his plans or because it didn’t annoy him, and he built the apse because he wanted it there.
The inside was bulky and built for strength. There were rooms that might have been bunkrooms and others that looked like store rooms. The floor was unadorned brick in a herringbone pattern.
Around the far side were several rooms including a latrine.
Here was the winter palace, terminated by the so-called “fish pond”. It may have been used for breeding fish but it would also be a damp cool place where guests could swim and relax out of the sun in hot weather.
The ground abruptly dropped ten or fifteen metres here, forming a huge concrete ledge. I headed south a ways to check out the structures below me but then realised that if I kept going south I might miss things. So I doubled back through the winter palace (the “Building above the Nymphaeum”) towards the Heiocaminus.
This split-level arrangement disoriented me, as it was not clearly marked as such on my maps. Looking closely at my main map (not the Blue Guide one) I could see the contour now. Hadrian had cut back the slope to give a bird’s eye view of the so-called “garden-stadium” below. It did indeed look like a stadium, but one that doubled as a garden for the huge halls beyond them on the lower level.
The Heliocaminus, quite possibly the emperor’s private baths. So named for a circular sauna apparently designed to capture and concentrate the sun’s heat.
I found a way down into the large peristyle, closing the loop on this portion of the villa. I looped south into the garden-stadium to the south end of it, then returned to the large peristyle. The winter palace loomed overhead. It had openings into the garden. Some guests probably stayed here: the emperor, if he used it at all, probably had a secure suite in one end of an upper floor.
From the peristyle I turned south again to explore the Trefoil Casino. This building was the main structure opening on the peristyle. The large central room had an impluvium in it: it was clearly an oversized atrium provided for the emperor’s guests, and possibly attended by the emperor himself during festivals.
I wandered through the Casino and then after a brief look over the edge of the patio at the “Hundred Rooms” — storehouses and servant quarters built into the foundation of the peristyle and lining the cliff south of it — I headed south again.
I walked through the two great bath complexes. Why two? The redundancy seemed pointless.
However, the Greater Baths were near the so-called Praetorium, the main commisary and barracks. This is where Hadrian’s numerous soldiers, officers and high-ranking officials would have clustered. The Greater Baths would have been for their use, and possibly some of the higher-ranked servants who waited on the emperor and his guests and who therefore had to be clean.
The Lesser Baths, more convenient to the winter palace and the Casino, would have been for the guests.
There would be much humbler facilities elsewhere for the lower-ranked servants and the slaves.
Between the baths was a passage that led away towards the Golden Place. Opposite it was the Vestibule, marking the monumental entrance to the villa — but I would be back here later.
I climbed a few floors of the Praetorium. The guards quarters were in a separate building in front: the huge arches belonged to store rooms and armouries.
At last I approached what I knew would be the high point of my visit: the Canopus and the Serapeum.
These formed a single complex. The Canopus was a long sheet of water, imitating the Nile or the Mediterranean, in front of the Serapium. At about 120 by 20 metres, the Canopus was easily the biggest pool on the villa next to the pool in the large peristyle.
If there was one globally recognisable icon of Hadrian’s Villa, it was the rounded north end of the Canopus with its arches and broken statuary. It was preceded by reclining gods — Bacchus, I thought, or Dionysus. Mars was the only other statue I recognised, still wearing his helmet and holding his shield beside him. There were also statues of Mercury and Minerva but I needed the help of a reference book to tell me that.
On the west side of the canopus there stood a row of four caryatids, copied from those in Athens, flanked by a couple of Sileni. Opposite, there was a crocodile. Possibly a row of Amazons once stood there too, but no trace of them remained today.
The water of the pool was green with algae, but this merely helped it blend into the landscape.
At the south end of the Canopus was a rectangular basin, and beyond that rose the surviving half-dome of the Serapium.
The dome may have been deeper than it was today. A huge mass of concrete fallen from it lay in the basin. A row of four columns along the south rim of the basin may have supported the front in the shape of several huge arches.
Behind the arches were several semicircular trenches. Between two of these was a permanent semicircular bench, its surface inclined at an angle suitable for reclining and eating. Whatever religious or ritual meaning the Serapium might have, it was also a superb triclinium, the usual Hadrianic multi-function building. The view down the Canopus was still lovely. I wanted to try lying on the bench to get the full effect, but the area was roped off.
Behind the triclinium, the Serapium was dug twenty metres into the hill, creating a grotto. Artificial waterfalls here would have carried the sound and scent of falling water throughout the Serapium. There were staircases and rooms to trap the echo.
I was captivated by the place and wandered through all the openings, just taking it in. Then my camera filled up while I was climbing to get a wider view. This was no problem: I was quite happy to kick off my daypack and sandals and lean on the balcony while behind me my iPaq sucked the camera cards dry. If I had to wait around, this was the place to do it.
I’ve mentioned that Hadrian was my favourite emperor. It’s hard to say exactly why. Julius Caesar’s reform of the calendar, or Octavian’s making a republic into an empire are more significant than anything Hadrian did. He followed Trajan and handed on the job to Antoninus Pius, thus being the second of four long-reigning emperors during whose reigns the empire reached its fullest growth and stabilised. But that merely says he was lucky, or a good administrator.
I first heard of him through learning about Hadrian’s Wall at school, and I tended to think of him as somehow English. It was a shock to learn he was born in Spain. I only gradually learned about the rest of his architectural accomplishments and his world-wandering lifestyle, his intelligence and subtlety — and his less savoury aspects, such as his obsession with the boy Antinous and his savage repression of a Jewish uprising. But these virtues and faults together merely made him more human. And he was the first bearded emperor. Since I usually wore a beard myself, once I could grow one, that created a link.
Many of his other works were constrained by function — the wall — or by location and tradition — the pantheon. But in his villa he was free to express his mind and creativity. What he created was larger than Nero’s Golden House but more humanly scaled. It was more varied than a conventional villa but expressed a unified concept. Most buildings are built for a single purpose and serve other purposes less well, but here, except for the baths, there was no monumental building that you could point at and say “this was only used for this purpose”. Everything had at least two designed functions which it served equally well. The villa was a flexible, multipurpose complex designed to meet Hadrian’s requirements as a man and as an emperor.
But the camera was empty and the iPaq was full. It was time to move on.
I walked up the hill to seek the Academy, the Temple of Jupiter and the Tower of Roccabruna. Everything was either fenced off or unrecognisable. Defeated, I walked back down to the Canopus for another circuit.
There was a stone bench on either side of the north end of the pool. I was charmed to find that a tourist had dozed off on each, forming bookends. They had both fallen into that graceful pose that comes naturally to women sleeping on their sides on an unyielding surface, with a long curve from shoulder to waist and then the jutting hip. I didn’t blame them for dozing off: this place was a superb setting for a snooze.
I headed back north to look over the Hundred Rooms in more detail.
As mentioned, the Vestibule was the main entrance to the villa. Apparently they only recently realised what this otherwise peculiar structure was for. The driveway out front probably tipped them off. It was a long loop, allowing traffic to come and go without having to turn around. Interestingly, neither of my maps showed the driveway.
The Hundred Rooms overlooked the driveway. There was a lesser path directly beneath the rooms, probably used by wagons hauling goods to the storerooms on the ground floor. A system of wooden balconies gave access to the first and second floors, which were where the villa’s lower echelons lived. It must have been an odd sight in Roman times, a vertical town.
Visitors arriving here would have walked up from the Vestibule onto the terrace. From here it was about 100 metres to an entrance to the “winter palace”, the nearest logical place for guest quarters — convenient to all facilities yet comfortably removed from the imperial palace.
I continued north then turned west into the large peristyle, this time to walk around the unexplored section. At the northwest corner I saw a tunnel leading into the hill beneath me.
