Exploring the Esquiline

The Esquiline stands the tallest and most extensive of Rome's famed seven hills of origin. To the modern day visitor it is associated with the hub of chaos and noise that is Rome's central station - Roma Termini - and it is home to Rome's ethnic market, once on Piazza Vittorio, now inside a more recent edifice round the back of Piazza Vittorio. Even though it is called Nuovo Mercato Esquilino, it is no longer so 'nuovo', as it moved to the site over ten years ago.

The area is known for its many Indian, Chinese, Korean and Thai restaurants which sit alongside some of the cities cheapest (but not very good) tourist restaurants. 

My first foray into the district was over twenty years ago when following the advice of my backpacker's guide book I sat down for dinner at one of the latter. The service was fast, the food unexceptional and, just as the guide book said, the bill was totted up on the paper tablecloth. It was cheap though. 

Aside from being an excellent place for food, Rome's mercato centrale, was recently opened in a renovated side hall of Termini station, the Esquiline also comprises the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, the remains of the Aqueduct of Nero which provided water for his Golden Palace (Domus Aurea), Porta Maggiore and Porta Tiburtina, the temple of Minerva Medica on Via Giolitti as well as the largest porticoed square in Rome on Piazza Vittorio where in the summer a three-screen open air cinema is set up.

There was a cool breeze blowing when I got out of the metro at San Giovanni as well as an ominous cloud covered sky offering the promise of rain. First things first, I got a quick snack to eat in the narrow park that ran alongside the city walls, the Aurelian walls named after the Emperor Aurelius, from Porta San Giovanni to the Basilica of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme. 

This being the year-of-the-immigrant a number of them were lying on benches or on the straw-like grass, which I've always figured must be itchy to lie on (not to mention all the bugs). I passed an elderly Italian who was enjoying an al fresco pee as undoubtedly was his dog. I watched the pigeons flutter in and out of perches on the city wall and ate my surprisingly tasty tuna, egg and lettuce pre-packed oily bread sandwich. Someone in the manufacturing process had come up with the idea of adding a squeeze of lemon to pick the flavour up. 

Sandwich polished off and bird watching bored, I moved on. I passed the dog play area where a black and white setter was cavorting around. It was opposite the deserted kiddy playground. Iit was just after lunchtime. I could well imagine Italian mamas' concerns over the hazards of going on a swing or down a slide as the digestive process starts. 

Santa Croce in Gerusalemme underwhelmed in terms of appearance. It stood a symmetrical block with saints atop - San Giovanni in Laterano's plainer, duller brother.However it is one of the pilgrim seven churches. Nothing tempted me to take a peek inside, but to be fair, I'm rarely attracted by the insides of churches and basilica. Too often they are displays of tacky opulence which make me wonder what happened to the poverty vow. On the piazza outside was a cute fountain with three angel heads spitting water, or at least, fitted to do so. No water was flowing. 

I passed the granatiere museum (grenadiers). There was also a fanteria (infantry) museum hidden further back. Who visited them? Maybe some nostalgic retired service men?

I strode on. The air was thick with car fumes which reminded me of something I'd read. People in big cities breathed in as much smoke as heavy smokers, mainly from exhaust fumes and other minuscule air pollutants. I was approaching one of Rome's busiest junctions. It was also an important, but neglected, Roman ruin: the grand old Porta Maggiore. 

I passed through an arch in the Aurelian walls and there standing tall and solid was the white travertine marble Porta Maggiore, originally called the Porta Praenestina because of the road that used to pass through it. It was built in 53 Ad under the Emperor Claudius at the convergence of the aqueducts Aqua Claudia and Anio Novus. Two important roads passed under the arches, the Via Praenestina, which led to the town of Palestrina, and the Via Labicana, today called the Casilina. The current Via Labicana runs between the Colosseum and the hill which comprises the Domus Aurea.
On the attic of the gate are inscribed words of praise to Claudius, Vespasian and Titus, all of whom were involved in work on the 11 great Roman aqueducts. 
In 271 the Emperor Aurelian integrated the gate into the Aurelian walls, early evidence of architectural recycling. It became known as the Porta Maggiore (Great gate) either because it is the most impressive gate in the walls or because one of the roads from it leads to the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore devoted to worship of the Virgin.

