Begging in Rome

Obviously a 24 or so hour flight from Australia to Rome is going to be a bit of a haul. As a direct flight, there’s still a four hour stopover two thirds of the way there, which is a mixed blessing. Getting in to Dubai at 5am was nice to stretch the legs, but with four hours before the transfer, there isn’t too much to do, unless you’re obsessed with duty free shopping.

When traveling such distances, you get very good at waiting.

Once we actually got in to our hotel in Rome, instead of collapsing from fatigue as I thought we would, we found ourselves energised by the city. Calling Rome a ‘short’ city might not make sense, but in the historic city centre there are few buildings taller than 6 or so storeys from memory. Compare that to Melbourne and other ‘young’ cities and you get the idea. And as every other building is architecturally wonderful, there’s a great feeling of strolling down the cobblestones of a piece of living history. I know that’s a cliché, but it’s an old city and has resisted crass, neon facelifts for many years, and is all the more amazing for it.

Via Veneto

The first place we went looking for after consulting a simple map, was the Fontana Di Trevi. From Via Veneto it’s only about a ten-minute walk and so we charged down the streets and found it easily enough, the steady flow of visitors was a giveaway of course, and once you were close enough, the rush of water leads you round a corner into a narrow square lined with gelati shops and packed with visitors.

It’s hard to place it into words, but the 26 metre tall fountain basically covers the back of a building and it really demands your attention, in a way the Spanish Steps did not for us. Even as you gape around the corner, move down to eventually settle at its feet, and watch people throw thousands of euro over their shoulders into the water, the fountain almost clears the square of voices. You can stare at it and hear nothing, see nothing of those around you (until someone bumps into you) just letting the sound of the water fill the air. Hard to imagine it red, as is was for a time in 2007.

The obvious beauty of the fountain was marred by the obligatory hawkers (found in every major tourist attraction in the cities we visited) with their tap-water roses, squelching plastic-rubber-glue novelty items and pushy nature, one for which a stern face is only a partial rebuff. Sometimes a short, “grazie, no” does the trick as you walk by; other times just a shake of the head. Some would follow, walking along as best they could with the crowds, shoving a rose at you, calling it a ‘gift.’

The beggars on the other hand were less aggressive. Instead they usually invoked pity with some with quite transparent efforts, lying in the street with a small child curled in arm beside a cup (often at churches,) or by prostrating themselves half in the gutter/half in the street, hand outstretched with face to the concrete. There they remained still and made no sound. Some had signs, some did not. One sign had just ‘fame’ written large and perhaps an unsurprisingly, only small amount of people donated. Though we did at times, I had to wonder, what difference did a coin or two make?

church steps
lead to a beggar’s cup
sunburnt tourists

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