There is a street in the center of Rome where silence is a precious commodity, I would even say unexpected. An old graffiti, two hanging sheets that converse, a curtain that seeks the sun and swells, like a cloud on land, fed by the breeze. On this street, the only refuge of life is found in a secluded osteria that serves bowls of crispy tarallinos and pizza al taglio, among lanterns that someone already lights at midday. An ancient canvas where light plays and the shadow of a gentle and solitary pine is projected, as an ancient watchman of so many Roman streets.
There is a street in the center of Rome protected by police fences that prevent the passage of any motor vehicle but the arrival of some lost tourists. It is a street foreign to all paths, fragrant, covered with vines and traces of humidity on its colorful facades.
There is a street in the center of Rome that Google knows about, but never stands out, although you wouldn't find it that easily either. In any case, within a few steps there are restaurants with a score of 4.5, so many souvenir shops and enough hotels where you can succumb to succulent breakfasts. Here the stones whisper stories of another time and the tablecloths drying in the sun on the backs of the chairs simulate a small group of nuns in the sun in the distance.
There is a street in the center of Rome that a priest, as an exception, crosses on a Vespa and takes as a shortcut when no one is looking to get to his next seminary. Where Marc Aurelio, if he lived in 2024, would have sat down to write down another meditation while he drinks an Aperol or a shot of Amaro del Capo. An elderly African woman walks around asking for pennies in an empty McDonald's cup. When the waiter hands her the remains of the restaurant, she goes into an alley and talks to invisible women about her future, as if everything the world forgot came here in search of answers.
There is a street in the center of Rome from which the distant melody of a Gino Paoli song emanates while two lovers promise each other eternal love over coffee on the windowsill. The windows are open and poetry pours out, interrupted only by seagulls and ancient domes. Nearby there are sleeping columns under which poppies grow, as always happens with ruins. No one passes by this street while savoring the gelato on duty. This route does not have a hashtag nor is it of interest to any influencer.
There is a street in the center of Rome unrelated to the nearby Trevi Fountain, where the queues stretch and tourists frown when someone asks for their turn to take the selfie that they will send to their five WhatsApp groups after throwing in a 50 coin. cents in iconic blue. A street where the distant echo of so much hubbub resonates, because the mass tourism that floods the city on this April day still ignores it. There is a street in the center of Rome through which the wind escapes. Where the eternal city, secretly, sighs in silence.
