In Rome, I haven't seen as many cyclists as I have in, say, Paris, New York or even Firenze (Florence). That means, of course, that I haven't seen as many interesting or unusual old bikes parked on the streets.
I have seen some people ride bikes with the legendary names of Itaian--and European--cycling on them. I am thinking of Mosers, Viners, and others known for classic racing machines (and victories in the great races). Take away the decals or transfers, and some of those bikes would look like those aluminum things with toothpaste welds and flashy paint.
But there seem to be a few bright spots, even as the world shifts to aluminum and carbon fiber
"Adriatica" seems to be doing in Italy what Linus is doing in the US: offering practical yet vintage-inspired bikes in steel. I saw this one in a shop near my hotel.
I ended yesterday's post by asking, rhetorically, "How lost was I today?"
Well, today I fooled a few people into thinking I wasn't lost at all. I wasn't trying to do any such thing; it just happened.
You see, I began by riding past the Colosseum and through a portal in a huge stone wall that once formed part of the gate around the city. At one time, most cities were so fortified and the entrances in them were called "portas" ("portes" in French). Many of those places still retain those names, and there is usually a piazza (or place or the equivalent) where the door or gate used to be. And a road leading to that porte might parallel--or might in fact be--a road that led to the gate or door.
Anyway, after passing through the Porta San Sebastiano, I turned onto another road I followed for maybe half a kilometer to a road that had more traffic than I wanted to deal with. So I made a U-turn and, near the Porta, took a right, which took me onto a road with a stone wall on one side and trees on the other. I didn't see a sign for it but it was, or became, the Via Appia Antica. You probably have heard of it: The Old Appian Road, or The Appian Way.
Although it's narrow and doesn't have a shoulder for most of its route, it's actually safe for cycling, mainly because the drivers are accustomed to seeing us (as well as pedestrians and runners). If traffic approaching from the opposite direction doesn't leave a driver on your side of the road with enough room to pass you, he or she will wait. At least, they did for me.
Along Appia are some of the catacombs. I stopped at the one of St. Callistus which, the guide averred, is "the most important" because the very first Popes were interred there until they were exhumed and moved to what would become the Vatican. Photography isn't allowed in any of the catacombs, but I think the images of those layers of tombs as well as the living spaces and even chapels that were carved into the ground will stay with me.
As our guide mentioned, the catacombs along Appia were outside Rome's city walls because, at the time they were built, Christianity still wasn't allowed in Rome. After seeing the dome of the Pantheon yesterday, I was intrigued by, among other things, the skylights that were built into the catacombs. They were needed for ventilation and light, but I realized they--particularly the ones atop the chapels--served another purpose: They directed the worshipers' vision upward, i.e., toward heaven. When I understood that, I realized that much of what one sees inside a cathedral serves the same purpose, and I couldn't help but to wonder whether cathedrals were thus influenced by chapels in the catacombs.
After that interesting tour, led by a nice young lady, I rode further along Appia to some other road I couldn't identify, which led me into some other areas with those charming terra cotta and sun-colored houses surrounded by fields or woods. I just kept on following the roads I was on simply because I was enjoying the ride. Even after I made a couple of "wrong" turns and found myself in one of those suburban industrial zones one finds just outside European cities, I wasn't worried.
Eventually, I saw signs pointing in the direction of "Roma" and, a little later "Centro" and, still later, "Colosseum". So of corse I followed them and found myself wending along some old streets not much wider than most of the cars in this country. I passed the intersection of the Four Fountains and stopped to drink water and eat yellow plums in the Piazza Santa Susanna, where a four-century-old church named for her occupies the former site of the Baths of Diocletan.
Well, I was there for maybe thirty seconds when an Asian couple from California asked how to get to the Quirinal--the place with the great viewing spot I discovered yesterday. I pointed and told them, "Just keep going, up this hill, about half a kilometer."
No sooner had I finished that sentence when three young dark-skinned women approached me. I overheard them speaking French as I helped the Asian couple, so when one asked how to get to Termini--the main rail station--I told her, "Descendez la" as I pointed in their direction. "Passez trois coins, tournez a droite et descendez." Pass three corners, then turn to your right, and keep going.