I was tempted to go round to see the structure from down there but the weather was starting to look threatening. I had established that the villa deserved a second look in a later visit: I decided not to press my luck now.
I went back through the door in the east wall, paid my respects to Aphrodite, and left the site.
I didn’t go far, just to the cafetaria. It was 15:00, and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The local cats, skilled beggars, did their best to prevent me overeating.
15:14 Sitting outside the cafe with a nice white wine and a couple of sandwiches, watching a tour bus unload its cargo. The villa hardly notices such insects — although the arrival of a quarrelling, jabbering mob at the Canopus might have spoiled the mood. “Felix” the mooching cat is making the rounds, tail high between gigs, tail low and dejected as he starts his act.
I walked up to where the local buses stopped and hopped on the first one that came along. Just in time: as it groaned up the hill, the rain started.
I wasn’t sure where to get off. If I’d been smart I would have got off at the castle, Rocca Pia. But it was still eaining. Instead I stayed on until the bus reached its terminus. I had no idea where I was: my only map of Tivoli was in the Blue Guide, and didn’t match with anything I could see. The driver spoke no English, had finished his shift and was only interested in going home.
But I remembered the castle and walked back to it, then using it as an orientation point I walked down to Villa d’Est.
As expected, it was closed. Oh, well; I’d had a good run today.
The rain started again. The return bus to Ponte Mammolo took 75 grinding minutes.
The Imperial ForumsNext morning I walked the length of Via Cavour then turned onto Via dei Fori Imperiali.
This street was misnamed. Should have been Via destroying Fori Imperiali. When Mussolini decided that a nice straight new arterial was just what his capital needed for grand parades, he plunged it straight through the heart of the cluster of forums built by the Roman emperors, demolishing structures that had survived one and a half millennia of neglect and plunder and destroying the integrity of the area. The road may someday be closed and removed, but we’ll never get those antiquities back.
I wandered down to the area opposite the Roman Forum, getting a look at the Senate House and Basilica Aemilia from the back, and also some terraced steps that led down from the Basilica into the Forums of Nerva and Vespasian. This was my south-east reference point. To the north-west I could see my second refrence,Trajan’s Coloumn, in the north of his own forum.
In Roman times the two doors in the rear of the Senate led, one into the Forum of Caesar (largely rubble beneath later buildings but now being excavatated), and the other into the street south of that forum. This area included the Mamertine Prison, which seemed an odd thing to preserve when so much beauty was being destroyed to build churches, but since St Peter and St Paul were supposedly imprisoned there it had a catholic connection, so they kept it.
Across the way, Nerva’s Temple of Minerva had lost its pronaos but preserved some amazingly detailed reliefs around its upper part. They were easier to see now than in Roman times, as the modern road was above Roman ground level.
Along to the north was the Temple of Mars the Avenger, centrepiece of the Forum of Augustus. It had lost most of its walls but one rank of columns and a chunk of wall stood on the south side. Like nuclear blast-shadows on a wall, the outlines of niches, roof and other structures were visible on the rear (eastern) wall, which was a tall retaining-wall holding up the hillside behind the forum. Via Tor de Conti runs along the top of that: I must investigate the views from up there next time!
Beside the temple, a flight of steps went up to three archways in this wall, presumably leading onto Via Tor de Conti. On each side of the forum were apsed basilicas quarried for their marble in the Renaissance. Only parts of the apses survived.
The last and largest imperial forum was that of Trajan. This appeared to have possessed extensive substructures, and was closed off. One of its exedra was demolished to make way for Via Fori Imperiali. The other survives, providing the monumental forum frontage for the Markets of Trajan. They were closed — that’s twice I missed them.
At the north end of the forum the Basilica Ulpia was identifiable by rows of restored columns, like broken fangs. 120 by 60 metres, it edged out Basilica Julia as the largest basilica in the city in its time. It had an apse on each end, the same size and shape as the twin exedra facing the forum, but these were plundered of their stone and buried. In the end this basilica fared little better than the Basilica Julia. Surprising, as I would have thought it would make an excellent church!
Beyond the basilica was Trajan’s column, 30 metres tall, flanked on either side by now ruined libraries. But the column survived, although in the 16th Century the statue of Trajan was deposed in favour of St Peter. I wonder what they did with Trajan? Maybe the statue was preserved and now sits in a corridor in the Vatican Museums, but the chances are it was broken up for lime.
Despite being surmounted by a usurper and, during my visit, being surrounded by an ugly cage of metal scaffolding, the column was still impressive and beautiful. It was hollow, with stairs inside: the door at the top was clearly visible. But nobody was allowed up. Understandable: if it was opened there would be a permanent queue until the pounding of tourist feet caused the column to collapse. Unlike Pisa’s Leaning Tower and London’s Memorial the the Great Fire, the column wasn’t built to take heavy traffic.
Trajan was supposedly entombed beneath the column in a golden urn. I wondered if he was still there or if his urn had been souvenired.
I headed east, rounding the Vittorio Emanuele II monument. I went in there in 2002 and found it a depressing experience, so I didn’t stop this time. I did pick out Mussolini’s window across the way.
Now I turned north, looking for the Trevi Fountain.
It was a fair distance. At one point I took a shortcut through the middle of a building. In the centre was a lovely courtyard with murals on the walls and a polychrome marble floor. I had no idea what building it was, but I dallied to admire it and consider the time well invested.
Finally I came to the fountain. It was lovely, but I felt a little disappointed because it wasn’t as lovely as its reputation made out.
In the centre, Neptune rode his chariot through the waters. The chariot was drawn by horses guided by a pair of tritons. In the wall behind Neptune were statues of, on his left, Health (a demure woman carrying a spear and a bowl; a snake peered into the bowl) and on his right, Abundance (a ripe-bodied woman carrying a cornucopia; one of her breasts escaped from her disarrayed robe, displaying the nipple). Above them were reliefs depicting the discovery of the spring (20 km away) that provided the water, and Agrippa’s approval of the aqueduct (the Virgin) that brought the waters here. Above that, on a cornice, were statues of the four seasons, and above that a coat of arms.
The pool was a huge oval, lined with people facing away and tossing coins over their shoulders. There was a tradition that throwing a coin in the fountain ensured a return to Rome. I picked over the coins in my wallet. Rejecting the smaller denominations I selected a shiny 1 Euro as my contribution. I desperately wanted to come back to Rome, and if there was anything to sympathetic magic, perhaps the “Euro” was better than the others. I took my place in the line, turned my back, and tossed the coin. So if there was any truth to the tradition, I now had it working for me.
There was also a tradition that a second coin allowed you to make a wish, but I decided not to be greedy. Coming back to Rome was all I desired.
I stopped at a little café just off the fountain to drink to success.
Back at Piazza Venezia I again bypassed the “Typewriter” and made for the summit of the Capitoline, stopping only to inspect the remains of a five-storey Roman tenement that still climbed the slopes.
The easiest way up was the Cordonata, a stepped ramp designed by Michelangelo. At the top was Piazza del Campidoglio, surrounded on three sides by imposing buildings — the Capitoline Museums and City Hall.
In the centre was a large bronze statue of a bearded man on a wide-bellied horse. This was a copy of the famous equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, the only equestrian statue to survive. It survived because the Popes thought it depicted Constantine, even though the rider wore a beard and looked nothing like Constantine. The original was deemed too valuable to leave in the open so it was now sulking in an inadequate display in one of the museums
I paid my money and entered the Palazzo dei Conservatori.
The ground floor was closed. Some of its displays had been moved upstairs temporarily.
Upstairs there was a great bronze head of Constantine, unmistakeable with his large eyes and massive jaw. Nearby was a bronze hand and globe. The walls had frescoes, supposedly illustrating Roman history. One of them looked to be a Rape of the Sabine Women. Even the ceilings were inlaid with paintings. There was also a relief in embossed copper.