One of Rome's most interesting tombs stands outside the Porta Maggiore, the baker's tomb, built as a large baker's oven. It was erected in the first century by the baker, Marcus Virgilius Eurysace. He was a former slave who had bought his freedom. The tomb was intended for him and his wife. 

Nowadays Porta Maggiore is a noisy, busy traffic junction. Roads lead from it to Termini Station, to the center of Rome or outwards towards the University District of San Lorenzo and further onto the Casilina. Three tram lines cross here and the archaeological site acts as a tram stop each side serving different destinations. It is chaotic and dirty.The weedy dust that surrounds the monumental gate is strewn with all manner of litter: broken beer bottles, metal cans, plastic wrappers as well as discarded garments and lost shoes.

I head away from the gate, down Via Giolitti, the road which runs down one side of Termini Station. I want to find the Temple of Minerva Medica. I know it's up here. I pass the offices of Porta Portese, the paper that advertises just about anything. An old tram rattles disturbingly close past me. It's empty. Other than the tram and a passed out wino the road is deserted. 

The first thing I learn about the Temple is that it isn't a temple but a 4th century nymphaeum which was once mistakenly identified as a temple to Minerva Medica mentioned by Cicero. The actual temple is believed to have existed on the Esquiline but closer to Via Merulana. The octagonal structure of the nymphaeum is well preserved though the roof collapsed in the 19th century. Today it is a largely forgotten ruin stuck in an unpopular rather seedy neighbourhood. Part of it has been restructured and visible up the inside was some scaffolding.

I turn off Via Giolitti down a small tree lined road which leads onto Via di Porta Maggiore one of the large avenues which lead up to the Esquiline's most important square Piazza Vittorio. The avenue is lined by restaurants, Chinese owned clothes and shoe shops full of very little, and some of Rome's cheapest hotels. 
I tuck down the side of Piazza Vittorio onto Via Principe Amedeo where all the ethnic supermarkets are as well as some Indian restaurants. I stop off to get some Chinese chives, coriander and mange touts, this is the only place I can get them.
I return to the grandiose but dilapidated colonnade that runs around Piazza Vittorio. A sad shadow of its glorious past.

 It is the biggest square in Rome and it was built after the unification between 1882 and 1887. It was named after the first Italian king. It is made up of 280 columns and the large luxurious buildings had originally housed the dignitaries of the different Ministries in the area.

Today the vast area under the colonnades is neglected with scuffed tiles and plaster peeling from the facades of the old palazzi. 
The vast trading store Mas (Magazzini allo Statuto) has gone out of business leaving behind boarded up windows and dusty hoardings. Mas began its life at the start of the 19th century as a luxurious three floor shop with enormous crystal chandeliers. In pre-first world war times it was the shop of the wealthy bourgeoisie. Over time and as the area changed to become Rome's largest ethnic district the shop became a symbol of cut price everything and was nicknamed the temple of trash.

Many cheap Indian fast food restaurants have started up in the area adding to the piazzas run down, beat up, down-on-its-luck image. These restaurants facades are brightly, garishly plastered in photos of the dishes served within - though if the food is as bright as its pictures suggest, it might be an idea to stay clear. Under the porticoes stalls are set up selling clothes, shoes, pots and pans... a sad display in a place which had been once so magnificent.

During the edification of Piazza Vittorio extensive excavations revealed large pauper's graves from the ancient Esquiline graveyard where slaves, miscreants and assassins had been interred. To make the piazza and its gardens, churches and buildings were knocked down.

All that remains of one of the most important palazzi in the area, the Villa Palombara, is the porta magica (the magic door) - a door engraved in alchemist formulae. Beside it, like guards, stand two squat marble statues representing the Egyptian god Bes. 
It was built in the 1600s by the Marquis Massimiliano Palombara. He was part of a group called the 'alchemists of Palazzo Riario.' They gathered at the court of the Queen Regent Christina of Sweden who was a supporter of alchemy, science and great thinkers such as Descartes.

