Make exactly the same joke that has been cracked for centuries. Honestly I’ve sickened myself with it, because here I reside, getting up to more mischief, and utilising the saying as an excuse. Do the bar staff have a sweep stake on you for when you’re going to die? Oh well – when in Rome. 24 Bloody Mary’s in a day? When in Rome! Hardly lift a finger to actually see Rome? WHEN IN FUCKING ROME! They’re going to drag my carcass out of this city on a cart to a Hans Zimmer soundtrack.
You all know the history. A couple of babes sucked on a wolf’s tits and together they shat out the cradle of civilisation. Thousands of years later, Rome still has some kind of thurmaturgy. It is a magical city to walk around in, especially if you’re blessed with that particularly special brand of late afternoon Roman sunshine, which they should bottle and market. It’s a glorious wander into the past, conjuring memories of early GCSE history, because that was the only time you actually listened. Rome has always fascinated me as a result, and I think it the primary reason as to why I am in Italy in the first place. I’ve been on the road for a long time, how can I not visit the place where all roads go?
The city has a number of attractions that I’ve wanted to see since I was knee high. Or around that time anyway. Not least the Colosseum, which stands proudly midst the Forum, surrounded by vendors hawking Gladiator paraphernalia. So familiar with modern stadia, it isn’t as large as you might think, but certainly no less impressive. It’s no Anfield anyway. There’s something about the trees here that make you feel like you’re in Rome, and the ancient, stacked architecture echos the grandeur of its past. It is mesmerising.
A visit to the Vatican City is essential, particularly as I could achieve a new flag sticker for my guitar, and marvel at the priceless art, gold and architectural hoardings of the Catholic church. I’m not so much a fan of thousands of pictures of Jesus on a cross, but I do readily admire the skill of the craftsmen. I had a fold-out Sistine Chapel poster as a boy (for some reason), and I’ve wanted to see it for my own eyes since. It did not disappoint. And while I was slapped on the wrist by a Vatican guard for trying to take a clandestine photo, I instead opted to spend a lengthy time just gazing up in wonder at Michelangelo’s masterpiece. Glancing around, there was almost this palatable sense of panic spreading through the Asian tourists as they clapped eyes on the no photography sign, and it would take all their willpower to resist subtly raising that selfie stick. I asked my assailant why no pictures were allowed, and he informed me that it was a holy place. No more so than all the other Basilica’s you’re allowed to take a snap in no? I mused it was more for the profit on the gift shop postcard. Still, a stunning piece of work nonetheless.
But alas, as much as this city captivates, I’ve fallen into a black hole. A Yellow hole I should say. I’ve barely made it beyond the end of the bar at Rome’s number one party hostel. After the tranquility of Venice, I deemed it necessary to allow myself a little life porn, and I’ve been getting up to my old tricks once again. And why not say I? The company has been sublime, the breakfast hearty, and the welcome warm. I’ve managed to kid on to a considerable number of people I’m actually a decent human being, and the drinks have flowed free. Bacchus himself would have been proud.
After two weeks, my clothes were beginning to smell, and they could have got up and walked on their own. Rome was a poem pressed into service as a city. I’m a bum pressed into service as a bum. Having no change of garments, I wasn’t prepared to pull an 1980’s jean advert and strip off in the laundrymat, so I hastily purchased pants and a tourist T-shirt daubed with a Latin slogan. By the time I’d crammed in a visit to the Spanish steps and wandered map-less in search of the Pantheon to no avail; with the help of a companion (more on her later) I managed to drag myself kicking and screaming out of the city. The lazy photographs are displayed below, but I’m not the least bit sorry I watered myself well in a city of such decadence. I’ll get there dear readers. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
When in Rome…
Make exactly the same joke that has been cracked for centuries. Honestly I’ve sickened myself with it, because here I reside, getting up to more mischief, and utilising the saying as an excuse. Do the bar staff have a sweep stake on you for when you’re going to die? Oh well – when in Rome. 24 Bloody Mary’s in a day? When in Rome! Hardly lift a finger to actually see Rome? WHEN IN FUCKING ROME! They’re going to drag my carcass out of this city on a cart to a Hans Zimmer soundtrack.
You all know the history. A couple of babes sucked on a wolf’s tits and together they shat out the cradle of civilisation. Thousands of years later, Rome still has some kind of thurmaturgy. It is a magical city to walk around in, especially if you’re blessed with that particularly special brand of late afternoon Roman sunshine, which they should bottle and market. It’s a glorious wander into the past, conjuring memories of early GCSE history, because that was the only time you actually listened. Rome has always fascinated me as a result, and I think it the primary reason as to why I am in Italy in the first place. I’ve been on the road for a long time, how can I not visit the place where all roads go?
The city has a number of attractions that I’ve wanted to see since I was knee high. Or around that time anyway. Not least the Colosseum, which stands proudly midst the Forum, surrounded by vendors hawking Gladiator paraphernalia. So familiar with modern stadia, it isn’t as large as you might think, but certainly no less impressive. It’s no Anfield anyway. There’s something about the trees here that make you feel like you’re in Rome, and the ancient, stacked architecture echos the grandeur of its past. It is mesmerising.
A visit to the Vatican City is essential, particularly as I could achieve a new flag sticker for my guitar, and marvel at the priceless art, gold and architectural hoardings of the Catholic church. I’m not so much a fan of thousands of pictures of Jesus on a cross, but I do readily admire the skill of the craftsmen. I had a fold-out Sistine Chapel poster as a boy (for some reason), and I’ve wanted to see it for my own eyes since. It did not disappoint. And while I was slapped on the wrist by a Vatican guard for trying to take a clandestine photo, I instead opted to spend a lengthy time just gazing up in wonder at Michelangelo’s masterpiece. Glancing around, there was almost this palatable sense of panic spreading through the Asian tourists as they clapped eyes on the no photography sign, and it would take all their willpower to resist subtly raising that selfie stick. I asked my assailant why no pictures were allowed, and he informed me that it was a holy place. No more so than all the other Basilica’s you’re allowed to take a snap in no? I mused it was more for the profit on the gift shop postcard. Still, a stunning piece of work nonetheless.
But alas, as much as this city captivates, I’ve fallen into a black hole. A Yellow hole I should say. I’ve barely made it beyond the end of the bar at Rome’s number one party hostel. After the tranquility of Venice, I deemed it necessary to allow myself a little life porn, and I’ve been getting up to my old tricks once again. And why not say I? The company has been sublime, the breakfast hearty, and the welcome warm. I’ve managed to kid on to a considerable number of people I’m actually a decent human being, and the drinks have flowed free. Bacchus himself would have been proud.
After two weeks, my clothes were beginning to smell, and they could have got up and walked on their own. Rome was a poem pressed into service as a city. I’m a bum pressed into service as a bum. Having no change of garments, I wasn’t prepared to pull an 1980’s jean advert and strip off in the laundrymat, so I hastily purchased pants and a tourist T-shirt daubed with a Latin slogan. By the time I’d crammed in a visit to the Spanish steps and wandered map-less in search of the Pantheon to no avail; with the help of a companion (more on her later) I managed to drag myself kicking and screaming out of the city. The lazy photographs are displayed below, but I’m not the least bit sorry I watered myself well in a city of such decadence. I’ll get there dear readers. Rome wasn’t built in a day.