I found the famous Spinario, a boy plucking a thorn from his foot. He was mostly the colour of old bronze, but his balls shone brightly. Hmmm.
The She-Wolf of Rome, the most famous image here. I wanted to see her in 2002 but the museums were closed. Etruscan, made in the 5th or 6th Century BC. In Roman times she stood alone: the silly figurines of Romulus and Remus were only added in the 16th Century. She had survived well: only some marks on her right hind leg suggested any serious trouble. My Blue Guide suggested this might have been from a lightning strike in 65 BC.
Given her age and origin, the question has to be asked: did she proceed from the legend or did the legend proceed from her? It would be easy to attribute the tale of the she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus to a desire by the kings to legitimise their rule. The wolf would provide a handy prop.
Further on I found several rooms with fine busts of Roman emperors.
Upstairs I found the bust of Commodus as Hercules. The arms were strangely reedy. Was the artist taking a cheap shot?
I also found an erotic painting. Looking sideways at the audience, expression neutral but for a hint of conspiracy, the nude woman had no pubic hair and only a suggestion of a mound, but the fingers of her right hand lay poised suggestively between her thighs and her right hand was raised as if about to cup her breast or tweak a nipple. Ripe hips completed the picture. The only jarring note was that her impossibly buoyant breasts looked like they had been slapped on her chest as an afterthough.
Finally there was a hall full of porcelain figures, many of them exquisitely beautiful.
Although the same ticket gave access to both, getting to the other museum, Palazzo Nuovo, once involved crossing Piazza del Campidoglio. In 2001 they opened another route, a passage through the Tabularium. In the spirit that anything not forbidden should be mandatory, the powers that be decided that letting people in through the front doors of the Palazzo Nuovo was now superfluous. The new passage promptly became the only public access to the Nuovo. Since the front door remained open (it was still an exit) and therefore had to be manned, their logic passed my comprehension.
The passage contained several modern niches containing ancient sculpture. I was quite taken by a beautifully proportioned Venus: shame she’d lost her head.
Halfway along, an intersection marked the way to the Tabularium
Only one floor survived the ages. The mayoral building above it was relatively new. The views from the arched windows were excellent, although in Roman times they would have been obscured by the rears of the temples of Concord, Vespasian and Saturn.
As I walked back, there was a thump from above and something rattled on the floor in front of me. A small piece of Roman concrete, shaken loose from the vault by the concussion. I asked a nearby guard if it was OK to souvenir it and he agreed. So despite virtuously keeping my hands off the ruins, I got to bring home a genuine piece of ancient Rome anyway.
I went up into the Palazzo Nuovo and headed for the courtyard, passing a big statue of Mars. In a side room I found the original of the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, and finally understood how poor the copy outside really was. It was intricately detailed, right down to the emperor’s shoe laces, and from this angle the horse did not look so fat-bellied.
Back in the courtyard I found a river-god, once one of Rome’s “talking statues” but now scrubbed clean of grafitti and thus silenced.
Upstairs I found something I’d been looking for, a mosaic of two theatrical masks, a male satire and a female tragedy. In 2002, in Venice, I bought a terracotta wall decoration based on this mosaic. Like several other mosaics in this room, such as the four doves on a bowl, it probably came from Hadrian’s Villa.
A few steps further down, in her own octagonal room, the Capitoline Venus stood with one hand modestly covering her groin and the other rising half-heartedly towards her breasts. However, although the years had treated her kindly and she was supposed to be inspired by the Cnidean Aphrodite, she was actually not one of the best Aphrodites I had seen on this trip.
Busts and statues of emperors, a couple of centaurs, a grotesque baby Hercules, and the touching Dying Gaul completed the haul. I found myself back in the square.
I wandered around the top of the hill for a bit, poking into the relatively modern encrustation of buildings, then set out to find the remnants of Roman times. They were surprisingly thin on the ground, although many of the things I saw may have been raised on Roman foundations. The closure of key points for repairs hindered the search a bit. I was particularly disappointed at being unable to reach the infamous Tarpeian Rock.
I did spot a fountain of less than Roman vintage, with a triton in its basin blowing a conch. Above the basin on either side crouched lions, ready to pounce on the triton.
I snuck in through a back door of the museums. If challenged, I still had my ticket, but nobody asked to see it. I went far enough in to satisfy myself that I could indeed get to the exhibits this way. Then I went around peering out of windows in an attempt to see the Temple of Jupiter, which used to stand here and was now being exhumed, but there wasn’t much to see. The excavations did not seem far advanced and the fragments of damaged masonry were disappointingly small and disjointed. As you’d expect of a building that had another building erected on top of it.
Finally I made my way back down the Cordonata, giving it a longer looking over this time.
Piazza NavonaThis time I headed for the Pantheon, along a route I vaguely remembered from 2002. But although the Pantheon was at the end of this trail, my objective was something I remembered seeing along the way in 2002.
In Roman times this area was known as the Field of Mars. Although it fell outside the Republican walls, by Imperial times it was thoroughly urbanised.
Here Pompey the Great built a theatre, with a huge portico stretching east from it. In 44 BC, while the Senate House was being reconstructed, the Senate was meeting in Pompey’s portico. And so it was here, not in the Forum, that Julius Caesar was slain.
Today this area was called Largo Argentina. I stumbled upon it in 2002 without realising its importance. Serendipity seems to be a property of the area, for it was only accidentally excavated: someone wanted to put up a new building here, a plan that was scuttled by the discovery of what lay beneath.
The excavation was a great pit, surrounded by retaining walls and occupied by four large temples and 400 cats. The dedications of the temples were not known, but on their west side was found a portion of Pompey’s portico.
Perhaps we can see the very spot where Caesar died. The odds seem against it, and yet, if he was coming here from the Palatine he would have arrived at the east end. The conspirators did not delay execution of their plan, so he probably didn’t get far into the porch before they closed in around him. At worst the spot is beneath the adjacent street.
It would be too much to expect a Roman plaque or inscription to have survived saying “X marks the spot”, but it is exciting to speculate on what might be found here by future digs. And it seems fitting that the portico is now covered by a theatre, although I have no idea whether it has ever offered Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar on its bill.
I headed north a couple of minutes until a familiar round flank bulged out from behind the buildings in front.
The Pantheon was hailed as a masterpiece of Roman architecture. That may be. It could never be a masterpiece of the Greek tradition, for its beauty was internal. From the outside it was a tubby barrel with a too-low portico clumsily attached to the front and the remains of another temple clinging to its bum.
Its internal proportions simultaneously expressed the cube, the sphere and the pyramid. For centuries its vault was the largest ever built and it was still the largest masonry dome today (wider than the dome of St Peter’s). Thus its architectural mastery, for which Hadrian can claim the credit.
The interior was gorgeously decorated using polychrome marble and other coloured stone. The inside of the dome was textured, and at its apex was a round hole, the occulus — not unique in Roman architecture but unusual in the modern day. The walls rose like cliffs, pocked with alcoves and shrines that would once each have glorified a different god or deified emperor.
It was crowded. People wandered in and out in unending procession. I wanted to lay my camera on the floor for a shot straight up, but if I had, it would have been trampled.
Outside, Piazza della Rotonda was equally crowded, so I moved on.
Piazza Novona. Its modern shape followed the shape of the stadium built by Domitian. The plaza was identical with the course and the buildings that surrounded it were just the depth of the vanished stands. Every guidebook proclaimed the love the locals bore for it. In consequence it was packed with tourists. The only obvious maybe-locals to be seen were shopkeepers, buskers and hawkers, here to make a buck from the tourists.
Its nature can be summed up by pointing out that the tritons in the fountains wore fig leaves. Only the figures in the centre, out of reach, were allowed to be heroically naked.
