The legend of the Trevi Fountain is as follows: throw one coin into the fountain and you are promised to one day return to Rome. Throw two coins into the fountain and you are promised to fall in love. Throw three coins into the fountain and you are promised to get married.
Five years ago I happened upon Roma Caput Mundi (center of the world), tossed a coin into a marble fountain and went on my way, never expecting to live the experience of a lifetime all over again.
The city is magnificent in its pride and in its history. Its ruins make its beauty. From the maze of decrepit, crumbling structures and foundations to the towering, astounding Colosseum, it is impossible to ignore the profound glory of the Roman Empire.
The past walks with you in this city; it becomes your shadow; it wraps around your ankles and leads you backwards through time.
The art sings from the city’s soul. The captivating Bernini sculptures at the Galleria Borghese, the marble masterpieces in the Vatican Museum and the breathtaking Sistine Chapel all inspire and impress the humble eyes that stand before them.
And there is something even more impactful about seeing the city a second time. My first Roman Holiday came in a humid July between middle and high school. Something in my stubborn blood drove me away from the city. No matter how the ghostly whispers of history presented themselves, I refused to listen – I plugged my ears – I would not be impressed here.
But this ancient city was determined to win me over, and the magic fountain worked its charm.
My new image of Rome is standing on top of the world over and over again, feeling more powerful each time.
My first ascent came with my small cohort and my professor who knew where to be when golden hour hit. We spent our first Roman sunset in an orange garden at the top of the city, watching a warm day close its eyes. We felt like lovers, like dreamers, like artists. We basked in the type of light that shines through your skin and sets your bones aglow. Already, we knew we could love this city.
The next day we ended in the Roman Forum, standing above a different city – or a shell of a different city. After weaving through the old city we stood like retired kings over the great successes of our reign. And we sighed proudly, knowing we had been a part of something great. A part of something glorious.
Our last sunset fell slowly as we walked up the Spanish Steps. We stood for thirty minutes, stalling until we reached a socially acceptable time to eat dinner. We watched the pink and orange sky bleed gently into blue. We watched the city light up beneath our feet. This time we were students learning that miracles always happen at sunsets, but only when you’re watching.
Greedy for more of the Roman sky, we did not stop at collecting sunsets. Each night we climbed to the rooftop terrace of our hotel and laid down on the scaffolding of the slanted roof to watch the clouds and the stars battle like gladiators in the Colosseum of the sky. Here we were kids. Celebrating birthdays and watching water vapor transform into imaginary animals. Our bodies were heavy with the weight of the world below us. Our lungs were light from the air flowing above us.
In Rome history repeats itself everyday. The sun rises and sets on the same table, set with fine china and rusty silverware – with some plates full and some left with only the crumbs of a meal too good to forget.
Whether it was an act of magic, an act of god or a mere coincidence, my own history repeated itself in Rome. At 19 years old, I retraced my steps through the Colosseum, the Sistine Chapel and the Roman Forum. I felt my old self next to me on the hotel rooftop. Saw her in my shadow. Like the old city, she was gone but not forgotten – she still had something to teach me.
I threw my second coin in the Trevi Fountain. As the legend goes, I am now promised to fall in love.Though I would say this has already happened. Already, I have fallen in love with Rome. “Oh Rome! My country! City of the Soul!”