Rome attractions | Travel Thru History

Drinking History: The Nasoni of Rome

by Sally Charette

My husband and I arrived in Rome during the heat wave that broke records all across Europe in the summer of 2015. After a week of sweltering in temperatures up to 36.7 (99.68 F) in London and 39.7 C (103 F) in Paris, we were resigned to buying bottled water at every possible opportunity. We were about to learn that Rome is actually better prepared to handle thirsty tourists than most major cities, and that it has been for centuries.

During a visit to the Colosseum on our first day, I rounded a corner to find a stream of water spouting from what looked like nothing more than a hole in the wall into a drain in the cobbled floor. A handwritten note indicated that the fountain was under repair. It looked like a piece of unfinished plumbing left uncapped for emergency purposes, so I presumed a U.S. style fountain was missing.

Coming from drought-stricken Southern California, I was shocked that there was no off switch, but I was also impressed that they thought it was important enough to provide us water that they just left it on. Any hesitation faded as I finished off the last drops of warm water in my bottle and took my place in line. Person after person quickly drank from cupped hands or filled containers and stepped aside. A couple of boys took a moment to let the liquid pour over their scalps and behind their ears. I expected tepid water at best.

I was surprised to find the water clear and cold, the perfect temperature for drinking. I filled my bottle, guzzled half while standing there—it had been a long wait in the strong Mediterranean sun to get into the Colosseum — and refilled it again.

I later found that what was missing was one of the cylindrical cast iron fountains nicknamed “nasoni” meaning “big noses” for the drooping spigots that protrude from them. I was late to the table. This has been going on for some time. When you drink from the public water system in Rome, you’re not just getting refreshed, you’re drinking history.

Rome has been importing and distributing water for over 2,000 years. Though the current structure in the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastavere dates only to 1873, it is believed that the first of Rome’s fountains was established here in the 8th Century. Early fountains were built to service horses as well as humans. Some of the trough-like basins found in the city today are actually beautifully carved sarcophagi bought from churches in the middle-ages after they’d lain unused for centuries.

The apparent wastefulness of all that water flowing 24/7 isn’t lost on the city. During the 1980s the city added taps to the fountains, requiring that thirsty Romans operate a nob or button in order to drink. The results were far from satisfying. On hot days, water standing in the pipes heated up, making it less than appealing. Vandals broke the new taps, freeing the flow of the water, and officials gave up on the project. The water doesn’t go entirely to waste. It’s recycled to grow gardens, flush sewers and in industrial cleaning.

Once you use one of Rome’s fountains you will begin to spot them everywhere. There are more than 200 in the ancient walled city, and approximately 2500 spread through the entire municipality.

I found one that wasn’t in use on a side street as my husband and I walked back to our hotel from Trevi Fountain on a very hot afternoon. I wondered for a second if it was functional, but as I stepped around it I found a stream of fresh cool water splashing into a grate at my feet. I splashed my face and filled my bottle. By the time I was done, a couple of people had queued up behind me. I felt as much like a native as a brief visitor can feel.

The drinking fountains and public fountains of Rome aren’t just for viewing. Citizens and visitors alike are encouraged to use the city’s abundant water to rehydrate and refresh. We found a small gathering of people splashing and filling containers at Fontana Barcaccia at the base of the Spanish Steps. It’s a good way to beat the summer heat.

It’s fun to stumble upon a nasone, but help is available! You can download a free drinking fountain finding app called Drink in Italy from GooglePlay or I Nasoni di Roma at iTunes, or you can navigate to the Free Water in Rome website for an interactive online map.

Do give the nasoni of Rome a try while you’re there. Your first time may feel a bit daunting, but once you try it, I’ll bet you’re sold on this delicious free resource.

Drinking as Romans have drunk down through the centuries made me feel connected to the people and the place. I even felt cared for and protected by a state that is willing to invest so much effort and expense into providing its citizens and visitors with this vital service. I imagine this has been true since the tradition began more than two thousand years ago, and it just keeps getting better. The utility company ACEA is about to launch a new network of large octagonal water houses that will offer still or sparkling water, and provide charging stations for electronic devices, bringing the nasoni into the 21st Century in style.

If You Go:

♦ Watch ACEA’s website for updates on the newest iteration of public water fountains: Water Houses that will offer not only free fresh water—either still or sparkling!—but will also feature free phone and tablet charging stations.
♦ Find nasoni while you’re on the go: download Drink in Italy from GooglePlay
♦ Or I Nasoni de Roma from iTunes
♦ If apps aren’t your thing, try the interactive map at Free Water in Rome.

