Spent the day canvassing the “historical district” (as opposed to what?) on foot, and baking in the heat. I find it interesting that historical accounts of Rome tell the story of Romulus and Remus with as much seriousness as they do of the Emperors and Popes that came afterwards. The twins, descendants of Gods and supposed founders of Rome, were abandoned to their own fate as babies but were found and suckled by a she-wolf. This is recounted as normally as the Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon. I did find one account that suggested they may have been found by a hooker nicknamed “she-wolf”, but I guess it lacks the panache befitting Rome.

I read last year that each city can be described by one word and that the word for Rome is Sex. I don’t find that really accurate. Sure, there are ridiculously muscular, tanned and gelled studs on every corner, some of them priests. Maybe the pigeons seem to court their mates a little more insistently than in Montreal. And yes, gift shops sell close-ups of the choicest parts of nude statues with captions like “WOW!!!” on them, but if anything that’s cartoon sex to me.

If I had to choose a word for Rome it would be Sun. Ever powerful, ubiquitous sun. I can’t remember ever being so conscious of it, as in trying desperately to get out of it (and I’ve been in the Sahara). The Roman sun bakes you as soon as it hits; it washes the city in its crazy bright light, and it blasts away all the colors in any picture I take.

Others might describe Rome as Food, too, but the heat makes it impossible to think of pasta. Or of fucking, for that matter.