The magic door is the only one that remains of five gate doors to Villa Palombara. According to the legend the marquis met an alchemist at a dinner party who claimed he could change metal to gold with some special herbs. By morning the alchemist had vanished leaving some gold flakes as evidence of the successful transformation with an indecipherable sheet said to contain the alchemical 'recipe.'  The Marquis was unable to read the inscription so he had the recipe engraved around his doors in the hope that one day someone would be able to read and understand it. Strange beliefs still surround the door fueled by the mysterious symbol on top of it. 
Today the lone surviving magic door stands beside the remains of the nymphaeum of Severus, also a survivor as it is one of fifteen monster fountains which used to exist in Rome.

In the center of the park is a fountain by Mario Rutelli, (grandfather of a past Roman mayor, Francesco Rutelli). It has been dubbed by the locals the 'fritto misto', as it shows a man intertwined in a dolphin intertwined in an octopus but in such a way that the marine creatures are hard to distinguish one from the other. It used to stand at the center of the fountain on Piazza Esedra but was replaced. A 'fritto misto', by the way, is a typical antipasto made of battered and fried fish and vegetables such as baccala (cod), stuffed zucchini flowers etc... Try one when in Rome.
 
I crossed over into the park where a large screen had been erected for the summer outdoors cinema. Rain was imminent, the clouds were pressing down ever closer. 

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A flock of pigeons were pecking at some bread and pizza crusts that had been tossed on the ground. As always lots of people were sitting on the benches some eating, some drinking,some listening to music or reading books. The roses were in flower. Near the nymphaeum, in a palm grove, a person was sleeping (passed out ?) on the yellowing grass. At the foot of the nymphaeum reclined some Roman street cats, safe behind the barriers that protected the monument from human predators. A grey tabby sat proud on a fallen stone.The cats had water and no doubt one of the many gattare would come and feed them. The colony was known as the cats of the porta magica as their enclosure comprised both the nymphaeum and the gate. Maybe they knew something about it that humans didn't? Who knew what went on at the darkest hours of the night? 
The porta magica half hidden away didn't look as scary, or magical, as some stories would suggest. I felt no emanations of occult forces, though I wouldn't have minded if any stone I picked up changed to gold. I could always do with some more gold in my life!
 

My walk was almost over. I left the park through one of its large black wrought iron gates. I crossed the road opposite the gaping maw of a metro A entrance. I walked under the portico to Via del Statuto past the demised Mas building. One of my favourite shops was closed for lunch, it sold all manner of pulses as well as Middle Eastern produce. Next to it was the famed Pasticceria Regoli. In the window were some tempting cakes topped with a crest of small wild strawberries or large coronas of marzipan. I was making for my last stop, large wet drops plopped out of the sky with instant soaking effect. By the time I stood outside the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore my feet in their sandals were soaked through. A gull seemed to be enjoying the rain alongside a crust of pizza a tourist had tossed it. I stood beside the fountain at the foot of the Column of Peace, a 14 metre column which once stood in the Temple of Peace (later Basilica of Massenzio). Up high stands a statue of the virgin. The rain was now bucketing down. The two armed soldiers standing guard on the piazza made the basilica uninviting. It would for now remain one of the umpteen places of holy worship I haven't visited yet in Rome. I crossed the road to the bus stop. I was lucky. The bus came by within five minutes.

Ostia

I have never been well-disposed towards Ostia. Maybe because of an old Gerald Seymour novel, I read it before I came to live in Italy, which described only too eloquently the seediness and filth of its free beaches (also something very nasty happens to a female character there). Maybe because it's where writer/poet/film director, Pier Paolo Pasolini was murdered. It could also be because of the constant Ostia Mafia stories in the local press. 

All too evidently it could be because of the level of pollution. The mouth of the Tiber empties its filth into the sea at Fiumicino, where Rome's biggest airport is located. It pollutes the beaches along the coast causing mountains of foam on the beaches, waters so murky that your limbs become invisible as soon as you enter them, and large tides of blooming toxic algae responsible for nasty skin rashes which extend as far up the coast as Fregene. This doesn't stop thousands upon thousands of Romans from heading to the coast as soon as the hot weather hits the city. It may be, as is said of the Neapolitan and the bacteria filled water of the bay of Naples, that Romans, having grown up and every summer bathed in the waters of Ostia, are immune to whatever they may encounter there. 