Pigeons perched everywhere, part of every view. The dominant odour was pigeon poo.
Palazza Altemps was another converted aristocratic residence. I was drawn to it in part for its excellent collection of Aphrodites, some of the best around. They were mostly Roman or later copies, but they captured the spirit. There was an excellent Aphrodite of Knidos.
The place had plenty more statuary to offer, and some of the rooms were decorated with excellent friezes. I found the originals of some of the funerary friezes from the Appian Way. There were two Athenas, the free-standing one being a copy of Phidias’ work in the Parthenon. The Galatian Committing Suicide was a companion piece to the Dying Gaul I saw earlier in the Capitoline. Above the courtyard there was a decorated loggia.
I headed on toward the Tiber, until I reached the St Angelo Bridge. Another Hadrianic construction — his tomb was on the other side of the river — this bridge later acquired a Papal veneer through the addition of a flock of saints and angels, who still perched along its flanks.
In recent times it had acquired a new flock, this one of hawkers, who lined the bridge with their wares laid out in front of them.
It had been my thought to climb Hadrian’s mausoleum — now known as Castle St Angelo — for coffee, but I decided to head on towards St Peter’s instead.
After taking refreshment in Via della Conciliazione, I walked up to the basilica’s plaza to watch the sunset.
While watching, I took stock of my physical state. Legs: good. Feet: good. Mental state: interested. I was in good shape. So after sunset I pushed on through the dusk until I reached the Mausoleum of Augustus.
The big round tomb was below the modern ground level. Steps led down to it, but I saw a dog running around down there, so I sat on the steps instead.
Second in size only to Hadrian’s monster, the tomb was not in good condition. It had been plundered repeatedly for stone and neglected for centuries. Yet it was still impressive. It had clearly been well built.
But it was empty. What had happened to the ashes of the residents? Augustus, sister Octavia, and nephews Gaius and Lucius were here, and Nerva, and probably others. Probably their urns were stolen during one or other sack of the city, their contents simply poured out on the spot. The same may have happened to Hadrian, although a tale that his sarcophagus was taken by a Pope for his own use suggests that the barbarian grave robbers were not all foreigners.
The dog was fetching a stick for its owner, a slim girl. After a while she obviously felt hot, because she took off her cardigan and sat down on a block of stone.
We sat there like bookends, watching each other for a few minutes. But time was moving on, so I got up, called down a “goodnight” to her, and headed south.
I walked back via the Spanish Steps — still packed with people despite the hour — and Barberini Place. I walked slower now; the day had finally collected its toll. But I made it back.
Baths of DiocletianI didn’t have far to go to find today’s itinerary, just up to Piazza della Repubblica. Standing on the south side of the place I was there: standing in a great exedra in the grounds of Rome’s last great baths complex.
Completed at the start of the 4th Century by Diocletian, they were the largest ever built in Rome. A portion was converted into a church, St Mary of the Angels, and so survived relatively intact. The rest survived for a long time but much of the was eventually plundered for new buildings.
The caldarium lay east of the exedra, but Republic Place washed over it. Only a portion remained, becoming the entrance to the church.
Through the doors, the dome of the circular tepidarium, now the vestibule, recalled that in the Pantheon with its coffers and occulus. So did the decor of the walls, here and in the main hall of the church, once the basilical hall of the Baths. Diocletian had spared no expense in the decorations, and his architects had spared no effort in the proportions of this hall. Even now, weighed down with religious dross, it was beautiful. In the Pantheon, repairs had not always been true to the original colours and designs, but here the colours and patterns coordinated.
The decision to use the caldarium-tepidarium axis for the church meant that the far wall of the basilica had to be broken through to extend the apse into the large swimming pool (natatio) in order to make a room for the main altar. Pillars were removed at each end of the hall to make the adjacent chambers into twin chapels. There were small wading pools in the angles of the cross-shaped structure so formed, and these had been walled off. The materials for this work probably came from the unwanted portions of the building, as it all seemed to be of a piece. The workmanship was excellent.
I left through an inconspicuous door that led out through one of the wading pools and a mixture of new and old buildings. The huge archway leading into the swimming pool had been walled up but its outline was clearly visible. The modern street outside ran through what had been the western palaestra. From the street I could look across to the Octagonal Hall — once one of a series of rooms leading to the caldarium from the palaestra along the south-west face of the building — and a wall that was once the north-west outer wall of the main building. The square room attached to the north side of the Octagonal Hall was a vestibule for one of the two western entrances to the main building from the grounds.
The Octagonal Hall is part of the National Roman Museum. I should have gone in now but I decided to wait. Dumb.
On the traffic island in the middle of Place of the Republic was the Fountain of the Naiads, terminus of the Acqua Marcia. It was badly in need of restoration — most of the figures looked like they had leprosy. Some of the poses were quite bold. I was especially taken by one that was reclining in apparent ecstacy with her legs open and a jet of water playing between them.
I walked on around anticlockwise to appreciate the rest of the building. The row of rooms from the caldarium to the southwest corner had essentially disappeared, and there was a clear line of sight along the eastern palaestra to the two surviving great halls in the east corner. Unfortunately they were closed to the public.
However, I walked around the halls to a corner of the grounds, now a garden backed by 16th Century buildings that contained part of the collection of the National Roman Museum.
The garden was walled on one side by the great halls and on the other by the outer walls of the grounds of the Baths. These had a couple of exedrae in them. The wall of the great halls, although it was the outer wall of the main building, had niches in it for statues.
There were more statues and fragments in the garden, but I headed for the entrance.
Inside, down a corridor, was a door to the right. Through it was a hall featuring various bits and pieces including several terracotta exhibits of Demeter (Ceres) and Kore (Persephone). However, the main focus here was on the inscriptions — the epigraph collection, gathered from all ages and all over Rome. I skimmed these, but although several were quite interesting, I didn’t have the urge to put in the half day here that would be required to do the collection justice.
I was able to extend my collection of Aphrodites. There were several different statues, all broken but clearly belonging to one or another familiar style.
At the end of the corridor was a door into a large cloister attributed to Michelangelo. At my left as I went through was a stunning trompe l’œil fresco of a man in monkish garb standing in a doorway.
The cloister, a large courtyard with a portico, was peppered with fragments if sculpture. In the middle were several ancient cypress trees, one of them propped up to keep it going, grouped around a fountain. Perched on the hedges beside the paths leading away were several large animal heads — seven according to my Blue Guide, probably from Trajan’s Forum.
Back inside, I climbed to the upper floor. Here there was a display of Mithraic material — and a staff member talking loudly into her mobile phone, oblivious to the annoyance she was causing to visitors. Along the corridor was an exhibit illustrating life in early Rome.
Across the way at Palazzo Massimo was the main section of the National Roman Museum. I had to buy a new ticket, and make a time when I could go up to the second floor.
The first exhibit I really noticed was a female nude, not obviously Greek or even Roman. The pose was clumsy and some of the detailing was rough, but it fascinated me. It took a while to figure out why: it was anatomically perfect. Most Greco-Roman statuary struggled to represent the breasts — the sculptors would create an essentially male chest and whack a pair of floaties onto it. The groin was another trouble-spot. Apart from the obvious lack of one very important feature, the groin was usually too simplistic. Here the breasts flowed naturally, and the complex folds at the hip and where the legs met the lower belly were visible. Any further detail was concealed by her slightly gravity-defying robe. Perhaps there was a wind blowing
The next notable statue, an Aphrodite, illustrated the point perfectly. The museum had several other Aphrodites, standing and crouching. However, one of the crouching statues possessed only part of her face but it was stunningly beautiful.
A series of busts of emperors caught my eye, and then I came across another copy of the Sleeping Hermaphrodite I’d seen in Paris. This one wasn’t in such good condition — someone had souvenired part of its penis.