About the author:
Sally Charette enjoys micro-travel day trips around Southern California almost as much as exploring other parts of the globe. She’s a genre-hopping writer working in nonfiction, fiction, and poetry. Her work has appeared in The Sun, ZYZZYVA, Weber: The Contemporary West, Ocean, etc. She blogs at www.anygivensundrytoo.wordpress.com. Stop by!

Rome Private Half-Day Tour with Private Minivan and English Speaking Driver

Photo credits:

Fontana di piazza della Rotonda by Galzu / Public domain
All other photos are by Sally Charette:
The fountain in the Piazza della Rotunda (in front of the Pantheon) is one of the oldest of the cylindrical style still in use
Dragon-headed spigots in use in the Piazza de la Rotunda. If you block its mouth, water will rise drinking-fountain-style from the hole in its forehead
Some of the older fountains emerge from the sides of buildings and flow into basins, drains or troughs below
Not just for drinking! A young traveler enjoys water from the Fontanella della Barcaccia (Fountain of the Ugly Boat) in the Piazza di Spagna at the base of the Spanish Steps
Cold, but refreshing on a hot day

Italy: Aesculapius In Rome

by Anne Harrison

In the middle of the Tiber lies the picturesque Isola Tiberina. The island embraces two millennia of Roman history, for it has been important to Rome from her beginnings as a small river-side settlement through to her growth into the Eternal City. Foundations date back to the Iron Age – long before Romulus and Remus were mothered by their She-wolf.

In 293 BC, Rome suffered from one of the many pestilences which proved the tribulation of the Ancient world. Seeking divine aid, a delegation of high priests and doctors made a pilgrimage to Aesculapius’ temple at Epidaurus. In response to their prayers and offerings, one of the temple’s sacred The success of the quest was thus assured. Upon the ship’s return to Rome, the snake slithered into the Tiber and crossed to the reed-covered island, which lay opposite the city’s port. This was so obvious a sign Aesculapius desired a temple here, not only was one built but the island itself hewn to resemble a ship. Large structures of white travertine were built at either end to augment the resemblance to prow and stern, complete with a bust of Aesculapius and his caduceus. In the centre of the island an obelisk was raised to suggest the main mast of a Roman galley. Thus dedicated to the powerful god of healing, the Isola Tiberina has been associated with the care of the sick ever since.

These carvings are still visible. At the foot of the Ponte Cestio (the first stone bridge to link the island with the Trastevere, on the Right Bank), steps lead down to the island’s embankment. Here on the travertine can be seen the carving of Aesculapius and his staff with its entwined, winged serpents. The bridge itself is inscribed with the names of the Byzantine emperors associated with its restoration in 30AD.

With the growth of Rome, the reputation of the Isola Tiberina’s temple and its doctors grew such that the sick ventured here from all over the Empire to seek healing. Like its namesake at Epidaurus, the temple became famous for the drinking of its miraculous waters, and for dream cures. Most probably opium (or a similar opiate) was used to produce a drugged state filled with dreams, hallucinations, and a susceptibility to suggestion. Hypnosis was a key factor; priests appeared in the dim, smoky light dressed as Aesculapius, and sacred snakes and dogs flickered their tongues over ailing body parts. The fame of these cures was to outlast both the Roman and Greek Empires.

The temple is gone, but on its ruins Emperor Otto II founded the church of St Bartholomew all’Isola in 1000AD. Within this Gothic church lies the remains of the well whose waters were once famous for healing. Otto dedicated the church to the memory of his friend St Adalbert of Prague, whose altar stands in The Millers’ Chapel. The chapel is decorated with frescoes depicting the flour-mills once moored around the island, providing freshly milled flour for a city now famous for its freshly ground coffee.

The Fate-Bene-Fratelli

The spirit of Aesculapius continues in the San Bartolomeo Hospital, founded in 1584 and still under the care of the Brothers Of St John of God. The hospital and its medieval buildings occupy most of the island, and are more suggestive of alchemy and hooded monks than modern medicine. Both the hospital and the Hospitalliers are often called after the inscription on an alms box in the adjacent church (Fate-bene-fratelli, or ‘do good, Brothers’); much of their time is spent caring for Rome’s poor.

Named after St Bartholomew, the hospital naturally became known for it dermatological unit; skin complaints have been under the saint’s protection since he was flayed alive in the Middle Ages. Rahere, a favourite of Henry II, was cured here in the11th century of the itch (and possible malaria); he returned to England to found St Bart’s.