Ostia is connected to Rome via a direct train line which also stops at Ostia Antica, a far more worth while place to visit than Ostia Lido. The modern town was developed in 1884 near the ancient settlement after reclamation of some  malaria-mosquito-infested marshland (the pond of Ostia). Once the train line opened  in 1924 the resort became a Roman favorite and many Art Nouveau houses were built along the sea front.

After the second world war many beach establishments (stablimenti) were built on the beach. This lead to a boom in tourism further enhanced by the opening of the Cristoforo Colombo avenue which connects Ostia to the EUR district in Rome. A road only too well-known nowadays for its high levels of fatalities. However, as of the early 1970s the effects of pollution began to be noticed and less people came to the beaches. Thus began Ostia's decline. 

Going there on a busy weekday morning, as I waited for the train at the station of San Paolo I was puzzled by the contradictory information that kept flashing up : treno fuori servizio (train not running) then followed by 'next train to Ostia:11.33'. I wasn't the only one confused. However, as there were quite a few people on the platform it looked as if the train was running. It was. At a punctual 11.39 it rolled in, reminding me of its nickname the 'misery' line. The Rome Ostia line is notorious for its frequent breakdowns, delays and at rush hour over-crowding which has lent it another unattractive nickname: 'the cattle shuttle.' Just a few hours earlier the train had been stopped for an hour between Ostia Antica and Acilia because of a 'guasto' (breakdown).
 My trip was uneventful, a slow trundle through the dusty suburbs of the city past vast clumps of overgrown weeds and grasses, some yellow grass fields and blocks upon blocks of siena, ochre, bronze buildings in differing states of disrepair.

I came out of the station underpass onto a vast piazza full of yellowing trees and dotted with bus stops. Round the square ran a covered arcade full of typical seaside shops touting beach toys, swimsuits and other sea paraphernalia as well as an ice-cream shop (gelateria), a bar and a large supermarket. I was headed seawards, basically a straight line from the central station. 

I crossed a street, walked past a closed funfair and in front of a church, Santa Maria Regina Pacis. It all looked abandoned and forlorn. Broken beer bottles and cans littered the pavement. I crossed another street in front of the town hall, the Palazzo del Governatorato: it's a vast edifice, it was built in 1924 and elaborately decorated with a dark sea-themed design all over its facade. It once housed a primary school.

I walked down a pedestrian street towards the sea front and the long line of bathing establishments. The area had been cleaned up and lots of restaurants offering various takes on sea food and fish have popped up since the last time I was there. 

 I crossed over onto the lungomare and the pontile an inelegant cement structure that extended out to sea. The water was still murky and the beaches were largely deserted. The season hadn't yet started. A lone crow seemed to be enjoying the sea breeze close to an over-tanned elderly woman who appeared to be preening herself and smiling in a way that suggested she might have been a few clams short of a bouillabaisse. A couple were taking a selfie, at least there weren't any high walls for them to fall off. I watched the waves ebbing and flowing, breaking in a foamy mass over some rocks. A lone surfer glided by. It was hot. 

I walked back towards the central square, a small fenced off path led to a tiny free beach. It looked as if the town council weren't giving away too much for free. But I knew that the larger free beaches were out of town at the cancelli (the gates) setting of a nightmarish scene in a Seymour thriller. 

In recent years, Ostia has hit the headlines only too often with Mafia related tales and scandals. Drug raids, savage attacks against reporters, drive by shootings and the like pepper the Ostian daily routine. The current Mayor, Virginia Raggi, has vowed to fight the scourge but as Ostia residents only too well know: "if you don't see anything, and you don't say anything, you've got a good chance of making it to an old age." The problem persists.

C Line Tourist

The day was hot and humid and dull. One of those grey sky days that make me think I'll never see the sun again. It might last 12 hours, 24 hours or even longer. But, in the end, the clouds will lift and bring some welcome air.

I paid my bills at the rudest post office in the city. As if I needed more evidence of the latter, an old man was being shouted at by the manager, which made a mockery of the keep-your-distance privacy line. No one could help but hear. "No, you cannot cash that cheque. I see you have the account holders authorisation but you don't have any of her documents. You must bring....." she railed on as the old man staged a counter attack. My number pinged and I went to the till that was hidden behind a pillar.