Yet another Asian couple saw me giving directions and, after the young women left, asked whether I spoke English. I nodded, and they asked whether I knew how to get to the Trevi Fountain. I did, and even assured them that yesterday I made a wrong turn in the very spot where we stood but found my way to the Fountain, which actually was close by.
I guess people figure that cyclists know their way around. In some places, I do. But just yesterday I was as lost and confused as the people I helped (I hope!) today.
Sometimes I enjoy "getting lost". Of course, sometimes it's part of finding my way. But the pleasure comes in unexpected pleasures experienced along the way. It might be an interesting building or landscape feature I hadn't seen before, or simply a new sensory experience or insight about something. Other times, it's nice just to have the freedom to not travel in a perfect linear path.
I have to admit, though, that even when I'm riding for pleasure, it can get frustrating to find myself looping back to the same place three or four times. New York has a grid pattern, even if it breaks down in places, so it's possible to go only so far astray. Paris's streets are mostly straight, but they usually begin and end in some sort of circle or square place. Also, because there are only a couple of really tall buildings in the City of Light, it's easy to use them to orient myself.
Now, here in Rome, they didn't have a Baron Haussmann who tried to make straight lines out of their ancient winding roads. And, although it shares Paris' preponderance of low to mid-level buildings, the tallest or highest-standing structures (like the Vatican) don't always stand out because the city is hilly. (Paris is mostly flat.) In this sense, it's a lot like Prague, where I cycled a few years ago.
I was completely unfamiliar with the geography of the Czech capital before I started riding it, so it didn't frustrate me when I found myself circling about, or simply ending up in a completely different part of town from where I intended to go. On the other hand, I thought I still had some knowledge of this city, though I must say that I didn't cycle the last time I was here. Turns out, I remembered some specific spots more than I could recall what's between them. I tried, at times, to follow parts of the route on which Roberto took me, and later marked on a map. Of course, I was trying to find my way without his knowledge of this city--and with my navigational skills, which rival those of a guy who thought he was headed to the land of the Punjabs but instead landed somewhere near Port au Prince.
Finally, after I found myself at the intersection of via XX Settembre, Corso d'Italia and via Nomentana for the fifth time, I gave up all hope of going to any of the sites I thought I just have to see before this trip is over. For one thing, I reminded myself that, for all the time I've lived in New York and spent in Paris--and for all the bike trips I took in France--I haven't even come close to seeing everything that's worth seeing. And, I reminded myself, even if I miss the Trevi Fountain this time, it can't be a whole lot different from how it was when I saw it in 1996.
After making that realization, I found a great viewing spot across from the Quirinale. And, a couple of minutes later, I found what I think is my favorite spot in Rome:
I mean, where else can you find an intersection that has a fountain on each of its four corners--and each of those fountains is whimsical, and even beautiful?
The funny thing is that a few minutes later, I found myself at Trevi, almost without trying.
The real highlight of this day, though, was going to the Pantheon:
In a previous post, I mentioned that it took New York City seven and a half years to build a toilet stall in the Brooklyn park where I spent many hours of my childhood. Although it incorporates "green" technology found in other state-of-the-art facilities (Does that strike you as a funny phrase to use in reference to a toilet stall?), it isn't innovative or unusual, at least in a technical sense. And it cost more, per square foot, than it would take to buy the most expensive apartment in Trump Tower!
Nearly two milennia ago, the Emperor Hadrian built this monument, if I'm not mistaken, in two years. Moreover, this dome is something that nobody would know how to construct, even today. For one thing, no one is entirely sure about the materials used: It's said to be concrete, but to my understanding, concrete was not widely, if at all, used at that time. Also, it's unsupported and half again as wide in diameter as the dome on the US Capitol building.
One of the reasons why the Pantheon still stands today is that since 609 it has been known as, officially, the Church of St. Mary and The Martyrs. Although most people still call it the Pantheon (after the Greek word for "all of the gods"; pandemonium, a word coined by John Milton in Paradise Lost, means "all demons"), it is a Roman Catholic house of worship--which is probably what saved it from being destroyed during the Middle Ages, as many other "pagan" structures were.
(Interestingly, one might argue that the reason the Hagia Sophia stands today is that it became a mosque. Had it remained a Christian church, it might not have survived the Moorish invasion.)
Hmm....How lost was I today?