The hospital can be reached from the Left Bank via the Ponte Fabricio, which links the Old Ghetto to the island. At the junction of the two join stands the Pierloni-Caetani Tower. Built by the Pierloni family before 1000 AD at one of the most strategic approaches along the Tiber to Medieval Rome, it was used first by the Pierlonis and then the Caetanis for control of the river. Jewish in origin, the Caetani family was to produce a pope, Anacletus II. The Adjacent Pierloni-Caetani Castle, which fronts onto the Piazza San Bartolomeo, served as a fortress for several fugitive popes in the Middle Ages. It became a Franciscan monastery in the 17th century, and is now the Tiber Island History museum.

Standing on the Ponte Fabricio is one way to glimpse the essence of Ancient Rome. Built in 62 BC, not long after Spartacus lead the slaves in a revolt, it remains the oldest original bridge over the Tiber still in use. Two ancient stone heads can be seen in the parapets. Not far away is The Forum, where on Capitoline Hill the magnificent Temple of Jupiter was once the centre of the known world.

In Rome, the linking of these times, through an island which has been associated with healing for over two thousand years, seems not strange, but, entirely appropriate.

Private Archaeology and Architecture Walk Through Rome

If You Go:

♦ Staying in a convent offers a unique experience when in Rome (or elsewhere in Italy). For help in booking, try www.santasusanna.org/comingToRome/convents.html or www.bookingmonastery.com
♦ Arguably Rome’s best coffee is the Sant’Eustachio Il Caffé, just around the corner from the Pantheon and not too far from the Isola Tiberina
♦ The open top tourist buses are a great way to get around Rome’s major sights, without struggling with the overloaded public transport system

About the author:
Anne Harrison lives with her husband, two children and numerous pets on the Central Coast, NSW. Her jobs include wife, mother, doctor, farmer and local witch doctor – covering anything from delivering alpacas to treating kids who have fallen head first into the washing machine. Her fiction has been published in Australian literary magazines, and has been placed in regional literary competitions. Her non-fiction has been published in medical and travel journals. Her ambition is to be 80 and happy. Her writings are available at anneharrison.com.au and anneharrison.hubpages.com

All photos are by Anne Harrison:
A view over the Tiber towards the Vatican
Bernini’s sunken boat – boats feature heavily in the art around Rome
The past endures: an ancient Roman column topped with a Christian saint
A view from the Forum, across a Renaissance church, to the modern Victor Emmanuel Monument

La Dolce Morte: An Ex-Pat Pilgrimage In Rome

Cimitero Acattolico: Rome’s Protestant Cemetery

by Ellen Johnston

The sun stopped shining and the rain came in, as if it knew where I was going – past the Palatine Hill and the Coliseum to the subway, which would take me to Piramide station in the un-touristed south of the city – Rome, that is. The station is named for the nearby Pyramid of Cestius, built in 18-12 B.C. as a tomb for a forgotten local magistrate, a piece of folly that marks the entrance to far more hallowed ground.

Perhaps Italians might disagree with me when I use this term, since this, the Cimitero Acattolico, is the last resting place for those who could not, or would not be buried in the traditional Catholic cemeteries here in the heart of Roman Catholicism. But hallowed it is, nonetheless, since this patch of land, overgrown with weeds and flowers, contains the remains of the some of the most important figures of the last few centuries: local dissidents and those from other lands, ex-pats, writers, revolutionaries, atheists and Jews who, famous or not, all came to rest together here in this painfully beautiful monument to non-conformity. Antonio Gramsci, Gregory Corso, and a cat named Romeo are some among this motley crew, though none of them hold higher places in the echelons of artistic memory than the two greats of English Romanticism buried here: John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley. How could it not be raining, then? It was as if the luminous Roman sky had been replaced for a moment by a melancholy English one, pausing to weep a bit for two lost sons, entombed amidst the ruins, far far away.

Though their names are often intertwined, John Keats and Percy Shelley came to Italy for very different reasons. Shelley, the rebellious Etonian from an Aristocratic family, was leading a wild life, one easier experienced abroad. He was best friends with Lord Byron and romantically entangled with Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (turned Shelley), the author of Frankenstein. His lifestyle, radical views, and writing had brought him not only fame, but also infamy. Like many writers and artists of his day, he was attracted to the warmth of the European south, to its classical pagan origins, and to that fact that he could live freely there, away from the scandals that plagued him in England. Keats, on the other hand, came to Italy to die.