I left the post office and walked up the street to the now tidied up junction at San Giovanni. This reminded me that the C line had finally connected with the A line. The inauguration on the 12th May had gone well, no one had hissed, booed or whistled at the Mayor as she delivered her predictable speech along the lines of a 'historic day' for the capital, 'a step towards the future,' and all the clichés that go with opening ceremonies.

People were even coming to the station to see the ancient Roman artefacts that had been excavated while the line was being built. It was a station museum.

A large moist drop of rain helped me decide. This was the historic day I would ride the C line to the end of the line at Pantano-Monte Compatri, according to my map, at the foot of the Albans hills.

I went down the stairs past the turn-stiles that led to the A line and into the clean new part of the station which was dotted with display cases. I had a brief look and noted that some of the broken ceramic dishes didn't look ancient. I took an escalator down into the depths as I descended I saw on the wall various painted markers indicating how deep I was and what that depth corresponded to in terms of Roman history.

The C line is deep down so unlike some of the shallow A line stations shouldn't flood, or at least not at the height of San Giovanni. As I discovered only the first 11 kilometres run underground while the latter 8 are above ground, and use part of an old existing railway track. Within the first weeks of opening the out lying stations, in 2014, leaks had sprung. It might have been one of the most expensive engineering projects in Europe in recent years but Rome's torrential rain had got the better of it.

I waited at the already crowded platform and noted the 10 minute frequency between trains. Was that good enough for a busy capital? The platform and track were separated by a glass wall with sliding doors. The train rolled in and the doors slid back. Passengers got off and others got on. It glided back into the dark tunnel.

The intercom wasn't working well so the voice was fuzzy announcing the stops. There were I noted 22 stops, a lot of stops. As I tried to get an idea from my phone map app of where I was heading I realised there wasn't an Internet signal. I closed the phone and sat back.

Twenty-five minutes in the train came out above ground which made things more interesting. I could look around. The sky was a shade greyer and the buildings dull. Blocks followed blocks, there were facades with peeling pink painted stucco, shabby balconies, sheets hanging out of windows, some green patches. The further we went from the centre the lower the buildings got, more and more of them looked like large converted villas that were now family-sized flats.
At a station a large screeching sound jolted me out of morose thoughts on just how dull the Roman periphery was. In the station an alarm rigged door had been opened. The same thing happened at the next station. There were no security guards that came running, in fact, most of the stations seemed deserted. Most passengers got off at the height of Tor Vergata, one of Rome's three universities. They would still have to get a bus if they wanted to reach any of the faculty buildings.
Eventually the train stopped at Pantano-Monte Compatri. I could see a line of large umbrella pines. When I reached ground level I saw they extended from the corner of a large car park. On the other side of the station was the infamous Casilina street, known for its massive traffic jams, accidents and passing through some of the city's less salubrious areas. It was raining now. There was in the end nothing to see here. The Castelli town of Monte Compatri was 6 kilometres away and there was no connecting bus.

I turned back towards the station, up the escalator and onto the platform. The next train was due in seven minutes. It was 40 minutes back to San Giovanni.

This time I sat at the front of the train. As the trains are fully-automated the front of the train is designed as a viewing platform. There's a large window and metal bar to hold on to for those who want to experience standing up the excitement of the C line metro. I sat on one of the plastic side benches. As we got closer to the center the train filled up and more passengers joined me in the carriage-with-a-view.

I noted along the way that some plants were growing inside the glass tunnel, they appeared to have forced through the seemingly clamped closed tunnel that surrounded the tracks.
Now, less than a month after the station opened at San Giovanni long predicted problems have arisen. During the rush hour passengers changing to the A line have been held up at the turn-stiles as the A line platforms have become dangerously over-crowded.
The C line project is not finished. It is supposed to connect with the Colosseum and the B line and may even one day end up on Piazza Venezia, funds allowing that is.

Fresh Spring Peas

People  moan that there are no more seasons. Yet, one place the seasons still exist are on the district markets. As the weather heats up the produce shifts. The winter artichokes dwindle away as the first broad beans appear. Around mid April peas will pile up on the stalls around the same time as asparagus start being discounted. There's a short window of time to make the Vignarola - Spring vegetable stew.

