Giornale I

Thomas Cane

               The journey begins descending the stairs by Ponte Cavour taking me to the underside of Rome, a well-traveled location for locals and the home of many stories and walks of life.  Shockingly as oppose to the empty walkways I had seen the night before the left bank of the Tiber was bustling with action.  A pair of men sat at the river’s edge holding fishing poles hoping to catch a bite.  Around them lay a cobblestone walkway adjacent to a bike path where cyclists were fleeting back and forth either training for competition or leisurely cycling on a beautiful clear day.  Continuing further down passed the graffiti laden embankments there were panes of glass housing select pieces of Italian literature that had been violently smashed in by rocks as if to say the people had rejected these works and would no longer tolerate their existence.  Passing under the Ponte Mazzini created a very new perspective of Rome I was completely blind to until this journey.  Looking up you did not see the skyline or far off mountains, you saw the other people walking across the bridge while wildlife grew around your feet and instead of looking out into the distance the embankments acted like blinders for the pedestrians and cyclists who could not look out, but were forced to only look ahead.  Further down the river I came across the untold story of an old capsized boat, and the only wreck in the river, with its hull sticking just above the water while tourist boats churned past it.  Storm clouds began to form overhead as I gazed up at them my eyes turned towards the marble embankments we had spoken about so recently.  Moss was growing across every mortar lining between the slabs, the walls were covered in graffiti both artistic and political, and scattered about were large metal rings for boats to tie docking ropes onto.  Getting closer and closer to Tiber island small white tents under construction began popping up along the bicycle path as shop keepers were starting to set up for the summer tourist months.  As the tents thinned slightly they revealed the lone island in the entire river sitting regally embellished with marble shaping the island into a ship.  Just past the southern end of the island are the remains of the Ponte Aemilius, the oldest bridge remains in Rome.  Only one arch of this bridge remains and is covered in wildlife as the Tiber has slowly been reclaiming its territory over thousands of years.  As the path passed the island distinct changes were made to my surroundings.  The river itself surged with new vigor making the opposite impression as before the island, for the previously gentle river with no sense of urgency had all of a sudden changed to a roaring white water perilous passage.  Pathways began to crack underfoot with foliage blooming all along the riverbank and winding through the ground creating a partial canopy of life to walk under as I approached Trastevere.  The rural scenery continually thickened as the path came to southern end of Rome and it did not begin to thin until Ponte Testaccio was crossed and the return journey began.  A dirt road greeted me at the southern end of the trek back home, and as soon as it began I tragically slipped on a mud slick and cut my angle ever so slightly.  Trudging home in the now mud due to the brief rain that had come the scenes were much the same as they were coming down the other bank of the river.  The only significant difference were the shelters that appeared underneath bridges and sewer systems.  Small groups of homeless citizens had set up sheltered societies partially protected from the elements by the bridges where the privileged strutted day in and day out while these people living on the underside of Rome struggled each day to provide enough for themselves or anyone else they might need to care for.  Finally reaching the ascension by Ponte Cavour I reflected on this bewildering journey, remembering how it simply began as a journey amongst every day citizens and exchange students living normal lives into a warped perspective displaying the ever present disparity in opportunity between those who would walk on the bridges and those who wished to only survive underneath them.    

(For this Giornale I walked around the Tiber River from Ponte Cavour to Ponte Testaccio)