Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - all roads lead

Before I left the Florence station, there was a bit of commotion on a nearby train. I thought someone was in trouble, then ill, then I don’t know what. As soon as officials went aboard a crowd started gathering, gawking onlookers rushing from all directions out of curiosity. Suddenly I felt nauseated and felt the urge to get away from there. Looking at the floor, I walked quickly, swallowing hard in stony silence or I would have yelled or cried or both. I downed an espresso at the first café I came across to calm myself. There can’t be too many people who need espresso to calm themselves, but the hot, stong coffee moved down my throat and through my veins and capillaries, stilling my tensed nerves and muscles. Why is it that people stop and stare at accidents like ghouls? It would be different if they were running to help, but it’s just to look. I don’t know why they do it. It never bothered me before but now I can’t bear it.

This incident coloured my train trip and influenced my first opinion of Rome, which I saw as noisy and grubby. The traffic is wild and the horn honking drives me to distraction. No one moves an inch for anyone else. I walked to the Spanish Steps, dotted with young travelers, students and musicians. I had long wanted to visit the place Keats knew so well and lived next to. For some reason I’ve always had a certain empathy with Keats. I don’t know why. I would think Shelley’s tragic boating accident and his wife’s continuing devotion and creative talent would be endearing, or Byron’s idealistic heroism fighting the Greek cause. But it’s to Keats that I turn most frequently when looking through my old poetry books, now buried in Mom's and Dad’s basement and maybe (maybe?) never seen again by me. I wish I could be more like Keats:

O there is nothing like fine weather and health, and Books and a fine country, and a contented Mind and Diligent habit of reading and thinking, and an amulet against the ennui and, please heaven, a little claret-wine cool out of a cellar a mile deep – with a few or a good many ratafia cakes ……two or three sensible people to chat with; two or three spiteful folks to spar with; two or three odd fishes to laugh at and two or three numbskulls to argue with.

Why can’t I be that content?

I saw the ruins of the Forum and the elegant Pantheon. The public weren't allowed inside the Colosseum, but I did walk the whole way around the outside of it. As I walked past Hadrian’s massive tomb, I looked down at the Tiber. The river itself is rather dirty and decrepit: what deep memories it must have. My visit to the Vatican was disappointing; I couldn’t get in to see Diego Ribero’s World Chart at the library there. I was keen to see the first map that gave an indication of the true size of the Pacific Ocean courtesy of Magellan’s voyage. I always think of the Pacific as ‘my Ocean’. So many years watching its rhythms I guess, or at least from one part of it. Someday I must see other sides of that huge blue.