More and more tomatoes of different varieties take up space on the stalls: merinda, datterini, picadilly, ciliegine, canone, cuore di bue, green, red, yellow or black, smooth or wrinkled, round or oval, big or small with the queen of them all the pacchino. The plump deep purple aubergines that seem to thrive all year are joined by their slimmer counterparts. The dark winter courgettes are replaced by pale green courgettes still bearing their flowers. In another corner of the stall, large bunches of the zucchini flowers are gathered ready to be bought and stuffed for deep-fried Fiori di Zucca. The bitter leaves of the winter season get replaced by salads: small round ones, larger oval fronded Roman ones and curly fronded frisées. Spring onions and fragrant fresh garlic jostle for attention.

But what always draws my eye are the large heaps of fresh peas usually next to a large basket of fresh broad beans.To tell the truth, for many years fresh peas were not a vegetable I associated with Rome, they conjured up images of lamb with a mint sauce so very British, or the delicious p'etits pois à la française' that my mother would prepare in the late spring. I also hadn't realised that they are of the type blink and you'll miss 'em. In the Spring it's important to go to market as often as possible, skip a week and peas may all be gone!

Peas are the protagonists of  the famous 'risi e bisi' dish - the one I've dubbed the Italian rice dish that isn't a risotto. It is basically what it's name says it is, rice and peas. It is especially flavoursome if the stock used  comes from boiling the pea pods, however any vegetable stock may be used. It originates from the Veneto, the peas are the emblem of Spring while the rice symbolises fertility. It is traditional to eat it on the 25th April, the feast of San Marco.

In Puglia, in Altamura, the minestra di piselli di Altamura is made, combining peas with broken strands of spaghetti in a broth. Peas are also found in Sicilian arancini. (deep fried rice balls).  Or in various Spring soups. Or in oven baked sformati (soft moulded crustless pies) Or alongside cuttlefish. Or in Spring pasta dishes. Or with mint, even in Italy!  

After all, who doesn't like peas?

Looking for a gull

I'd read the story. A picture of a gull with its cv (because gulls have those) had been affixed to the walls of the AMA headquarters in Rome. AMA (Azienda Municipale Ambiente) is the refuse collection agency in Rome. The gull postulated for a position with claims of instant availability, a liking for refuse and experience in catching rodents.It was as fit a candidate as any for the position of ecological worker, as refuse collectors are called here.

I decided to go looking for the gull. The AMA headquarters are on Via Campo Boario, round the back of the non-catholic cemetery and outside the city walls. I set off with my dog. It was a spring morning like so many, slightly hazy, already too hot with pollen floating about. It wasn't long before I had to remove my cardigan and tie it round my hips.

At Parco Scott (named after Robert Scott, he of the failed Polar expedition) I let the dog run free in the dog enclosure which wasn't too fragrant. I'm being polite. In some areas it stank! All the bins were overflowing with multi-coloured and brightly patterned dog poop collection bags. It looked like the park hadn't seen an ecological worker in a while. Nor had the park cleaning service been either as the dogs ran and played in clumps of grass and weeds at times higher than the smaller pooches. I didn't stay long: time for the dog to sniff and play with her pals then it was time to move on.

I headed towards the steadily flowing Cristoforo Columbo , one of the cities most dangerous roads that leads out of the centre towards the business district of EUR and further on through residential areas to end up at the sea in Ostia. I crossed it into Garbatella, the modern side of the district. It is all five-floor or higher apartment blocks.

Down at ground level I was surprised at the amount of dogs passing by - especially of the smaller yappier variety. I had read a statistic that said 1 in 3 Italian families owned a pooch. I'd been dubious. But out in Garbatella this seemed to be the case. 

I hesitated as at the terrace of a café a doggy squabble was in progress. A Jack Russell terrier with raised hackles, peeled back lips to expose all its teeth and yapping away was dodging forwards to nip at the back of a passing dog twice its size. The owner reigned in the yapper as the owner of the other dog yelled at him some Roman insult. As I passed in front of a glass entrance door to a building a Cocker Spaniel came out pulling its owner along for a walk.

where old and new Garbatella meet

I turned off the principal road, circonvallazione Ostiense, onto smaller quieter back roads that led past the overpriced albeit attractive behemoth Eataly. From thence, I passed below the railway tracks, via a graffitied tunnel, Lord Byron was looking dapper, to piramide.  It shone in the sun. I strode down Campo Boario, and peered into the cemetery.The neatness of the cemetery contrasted with the messiness outside the city walls. Weeds grew high, pigeons pecked in the tall grasses and among the strewn litter. A scattering of beer bottles some broken dotted the pavement which the roots of trees had pushed up and distorted. There wasn't a gull insight, either live or in any other format - which considering the amount of litter was a surprise! 