Born in London of far more humble birth, Keats’ life had been plagued by poverty, the loss of his parents, unfulfilled sexual desires, and the death of his brother to tuberculosis. Unlike Shelley, who attended Oxford, Keats never had the opportunity to reap the benefits of the English academic establishment, never mind rebel against it. Instead, he apprenticed as an apothecary and then studied medicine at Guy’s Hospital, in the city’s unfashionable south. His desire to write, however, eventually drew him away from the medical path – though he never lived its consequences down. In an England where class meant everything, including who could or couldn’t be an artist, John Keats’ Cockney origins and practical training were simply too much for some critics to bear. Of Keats’ poem Endymion, John Gibson Lockhart wrote that “it is a better and a wiser thing to be a starved apothecary than a starved poet; so back to the shop Mr. John, back to plasters, pills, and ointment boxes.”

Besides the cruelty inherent in this statement, the irony was palpable too. Keats’ medical training, no matter how practical it may have been, could do nothing to stop what was then an almost incurable disease, tuberculosis. Not long after his brother died, it became clear that John Keats had contracted the illness too. Knowing that he would not survive the English winter, his friends gathered whatever money they could in order to send him to a gentler climate, a last ditch attempt to save his life.

John Keats sailed to Rome with his friend Joseph Severn in the autumn of 1820. The climate, however, proved not gentle enough, and the disease too strong. Within a few short months, Keats was dead, believing himself to be a failure. He asked to be buried in a grave bearing neither his name nor date of death, only the words “Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.” Those very words adorn his grave today, though his friends, in their belief that he should be recognized as a great poet, added some of their own.

Despite the critics, Keats’ close personal friends were not the only ones to defend him. He also had an advocate in the very man who now lies buried some twenty metres away. When Keats died, Percy Shelley wrote “I weep for Adonais – he is dead!”, the opening to his poem, Adonais, which was written as an elegy to Keats, and considered by some to be his best work. Shelley had met Keats through a mutual friend on a visit to Hampstead, admired his talents, and considered him to not only be a rival, but one who would surpass him. Not long after Keats’ death, Shelley went to visit his grave in the Cimitero Acottolico. Of the visit Shelley said “the cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.” When I visited it myself, there in the broody mist, somber and romantic, I couldn’t help but agree with Shelley’s words.

Shelley was buried in the same cemetery a mere year later, the victim of a violent Mediterranean storm that drowned him while sailing off the coast of northern Italy. A book of John Keats’ poetry was found in his pocket. Shelley’s cremated remains (all but his heart, which was kept by Mary Shelley and eventually buried in England) can be found under a small flat tombstone a short walk from Keats’, bearing the Latin “Cor Cordium” (heart of hearts), and a quote from Shakespeare’s The Tempest: “Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change is to something rich and strange.”

Visiting the Cimitero Acattolico is easy, though few Italians can tell you how to get there. Almost none I asked even knew it existed. It is free to enter, though donations are requested. There is a tiny visitors centre that sells books and postcards at the entrance, manned by staff who speak English, usually ex-pats themselves. Through the gate, Keats’s grave can be found by walking directly to the left, until you reach the first corner. A plaque written by his friends (complete with an acrostic based on his name) adorns the wall above it. A small bench lies in front, should you choose to sit and contemplate the great poet who believed his life’s work would make fewer impressions than ripples in a pond.

On my own visit, while I sat there overcome with tears, I heard a rustling from the wall above me. From out of one of the vines came a black and white cat, who jumped down onto the bench, and then snuggled up onto my lap. Through my own teary-eyed haze and quixotic imagination, it was easy to believe that in that moment I was being visited by the spirit of the poet himself. Of course, as I got up to walk to Shelley’s grave, straight ahead and to the right, I realised that the cat was just one among many strays who live in the cemetery, and to whose livelihood you can also donate money. However, the impression stayed with me, there on that wet rainy day, as I wandered alone through the grounds of the Cimitero Acattolico. And I emphasize the word “alone”, because visitors here are many fewer than in other famous cemeteries such as Père Lachaise or in Roman tourist spots like Saint Peter’s. When Oscar Wilde visited in 1877, he called it “the holiest place in Rome”. There, breaking bread with the dead, it’s not hard to see why.

Rome Tour with Private English Speaking Driver

If You Go:

♦ The Cimitero Acattolico can be easily reached from the Piramide metro station. It’s a few short blocks away, and can be accessed on Via Caio Cestio.
♦ The suggested minimum donation is €3.
♦ If you’re worried about getting hungry, visit the Jewish Ghetto before you hop on the metro, and pick up a taste of non-conformist Rome. Pasticceria Boccione Limentani sells delicious pizze, a fruit and nut filled bread – sweet, dense and perfect after a long walk. The bakery can be found at Via Portico D’Ottavia 1.