Then it was time to go upstairs for the tour of the Second Floor. Accompanied tours give me the shits, but it was the only way onto this floor.
First was a room reconstructed from the Villa of Livia. It depicted a Paradise, a beautiful imaginary garden. It was a masterpiece of decorative artwork.
Next was a corridor with frescoes from an Augustan villa. I wish I remembered more about it, but after the group was silent during the guide’s the Italian spiel, the Italians broke into a loud discussion during the English spiel. The guide’s English was hard to understand at best, but with half a dozen Italians gabbling over the top of her she might as well have been speaking Swahili.
At the far end of the corridor the group’s cohesion shattered as the disgusted English speakers split between the nearby rooms. The guide was left with the Italians.
There were mosaics from the villa, and more decorated walls. Some of these were 3rd Style and some were 4th Style.
The group moved gradually down the next corridor to rooms with more frescoes, and then we reached a corridor devoted to mosaics, many stunningly beautiful. Down the end were rooms with more mosaics, including a rather famous one featuring four jockeys wearing their colours.
That ended the tour. By now we were scattered all through this end of the floor and the guide faced quite a task to gather everyone together and make sure nobody stayed behind.
My last stop was down in the basement, where the coin collection was kept. It was arranged more or less chronologically and within periods the coins were arranged to show their gradual development.
I was particularly fascinated by the bronze as, the earliest Roman “coins”. These were bronze ingots rather than coins. You’d carry them in a wheelbarrow, not a purse. They were cast, not struck. Later, as devaluation set in, they shrank. The originals represented enough bronze to make a large dagger; their descendants were the size of a fingernail. The ones from around 79 AD, when 4 as bought a loaf of bread, were middling in size.
I headed north. I stopped at the Octagonal Hall, but although it was still short of the official time, it was closed.
I went on north, discovering various entertaining things along the way, until I reached the top of the Spanish Steps. There I stopped to empty my camera memory and take in the scene.
It occurred to me now what was so familiar about the scene here. In Melbourne, the front steps of Flinders Street Station, beneath the clocks, had always been a popular place to meet and hang out. Rome used its Spanish Steps the same way. The same mass of languid bodies cluttering the steps. The same casual meet’n’greet. But the Spanish Steps were a lot more numerous than the mere half dozen steps at Flinders Street.
Day or night — as I’d proven last night — the steps were strewn with people. All sorts of people. It was a people watcher’s paradise. Age, colour, attire: endless variety. In one flash I saw nuns in habits walking past a raven-haired girl in a flowing white dress so diaphanous that her black g-string showed through. It might not have been a g-string. Black hawkers wandered through rattling silver bracelets at potential buyers. Flocks of Japanese or Chinese tourists flowed past fat men with cameras and their fat wives with massive purses. Backpackers strolled past families struggling with suitcases.
But most people just looked like your average Westerner, wearing shirt, t-shirt or string top, trousers, skirt or jeans, boots, leather shoes or runners. Pick them up and put them down on the corner of Flinders Street and they’d blend right in.
Living at the other end of the world, Anzacs are a scrap of Western beach lapped by the sea of Asia. It’s sometimes hard to remember that we are part of the dominant world culture. There are more than a billion Indians and more than a billion Chinese, but you get similar figures if you add together the “Western” populations of North America and Europe (including Russia and Ukraine but excluding the Asian republics).
I’ve included eastern Europeans, not because they are wealthy but because their cultures are based, ultimately, on Greek and Roman ideas. Christianity started in the middle east but only took hold in Rome after the West had made it over in its own image.
A Westerner is mainly determined by their culture, not by their income, skin, religion or form of government. And after inflicting four hundred years of conquest, plunder and imperialism on the world we are envied, feared, hated and emulated. This may change in the future, but it’s true now. We don’t see ourselves as a single culture: we see our differences. But standing on the Spanish Steps on this hot autumn day, listening to Babel, there was no doubt about that unity. This was the wellspring.
I walked down the steps and headed north to Augustus’ Mausoleum. By day it was less impressive than it had been the night before. The scars and neglect were more prominent.
There was a tour group on the steps so I went down and walked around it, becoming little the wiser, although I did find what was left of some of the ceremonial clutter that had surrounded it.
I climbed back up and went around to the Altar of Peace, but it was still closed for restotation. Dang.
I went north again until the street ended at a large plaza, Piazza del Popolo. Here was the other Egyptian obelisk from the Grand Circus. On the far side was the city wall.
Outside, set in the wall were niches containing statues whose poses and expressions were so overblown as to be melodramatic. There was a prophet, stabbing at the page of a book, open mouth dragged down at the corners: probably meant to be declaiming the Truth, he looked more like he was arguing with God. “But you said right here that …” And there was Moses, tablet and book in hand, looking horrified rather than righteous. “The bloody tablets have cracked. NOW what do we tell them?”
I headed right, uphill, into the grounds of the Villa Borghese. But I had no intention of going to the museum: its authoritarian visitors regime turned me off. It was necessary to phone ahead and book a place. No turning up when you felt like it. I plan my holidays meticulously, but once I set off I prefer to avoid unnecessary timetables. Museums are places for wandering and pondering. Paying for the privilege of being herded willy-nilly by staff who, going by my guide books, took their jobs far too seriously, was not a prescription I was willing to swallow. So I still have at least one major museum to see on my next visit (after all, I threw a coin in the Trevi Fountain) when maybe I’ll feel more kindly towards authority.
The park was green and well presented, and dotted with statuary and structures. There was always something to see ahead, behind or to either side. Unfortunately the statues were mostly copies in plaster or concrete, and well worn, so although the park looked good in plan the detail did not stand up to scrutiny.
In 2002 I came here in the rain, arriving by walking from a train station and departing by a train station. Afterwards I was not sure where I had been, or even if I’d actually found the Villa (in fact I even got the name wrong in the one sentence I devoted to it in my report). This year I eventually came across landmarks familiar from 2002 and so was able to identify where I had been. I must have clambered out at Spagna, wandered up to Porta Pinciana through the green area inside the walls, wandered into the park as far as Casina della Rose, then partially retraced my steps to another entrance to Spagna.
Spurning the train, I started home along Via Vittorio Veneto. At Barberini I retraced my route from last night.
However, a couple of blocks from home (near corner, east side of via Torino, just south of via Venti Settembre) I came across a place that sold garden decorations and other terracotta stuff. After wandering around a bit I eventually found a nice little bust of a generic Roman emperor, and for €40 I bought it. It was, if not exactly unique, at least one of a small number manufactured “in house” rather than one of the mass-produced souvenirs sold in all the souvenir shops, and it was made in Rome, not China!
That night was laundry night. Here is my diary entry:
19:11 Doing the laundry. Was using the internet on an extremely dodgily behaving machine, got halfway through an email, and a message popped up that my webmail session had expired and I needed to sign in again. Took me to what purported to be an aol mail login. I managed to get back to my Yahoo session, but of course the email I’d been composing was gone. I gave up. The guy offered to let me try again on another machine, but the waste of creativity had left me too irritated to risk it happening a second time.
The laundrettes were on the far side of Termini from my hotel and I had some trouble finding them. I initially wandered past the place I finally found. Once I found it I wondered how I’d missed it!
I finished the day with a curry dinner at the “Sitar” Indian Restaurant in Via Cavour. The waiter was from Goa. Although I worked with Indians every day at home, my ears had lost the trick with the accent during my romp through France and Italy: he had to repeat himself a couple of times about the chicken being off the bone before I caught it.
Ostia AnticaMy last full day. My last day for exploration. There was one big ticket left on my itinerary and I’d been saving it for last. Ostia, port of ancient Rome.