Just past the intersection between the ancient walls and Monte Testaccio, off Piazza Vittorio Bottega, I found the gull I was looking for. Well, more exactly, its remains. A piece of the beak, a claw, the outline of the sketch as well as barely visible the letters CV. 

It showed that when it wanted to AMA could get something done fast. Maybe not in the street where I lived, maybe not in the streets where most Romans lived, but from the walls of its own headquarters, offending refuse was removed fast.

I walked back home dodging overflowing refuse from the large dumpsters all over the city. No doubt gulls, crows, pigeons and rodents had had a hand (or beak) in strewing it so widely.

Later I check the seagull ad, the poster had been placed there by the street artist Maupal. The seagull was described as 'volatile, courageous and aggressive', its listed hobbies were 'eating fish, dead animals, rats and food waste.' The artist had done the poster to highlight the fact that the city was "on the verge of collapse."
Unfortunately, this is only too true.

Further along the Tiber

I needed Sardinian fregola. Even though Sardinia is just a ferry ride away there is only one shop where I can get it: Castroni's, a shop that caters to all international needs - mind you, at a price. This is where you'll find Branston pickle and golden syrup jostling alongside Thai curry pastes, jalapeno relishes and tamarind paste. It's a beautiful day so after work I stay on the A-line til I get to the Flaminio stop. I make my purchases and head towards the river.  The sun is hot but there's an underlying spring breeze.

I overtake three young women who are trying to follow directions on their smart phone GPS. "Are you sure this is the right direction?" asks one.
"Yes, the phone says so." They walk a few paces and stop. I realise that they are looking for the park of Villa Borghese. In the opposite direction. Should I tell them? After a brief consultation, they are striding ahead, more confidently. Still in the wrong direction. It's as good an opportunity as any for them to learn how to read a map. I don't say a word.

I reach Lungotevere, the road that runs alongside the Tiber, after a brief pause to window shop outside a home store. Lovely large plush sofa are exposed which make me wonder who has enough space to put them in their flats. Followed by, why are they all white? And who buys white sofas?

I cross the normally fast flowing Lungotevere road. As it's lunch time it's relatively quiet. My first bridge is Ponte Regina Margherita, a three-arched Travertine marble covered expanse which links Piazza del Popolo with the well-off district of Prati. I turn right and walk alongside the river towards the Vatican.

Ponte Regina Margherita

  

The next bridge I come across is Ponte Cavour, named after Camillo Benso Cavour a key figure in Italian unification. He was Italy's first Prime Minister but died shortly after taking office. He never saw the Veneto or Rome join a unified Italy.This bridge was built between 1896 and 1901 and is a five-arched construction. Unsurprisingly one artery off it leads towards Piazza Cavour where a statue of the man holds centre stage whereas the other side leads to the Museum of the Ara Pacis 

More curiously, as I turn my gaze downwards to the river I see a wooden windmill, not a construction I would associate with Rome. It belongs to the steamboat restaurant. This reminds me that I'm near the Carré Français, a popular French bistrot. I'm feeling peckish. I continue on my way beneath the sweeping branches of the riverside trees. Gulls swoop above the river and congregate on various sand bars or more exactly mud flats left behind as the waters receded. 

Maybe another day, I think, as I pass my favourite Church, a thin Gothic building which thanks to its recent renovation is blindingly white in the sun, and, as ever, closed. 

I stride on towards a far more imposing white structure, the palazzaccio (rotten palace) - the Court of Cassation. The story goes that as soon as it was built it began to sink into the marshy land it was built on. The architect in despair comitted suicide. The slow sinking was arrested in the 1970s. The name, palazzaccio, derives from the inevitable stories of bribery and corruption that surround its construction.