Ultimate Rome food tour

About the author:
Ellen Johnston is a cultural nomad —a traveller, writer and musician who bounces all over the world. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she has West Coast roots, a Mediterranean soul and a Chilanga heart, thanks to a recent stint in the Mexican capital. She currently resides in the San Francisco Bay Area, trying to soak up a little of all three. You can find links to her other writing and photography at www.chamacaloca.wordpress.com

Photo credits:
Top photo of Cimitero Acattolico by LuciusCommons / Public domain
All other photos are by Ellen Johnston.

Italy: An Unusual Adventure in Rome

by Doris Gregory

On that stifling July day, the elevator was packed with hot, sweaty people. We had just come down, by spiral staircase and then the elevator, after viewing the Eternal City from the top of St. Peter’s.

The elevator door opened and the crowd surged past nine-year old Wayne, out into the corridor. My son just stood there, with a strange look on his face. “Come on, Wayne,” I ordered, “Move!” “I can’t,” he said. “My arm’s stuck!”

Evidently his arm had been resting on the elevator door. When the door opened and slid into its pocket, it had taken his arm with it.

The elevator operator shouted something in his native Italian and pulled Wayne’s arm free. Then he grabbed him by the other hand, muttered something like “dottoro” to me and the ticket taker outside, and then took off at top speed with Wayne, while I and Linda and Brian, my other two children, one on each side of me, ran behind. We had all we could do to keep up, but had a brief pause for breath when the man stopped at a drinking fountain with the comforting sign “Aqua Pura” and shoved Wayne’s gashed and bleeding hand into the water. Then on we raced down the corridor to a short wide flight of stairs leading to heavy double doors, fronted by two colourfully uniformed Swiss Guards. As we approached, our escort shouted something to them, they moved aside, and the doors flew open. On we rushed, down another long corridor, around a corner, then up one more short wide flight of stairs, where another set of Swiss Guards moved aside and one more pair of doors flew open. One last long corridor and we arrived at what appeared to be the infirmary.

The white-coated doctor shoved a printed sheet in front of me and handed me a pen. I didn’t know a word of Italian, other than “Parla Inglesi?” (to which his answer would obviously have been “no”) but assumed that this lengthy document was one absolving any responsibility of the Vatican for my son’s unhappy plight. I signed it “Can’t read a word of this Doris Gregory” all on one line, not that I had any hope of winning a lawsuit against the Vatican.

The good doctor washed and disinfected and bandaged the hand, after first pulling on the fingers to make sure nothing was broken, which fact he somehow communicated to me by pantomime. And then he held up a bottle labeled “tetano”, at the same time holding up four fingers of his other hand. Since the children and I had all had tetanus boosters just before leaving Canada, I nodded my head. At that time, the boosters were considered to last only four months.

I have absolutely no recollection of how we got out of that maze of corridors. Presumably the elevator operator had remained with us and escorted us back the way we had come.

My children and I will never forget St. Peter’s. We didn’t have an audience with the Pope, but we did get to see areas other tourists never get into!

Footnote: Wayne’s hand healed well and he grew up to be a surgeon.

Private Tour: Vatican Museum, Sistine Chapel and St Peters Basilica Guided Tour

If You Go:

ROME and VATICAN TOURS
VATICAN

About the author:
Doris Gregory was born in Vancouver, but spent almost half her life elsewhere, first as a Servicewoman in England during World War 2, then pursuing a career in psychology in the USA and Ontario. Now she is enjoying a happy retirement back in Vancouver, volunteering at Brock House and writing her war memoir, which she hopes to publish during the coming year.

Photo credit:
Image by Michael Siebert from Pixabay

Meeting Fausto delle Chiaie (again)

The Unforgettable Street Artist of Rome

by Paola Fonari

A lean, bearded man is trailing a shopping trolley along the sidewalk.

‘Fausto!’ I call.

I have heard that Fausto delle Chiaie displays his work every day in Rome’s Piazza Augusto Imperatore, between Emperor Augustus’ Mausoleum and the Ara Pacis Museum, and I have come to seek him out. He turns and looks quizzically at me.

‘Brussels, 1980,’ I remind him.

‘Of course! Paola!’