It had been largely abandoned around the end of the Western Empire, and as a result was another city preserved in time. Since it was abandoned, not buried, it was not as well preserved as Pompeii or Herculaneum, but there was little or no later construction to get in the way. By then it was also far enough from any still-populated spot to discourage casual quarrying, so much of its brickwork and masonry stayed in place and in recognisable shape. However, a lot of the marble eventually went north to Pisa. I probably saw some of it in the buildings around the Leaning Tower, if not in the Tower itself.
Getting there was simple enough. I had to change trains at Piramide/Ostiense, but my weekly Metrebus ticket covered the whole trip.
At Ostia Antica I looked for a footbridge crossing the highway, and soon found it. This was my orientation point. From the footbridge I could see the Rocco di Giulio, a castle that appeared on an edge of my Blue Guide map, so I knew which way to go. I strode quickly, though, as a chattering school excursion had got off the train behind me and was obviously headed for Ostia Antica.
At the castle the way to the entrance was obvious.
The Tiber originally made a big loop north of Ostia (only cut off in a flood in 1557) and the town was built on the south bank where it straightened out and headed for the sea. The start of this straight section was marked by the site of the castle, which was designed with a clear view down the length of the river during the 1400s. After the cutoff it became futile and was abandoned.
This first section, then, from the castle to the ticket office, was a stroll along the Roman road beside the former riverbed.
At the ticket office I caught up with a tour group of aged Italians. They had their tickets but were still at the milling around stage, so I grabbed my own ticket and rushed on to get far enough ahead so that they didn’t disturb me.
The road surface was now the original Roman polygonal paving. I had taken the first step back in time.
The first section after the ticket office was the necropolis. It looked much like the Pompeiian ones, but was in worse shape. However, unlike them it was deep rather than long, with two or three streets running through: a true city of the dead rather than merely a strip of tombs. I swung off the main road to walk through it.
I was through the city gate almost before I knew it: the appearance of a massive winged Victory was the wake-up call. On my right was a warehouse district. Ostia had a lot of warehouses — as you’d expect in a port. Rome’s grain was landed here, and the much of the trade of the world’s largest empire flowed through as well, sea being the fastest, cheapest way to move goods.
In Roman times this main east-west street, the Decumanus Maximus, was lined on both sides by a portico, possibly double. Shops fronted the street, offices and flats above, houses and warehouses behind.
Partway up, near the baths, there was an obstruction: a well, an odd thing to see in the middle of the main street of Rome’s port. It dated to the 5th Century, when the aqueduct had been broken and Ostia was becoming a ghost town. It suggested that the eastern half was one of the last areas to be abandoned.
The Baths of Neptune were built by Hadrian over the top of some built by Domitian. They were closed off, but there was an observation platform that gave a view across the ruins.
The Baths were named for the splendid mosaic floor featuring Neptune that dominated one room. An equally splendid Amphitrite featured in the next room south. These may have been atriums.
North of these rooms was the frigidarium, with cold plunge pools and a mosaic featuring Scylla. Through intermediate rooms were two tepdaria, and beyond the northern one of those were two caldaria.
The remaining small rooms to the north and east were service rooms. To the west of the bathing complex was a large palaestra with various small rooms opening along the west side. There was a toilet in the north-west corner.
The south end of the whole complex was made up of shops opening either south to the portico on the main street or north into the palaestra. Some shops interconnected, allowing access to the palaestra from the street, just as sometimes happens in modern malls.
A tour group suddenly engulfed the viewing platform and I took my cue to move on and stay ahead of them.
I wandered along the street frontage. The shops were various, including bakeries and cafés. On the south-west corner was the Caupona di Fortunata, identified for us by an inscription in its mosaic floor. We know it was a café and probably also a tavern by a word still used by cafés in Rome today: bibe, drinks.
At the corner I sucked up a side street, and found a door into the palaestra. I wandered along the length of the bathing complex but everything was blocked off. I found ways into the service spaces around the caldariums but no easy way through the holes from there. I did stick my head up through some holes, but the angle was less than satisfactory, so I could not make out the pattern, if any, on the surviving mosaics.
I came out into Via dei Vigili. Here I should have turned aside to examine the Caserma dei Vigili (barracks of the town wardens — mainly fire fighters) but I was so focused on the Baths that I didn’t think of it till far too late. Weeks too late.
With fresh insight into the layout of the Baths I was tempted to climb the observation platform again, but another tour group was just flooding onto it so I decided to move on.
I moved on to the Theatre, which faced north onto Plaza of the Corporations and occupied the south side. It was in good shape and the top rows gave another good view over the area.
In the middle of the plaza was a temple to Ceres. Scattered around the plaza were statue bases. Around the remaining three sides of the plaza was a portico lined with the offices of Ostia’s commercial organisations for shipping, hauling, storing, importing and exporting. In Roman times this was the true beating heart of the town, not the Forum. Ostia existed to handle the capital’s trade: it had no other purpose. When Rome faltered, Ostia died.
Appropriately, the main entrance to the plaza was allegedly on the north side, towards the river and the docks. Oddly, that area appears not to have been excavated!
Below the theatre on the west was a small temple, more a shrine, to Romulus and Remus. Behind it was the House of Apuleius.
I went down from the Theatre in that direction, admired the Temple, then walked clockwise around the plaza, trying to make sense of the mosaics.
The offices seemed quite small, not big enough for a large staff of book-keepers and bulky records. It was possible there was a second floor or a mezzanine, but if so the stairs hadn’t survived. On the other hand, these may have been mainly booths for customer service. The main records would have been kept at the warehouse, but since the warehouses were scattered, you wouldn’t expect potential customers to chase you all over the city. All you’d need here was a partner or manager, a couple of clerks and maybe a runner or two to handle the orders. Only current paperwork — orders, contracts, inventories, schedules, bills of lading — would be kept here; archived material would be sent off to the storehouse or the owner’s home.
Eventually I moved on. Decumanus Maximus was getting crowded, so I decided to get off the tourist trail. Across the way was a nice little side street, Via degli Augustali, so I went down it.
It was a bit hard to tell what was street and what was house. I thought I was following the street, but the appearance of a fragment of a fresco on the wall told me that no, I was in a house.
I retraced my steps to a temple, the “Collegiate” Temple, that had a raised platform at the back. This oriented me.
The street was actually quite short. At the end it met Via Fortuna Annonabia. There was a fullery on the inside bend, facing the Sanctuary of the Bona Dea.
A couple of smaller streets continued south. I went down the right hand street and found the Mithraeum of Felicissimus, recognisable mainly for its mosaic floor.
Further south I came across more baths. These were quite modest in size. I went through carefully, trying to identify each feature.
Out on the south side I looked across a field and saw more buildings, marked by pillars. All this area was well inside the walls, but it looked like it had never been excavated. The main north-south road, Cardo Maximus, went out through the wall near here, so it would have been built up. Perhaps it was mainly wooden, or perhaps there was more dirt over it than I thought.
Eventually I reached the pillars. It looked like a large peristyle. Consulting my Blue Guide map I guessed it was a warehouse.
At the north end of the west portico I found a small shrine, with a mosaic dedication: L • HORTESIUS • HERACLIDAN • CL • PR • MIS • EXVOTO • TEMPIUM • FECIT • IULIUS VICTORINUS SACER • TESSEL — something like L. Hortesius Heraclidan dedicated and built this shrine to the victorious Julius.
Back on the street I found a plan of the area showing that the warehouse was indeed that of Hortensius. Unlike modern warehouses, it was made up of rooms arranged around a large porticoed courtyard — my “peristyle”. Most Roman warehouses followed a similar plan. It seemed inefficient and wasteful of space, but perhaps it was safer to store things in smaller, secure rooms rather than larger rooms where pilfering might be a problem. The large courtyard would have allowed for storing wood and stone and for laying sea-damp grain and spices in the sun to dry.