Il palazzaccio

Leading away from the Palazzaccio towards Piazza Navona is Ponte Umberto I a three-arched masonry bridge covered in Travertine. 

My sights are now on Castel Sant'Angelo and the Bridge of Angels. I cross Ponte Umberto and pass by some rather tacky souvenir stalls perched on the wall above the Tiber: magnets, postcards and some religious souvenirs as well as some books on Italian cookery and Rome. As I approach Castel Sant'Angelo the voice of a busker singing Coldplay's "Yellow" grows more distinct. The sound system is cranked almost to distortion level but the man can sing.

I note the European flag fluttering in the breeze over Castel Sant'Angelo and gaze up at the warrior Angel Michael , sword drawn, above the terrace from which Tosca jumped to her death in Puccini's opera.  Down at ground level a long queue of visitors has formed. 

The bridge itself was once known as Aelian Bridge (Pons Aeluis), the bridge of Hadrian. It was completed in 134AD and connected the city centre to the mausoleum. By the Middle Ages the old name had been dropped. it became known as the Bridge of St. Peter's as it was used by pilgrims to get to St. Peter's Basilica.

In the 6th Century, under Pope Gregory I both the castle and the bridge became known as Sant'Angelo. According to the legend an angel had appeared at the top of the castle and ended the plague that was ravaging the city.

During the 1450 jubilee, balustrades collapsed under the pressure of the passing pilgrims who fell to their death in the Tiber. After the 16th century the bridge was used to expose the bodies of the executed. 

In 1669 Pope Clement I commissioned Bernini to design statues of 10 statues of angels to replace the older statues on the bridge. Bernini actually sculpted two of them, the Angel with the Superscription and the Angel with the Crown of Thorns. However, those exposed on the bridge are copies, the originals which the Pope kept for himself, are in the church of Sant'Andrea delle Fratte. 

The Bridge of Angels is a pedestrian bridge and always crowded. Tourists, selfie sticks aloft as well as immigrants selling counterfeit bags mingle past buskers and street artists. I wonder what Bernini would have made of it?

 I'm almost relieved to walk away to the next bridge of Vittorio Emmanuelle II. Large sculptures adorn the bridge, allegorical representations of Liberty, Oppression defeated, Unity of Italy and Loyalty to the Constitution. The four end pillars are decorated with winged victories. I look back at the view towards Castel Sant'Angelo which is perhaps the most attractive thing about this bridge. The sculptures are heavy and unsubtle. Up head yawns the mouth of a tunnel that passes through the Gianiculum hill and dead ends at the Vatican.

Lunch time is drawing to a close and the roads are getting busier I go down the steps beside the bridge onto the banks of the Tiber. The trailing police tape is evidence that they have only recently been made re-accessible to the public. The water is still high lapping at the edges and covering steps which under normal circumstances would lead down to the water's edge. In places there is still some clayey mud and the water has left behind large and long streamers of plastic which adorn branches of trees like a mad mans Christmas streamers. Some ducks swim past easily overtaking my slow walk. I step off the cycle path as perfectly lycra clad cyclists race past. I pass under Ponte Principe Amedeo, a more recent construction made of brick and marble. Its distinguishing features are 2 single lancet windows. I look back at the view of a distant Castle Sant Angelo. I move on. 

Ponte Amedeo

The next bridge is Ponte Mazzini yet another heavy masonry bridge dedicated to yet another key player in Italian unification. 

A plaque on the wall indicates that I'm at Piazza Tevere. I'm puzzled. There is no Piazza where I stand just the banks of the river curving forwards and the walls rising up to the road. 

Quite by accident I have stumbled across the 500metre long frieze entitled 'Triumphs and Laments' by the South African artist William Kendall. It fascinates me. Some scenes are easy to recognise Anita Exberg and Marcello Mastroianni in La Dolce Vita, but in a bath tub under a pouring shower head rather than the Trevi fountain, or the Capitoline she-wolf but other images are more baffling. In all there are 80.

Once I have passed the last image I climb up onto Lungotevere and onto Ponte Sisto, a pedestrian bridge that links Trastevere to Via Giulia and thence to Piazza Farnese and Campo Dei Fiori, the touristic heartland of Rome.

For me it is the end of the walk and time to go home.