In the eighties, he was living with a friend of mine in the trendy commune of Saint-Gilles, once home to the art nouveau architect Victor Horta, and now a hub for artists in Brussels. The whole third floor of my friend’s beautiful maison de maître was his studio. I remember the walls were covered with paintings of dark, macabre figures. He never sold any. And like his paintings, he seemed depressed back then. But today, under the bright afternoon sun, he seems delighted to see me.

He looks fit and well, and younger than his sixty-six years. ‘This is where I am now,’ he says, arms outstretched to his surroundings. ‘I’m just about to set up.’ He takes a shoe-box out of his shopping trolley. It’s filled with cards, each with a few words scrawled on it in various languages. There is a low wall all along the sidewalk, supporting the railings surrounding the mausoleum.

I amble with Fausto to one end. An outline of the lower half of a woman’s body is chalked on the street. The upper part of the shape disappears under barriers which surround road works.

‘This is where my show begins,’ Fausto says, and places a card on the wall just near the chalked figure. ‘Mezza nuda,’ I read. ‘Half naked.’ We stroll along the wall, and every few metres he places another card on the wall.

‘My exhibition is called ‘Roma Oggi – Rome Today,’ he tells me. ‘Some people call it arte povera – poor art.’

When all his forty-five cards are in position he goes back to his shopping trolley, and near every card, he places objects. Simple, everyday bits and pieces. On the wall above the half naked woman he puts a high-heeled silver sandal. A map of Rome, crumpled and rolled into a ball, takes its place beside ‘Two Thousand Years After’. ‘That’s how the map was when I found it,’ he says. A faded picture of Christ’s face is beside a ‘Sold’ sign. Below the face are the words ‘30 denari.’ A snipped bicycle lock is labelled ‘It was beautiful!’ Beside a severely smashed toy car, the sign says ‘Visit without rushing.’ ‘It’s a warning,’ he says. ‘People go about their business in too much of a hurry, and it’s dangerous.’ Near a ‘Tour Guide’ sign, he places a tangled jumble of earphones and a twisted piece of wire holding up a white flag. ‘You see them all the time in Rome,’ he says, ‘groups of tourists, just following their guides. They listen, but they don’t see. And here, too, most people just rush past. But I can pick out the ones who are interested – the ones who understand. They take their time, they talk to me, they ask me questions. Like you.’

It occurs to me that were he a stranger, I would probably be one of those hurrying by, dismissing his Open Air Museum as rubbish, but I feel privileged to have the artist talking me through each work and what it means to him. Every piece is meticulously linked to its sign, to Rome, and is an essential part of his social commentary.

‘This is my homage to René Magritte,’ he says, stopping beside a large square piece of cardboard on which are the words ‘Ceci n’est pas une émission de télévision’ – this is not a television programme.

‘Do you sell your work?’ I ask.

‘No, I don’t. If anyone likes a particular piece, I’ll sign it for them. But it stays here. This is my studio now. People can make contributions if they wish. Look, this is one of my favourites.’ It’s called ‘Doppelgänger’. It’s a photo of himself, standing against the wall of the Aria Pacis Museum across the road. ‘I’m part of my exhibition,’ he says. ‘Sometimes I go and stand over there for a while.’ He crosses the road to demonstrate.

I stop to look at a large gold-embossed Bible. The sign beside it says ‘Non metteteci la mano sopra – don’t put your hand on it.’ ‘It’s for the politicians, he says.

They’re a bunch of liars. All of them.’

‘Are you happy?’

‘I’m lucky. Many artists think it’s great if they put on a dozen exhibitions. I’ve been coming here every afternoon for the last twenty years. Three hundred and sixty-five times twenty. Just do the maths; that’s a lot of exhibitions.’

I ask him about a sign that says ‘Zoo.’ It doesn’t seem to belong with any particular object. ‘There’s a mouse that scuttles behind the railings at night,’ he explains. ‘He’s not here now. But I’ll draw him for you.’ He takes a card and a felt tip pen from his trolley. His fingers dance across the page, and it’s ready. ‘I’ll sign it. It’s yours.’

Having spent an hour discovering Fausto’s work, I head back to my bus, clutching my personal, original, signed mouse picture.

If You Go:

For more information (in Italian), see it.wikipedia.org
To see a photo of Fausto in his outdoor museum, see www.flickr.com

About the author:
Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. She has lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, speaks five and a half languages, and describes herself as an “expatriate sin patria”. Her articles have featured in publications as diverse as “The Buenos Aires Herald”, “The Oldie”, and “Practical Fishkeeping.” Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, thus making each new destination a real home. She currently resides in Belgium.