I had ended up east of where I started, so I headed back west along the Decumanus to the Headquarters of the Augustali. This was a large, complex structure, a mixture of temple, office, barracks and warehouse.
From here I crossed into the Forum Baths, an interesting structure designed to catch the maximum amount of sun. The palaestra was not the usual porticoed rectangle but simply occupied the land not covered by the buildings.
I wandered down into the Forum past the Temple of Rome and Augustus, where there was a copy of a statue of the goddess Roma.
Further down was the Temple of Venus, with a copy of a statue of Venus. I looked at it. Looked around. Nobody in sight. No cameras …
Yep, I did it. I confess. I put the grope on Venus. Her buttock was only sun-warmed concrete, yet it felt disturbingly feminine in my palm.
I continued north through the Forum, crossed Decumanus Maximus, and went on until I reached the river. I’d hoped to find some wharves but was disappointed.
It was 13:30 and I was hungry. My wanderings had brought me to the cafetaria, so I stopped for lunch. Afterwards I browsed the bookshop and bought a couple of books. One was bright and colourful and full of maps and photos, but I already had cause to doubt its accuracy. The other was printed black and white, with a plain grey cover, but its information seemed more reliable. It contained an excellent fold-out map.
Refreshed, I decided to visit the Museum, due to reopen at 14:15. It contained the original statues from all over town, arranged by category — Mithraic, Grecian, etc — rather than by context. It had several excellent Venuses. Annoyingly, it did not allow photography without a permit. Since the place was flooded with light and there was nothing here to be damaged by flashes anyway, the prohibition was a senseless piece of bureaucratic hassle.
I headed south down the Street of the Balconies to Street of Diana, on to the Decumanus, then west, looking for the old shoreline. However, I was not as directed as this sentence suggests. Actually I wandered more or less at random, guide books tucked into day pack, never really sure where I was. It wasn’t till I edited my photos after the trip, guide boooks at my elbow, that I was able to pick out the landmarks: House of the Mithraeum of Lucretius Menadrus (named for its well preserved Mithraeum), House of the Mills, House of the Thermopolium.
The Thermopolium was well preserved and quite modern, with its counter at the shop front and a nice courtyard out the back where customers could enjoy their meals away from the street. The counter had display shelves behind it and a flat table for the cashbox — or maybe it was a seat. What made it feel so modern was the absence of amphorae embedded in the marble-veneer counter.
There was a cellar, which would have stored food and wine. It was convenient to the kitchen, which itself was positioned right beside the shop front. Customers could have watched — and smelled — their meal being cooked. Probably this was why the counter had no amphorae. Customers would have been able to point directly at what they wanted, in the pot hot off the stove.
The courtyard had fountains, a basin, and various indications that the walls had once been decorated. There was a bench seat set in the east wall. Although the loss of the upper walks now made the courtyard rather more open plan than in Roman times, the angle of the sun suggested that the seat was designed to catch the early afternoon sun peeping over the rooftop.
Outside I was tempted to explore the House of Diana, a Roman apartment block, but a school group had just arrived to take possession, so I decided to get away from the racket and maybe come back to the place later.
I slid on down to the Decumanus and got my apartment-house thrills by looking through the House of the Lares instead. This multi-storey building had shops on the ground floor, flats and rooms on the upper floors. Most of the shops had stairs in them, so probably the first floor was where the shopkeepers and their families lived. A larger staircase opening on a side street may have gone up to the upper storey(s).
The place took its name from the lararium in the courtyard. There was also a fountain, with basin, probably the only source of water for the building. The need for the shops to keep a pleasant environment to attract customers might at least have stopped people throwing slops out of the upper windows, but the courtyard would not have been the sunny, clean place it was now. It would have been shaded, even dim, and probably rank from the bodies crammed into the apartments.
A little further along, the way forked. The Decumanus bent southwards and A street call Via della Foce went northwards. This should have been prime commercial frontage, but all I found here was a fishmonger’s and a meat market.
I followed the Decumanus to the School of Trajan, believed to be the head office of an association of shipwrights. The building took its name from the statue of Trajan found there. A copy stood there now, yay!
I could see the Marine Gate ahead of me now, so I galloped past the long but boring Porch of the Fountain and only stopped when I reached the gate.
Just inside the gate was the Caupona di Alexander, a large tavern that would have done a good trade from people visiting the beaches. It took its name from the subject of its large mosaic floor. The floor was relaid at least once, and the place had a definite air of prosperity. One of the gate towers was accessed through the tavern, which meant the place could probably offer great sea views.
And then, with glances from a couple of men who were evidently there to make sure nobody snuck in the back way, I was outside the gate.
In Roman times the shoreline was about 150 metres from the gate. There was evidently a terrace above the beach, backed by a few suburban villas. In front of this ran Via Severiana. A modern road ran there today, still following the line of the old coastline. Thanks to the Tiber the modern coastline was 4 kilometres away.
Interesting note: looking at a map showing the advance of the coastline, two thirds of it happened in the last 600 years — since the big loop in the river was cut off, in fact. Connection? Maybe none, but perhaps the change in the flow of the river accelerated the build-up.
I didn’t feel like retracing my steps up the Decumanus. Instead I struck out cross-country towards Via della Foce. There was some sort of eminence over there that might have good views.
On the way I crossed a rather modern-seeming area of town houses set in gardens. From somewhere I got the name “Insula of the child Hercules” to describe this place, but it’s not in any of my guide books.
I got lost while navigating this area, but eventually I came out on a long, curving street. Finally resorting to my maps, I deduced it was the Street of the Charioteers. I saw an observation platform nearby, above the Baths of the Trinacria. From it I took my bearings. That eminence I was heading for might be the Markets of Trajan. But first, there were things to see nearby.
Downstairs and round a couple of corners I found the frescoes of two charioteers from which the street and this house took their names. Frankly, the execution was at best second-rate. In Pompeii the wall would probably have been replastered and covered with something better. Perhaps it was drawn by a member of the family.
The Baths of the Seven Sages offered better visual fare. A fresco of Venus stepping from her bath (Venus Anadyomene), surrounded by Cupids, was particularly good, the artist working with highlights and shadings to give it depth. The mosaic floor of the frigidarium was superb.
These baths were named after a satirical painting of seven Greek sages, with crude inscriptions to bodily functions. My guidebooks were all coy about this but Tony Perrottet did not hesitate: “To shit well, Solon used to rub his belly.” “Thales advised the constipated to push hard.” “The subtle Chilon taught the art of farting silently.” Knee-slapping stuff. The sentiments were certainly ancient even to the Romans. I looked for the fresco but didn’t find it, unless it was the half-seen one almost hidden in a dark, roped-off room. Which it almost certainly was.
A quick pass through the House of Serapis, another apartment block, and I headed north.
I climbed the little hill. The hut on top was just a workmen’s shack, but the views were excellent. I could see right across the excavations, and I had a good view down onto some magnificent mosaic floors. I spent almost 10 minutes there, having a rest, looking around, and planning what do do with the hour or so I had left. I hadn’t got down to the Laurentinian Gate, and it was too far away to go now. I was closing in on a section of town, Via della Foce, which my guidebooks all thought was pretty hot. I decided to make do with that.
I headed off down Via Foce, but at the Temple of Hercules I struck a snag: two students had it roped off while they made measurements. I had planned to go through here to the houses on the other side. I turned south.
At Decumanus Maximus I started to explore side streets. But around the Warehouse of Epagathias I decided this was a lame way to finish. I had passed a map of the Via Foce area. I went back and looked at it. And there it was, Domus di Amore e Psiche: the House of Cupid and Psyche. I’d seen a statue in the Museum …
There looked to be a way around the roped-off sacred area, and there was. I found the house, basking in the warm afternoon sun. It was lovely, a comfortable little cottage with a courtyard nymphaeum and what appeared to be a picture window. Some rooms with marble floors and walls. The statue had been found in the small room with a pedestal still in it.
At the end of my visit I sat in the window seat, resting and at rest. I had wanted to finish my trip with a bang, and Ostia had delivered. I had wanted to finish Ostia with a bang, and this house had delivered. My itinerary was finished. It was one of those moments when I was where I needed to be, when I needed to be there, with no “To Do” list.
I sat there, savouring my freedom, mind running easily on several tracks at once: the house, the trip, tomorrow, tonight. Nothing was too difficult in this golden afternoon, with these ancient bricks beneath me.
And then came the intruder. I pulled my mind home and waved him in. “I was just leaving. Welcome to my house. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.”
It was time to go home.
The Last nightBack in Rome, I rested a bit, then roused myself to one last effort. I had promised myself not to waste my last night in Rome. Showered and in a fresh set of clothes, I strolled out with vague plans of dinner at the Pantheon.
The first part went well, but then I made a mistake. To speed things up and spare my feet, I jumped aboard a bus. But it turned off Via Cavour. It wasn’t far off course at first and I sat there, hoping it would come back a little closer to the Forum. But it didn’t.
Eventually I conceded defeat and cut my losses by climbing off the bus. I was far south of the Forum, further from the Pantheon than ever. I had wanted to catch the moon rising over the Forum, but that was now in doubt. Leaving the bus I struck out for the Forum, not sure exactly where I was until I hit a street that was on my map. I strode as briskly as my sore feet allowed.
I passed up the side of the Colosseum and, on impulse, walked up the Sacred Way. Sometimes the Forum was open late, and people were still walking here. But at the top of the hill the gates were closed, with just a few stragglers being allowed out.
I retraced my steps and turned up Via dei Fori Imperiali. I made my way up onto the Capitoline, and found a good vantage point overlooking the Forum. I was just in time: the moon, almost full, was climbing above the ruins.
I blew better full moon opportunities in 2002. I had full moons on my first night in Rome (23 August) and again at Ephesus on 21/22 September, but dozed off. And two nights running this year I had had full moons over Rome, but I dozed off. The moon was now a day past full, but it was still good and this was my last opportunity to do this.
I had only a few minutes to take my photos and enjoy the serene view before a tour group traipsed up and clogged the lookout points with bodies and chatter. I looked around for another angle, but every vantage now had its tour group. So I decided it was time for dinner.
At Largo Argentina I took a different side street towards the Pantheon. In a small plaza beside the Pantheon I found Bernini’s Elefantino, which I’d somehow missed before.
21:24 Down at the Pantheon for my ceremonial last meal of the trip. The place I ate at last time is now a MacDonalds. Ugh. So I moved over a bit. Rosé, bread, chicken salad, with swordfish coming. This will cost me an appropriately pretty penny.
But it cost me less than expected — just under €32 including tip. I even had company, of a sort. There was a pretty girl eating alone at the next table. Amidst a multitude of couples, at least we balanced the genders. She seemed a little sad, and she was making as much of a production of her meal as I was. She got the waiter to take her picture. By eavesdropping furiously I surmised that she was flying home to Japan tomorrow morning.
And it hit me. If my coin in the fountain failed, this might be the last time I would sit here, looking over my dinner at ancient stonework of a warm evening, listening to a babel of incomprehensible conversations in half the languages of the world. And suddenly it mattered very much.
It had been a good trip. Too short, but a near perfect cameo. I had filled in many of the gaps from 2002 and 2003. But I’d missed a lot, and wanted to revisit a lot more. I had to come back. Not soon, but eventually.
The girl at the next table left while I was chasing breadcrumbs and finishing my last glass of wine. The companionship had been all in my mind, but the square felt lonelier with that empty table at my elbow.
On my way back to the hotel, I said goodbye to the Forum. The columns and ruined marble gleamed in the floodlights. They already seemed unreal.
But it was a roller door in Via Cavour that really summed it up: a plane flying off into the sunset. Or was it? It could as easily be a sunrise! After all, my home was east from here.
All four of my recent overseas trips had been during the northern hemisphere autumn. But next year I could fly into spring.
Perhaps it was an omen.
HomeboundCheck-out. I shouldered my pack and walked down towards Termini. I took the walkway below the road. Queued for my ticket.
People kept walking up the exit aisle and pushing in at the counter, each with a tale of last-minute woe that made their case, in their own minds, more urgent than that of those who’d actually arrived here with enough time before departure to buy their ticket.
About the third or fourth such interruption, I was close enough to the front of the queue to make my opinion known to the idiot who was determined to get on the Napoli train that was leaving in 20 minutes. I retorted that there’d be another Napoli train soon enough, and besides, my train left in 7 minutes so what made him so special? My irony made no impression on him. He shouldered past and and held up the line for five minutes debating with the teller over the ticket.
I’d had plenty of time, but thanks to these parasites holding up the line, I missed my intended train to the airport by five minutes and had to wait for the next one.
Once I had my ticket, getting to the airport train took longer than expected. I didn’t remember it being so far in 2002. There were several long travelators to traverse. Even if Joe Moron hadn’t pushed in, my margin for catching my train had been very slender.
In 2002 my arrival at Fiumichino was hassle-free:
The plane landed at 6:55, ten minutes early. Passport control was slack — just riffle, stamp, done — but baggage claim was slow. I was resigned to losing time at customs but there wasn’t a queue and they didn’t even look at me. The handful of customs officers were standing around chatting. I just walked straight through.
On the return leg I flew in from Cairo and changed planes at Fiumichino, and since my baggage was only checked to Rome I had to pass out through customs and back in again, but there was still no hassle.
It was different this time. The queues were tremendous, the bureaucracy interminable (not more thorough, just slower). I determined that if I came back to Italy I’d be happy to arrive in Rome but I’d try to leave from anywhere else!
I was not pleased to discover that once again I was in a Malaysian Airlines seat that didn’t recline. I even swapped with a mother-son couple who’d been unable to get seats together, and that seat was also broken. The best cabin service in the world won’t make up for mediocre servicing of the cabin. Economy class is uncomfortable enough without being forced to sit bolt upright for 12 hours.
Daylight found me over Malaysia. At KL I changed planes, for yet another non-reclining seat.
We passed above various islands, including Sumatra. And then the Big Red came up and I was back in Oz. Not officially, of course, since we were 8 km high and still more than 4 hours from Melbourne.
Melbourne. The passport queues were long, my baggage took a long time to appear, and customs opened my bag and had a quick poke through. By the time I got in the taxi I was no longer thinking of anything except a shower and bed.
Home. I didn’t note the time, I didn’t take a final photo, just found my door key, unlocked, went in, brought the flat back to life, and enjoyed a long shower.
By the time I thought of getting a final time check it was all a blur. I remembered it was 20:16 as the taxi zipped up the motorway, because I calculated I’d then been awake at least 28 hours. Looking at the elapsed time on my alarm clock-radio I now calculated that I’d plugged it in at 21:05, which was after I’d had my shower. I decided to call it 20:45, give or take 5 minutes. So the whole trip, doorstep to doorstep, lasted just 22 days, 9 hours and 30 minutes, give or take a few minutes.
Bedtime.
I slept most of Sunday. No post-trip depression, just incredible jet-lag. Normally I sleep on the plane and don’t get so badly lagged. It was a week before I was back to normal.
I came away liking Paris less, but Rome more than before. Ile du Levant and Cinque Terre were major highlights, but Oplontis and Ostia were unexpected gems. Nice was the biggest disappointment.
Overall it was a peach of an itinerary, with just one real flaw: it was too short.
But we can’t have everything.
