Midnight Rome

‘Policlinico!’

My jovial rescuer shouts the neighbourhood’s name as he swerves across lanes on streets designed like spaghetti. I yell the word back, out of door-clutching panic as much as joy that we have found some shared vocabulary. Somehow this security conscious South African has found herself zooming through midnight Rome with those Italian men everybody warned me about. I imagine a universally gasped ‘oh my’.

Only a few hours ago I was quietly meandering through the ancient city’s alleyways, peaking into last round bars and closed pastry shops. Being a firm believer in the magic of getting lost, I was sad that tonight’s countless corners hadn't yielded many surprises yet.

My evening’s narrative needed a ‘suddenly’ and there it was. I had been told that obelisks guided pilgrims to holy places, so I coax my begrudging feet towards the solemn stone at the end of the street. With a few more steps, a quick breath and a swivel of the head, I am standing on an immense piazza flooded in gold light.

With a childlike turn I quickly count two churches, three fountains and fields of space that lead to more. Rome is like a rich person that has everything but is so kind, you feel amazement not jealousy. In the deserted solitude of a monument at night, I give in to my wonder and laugh at the generosity of the beauty and the lavishness of such moments.

I explore the square with my fingertips, tracing railings and the edges of fountains as a way to really be there or perhaps just to help myself remember. Bowing a thank you to my new friend, piazza del Popolo, I walk to the nearest metro station with champagne-like excitement in my chest.

It takes a long stare at the lock, chain and unapologetic Closed sign to turn my bubbles into rocks. Enchanting ancient city my foot! Who closes public transport in an urban centre at a reasonable time of night? Another suddenly, and I go from wowed pilgrim to stranded tourist.

As I stare at the bus stop sign, covered in words that even in daylight are as helpful as hieroglyphics, two locals arrive and take pity on me. I’m out of better options and have faith left in people still, so I shush the side of my mind that comes from the home of hi-jacking. ‘Policlinico, per favore!’

On the other side of town I let go of the door, slightly amazed at how I got there. My delighted chauffeurs repeat how lucky I am, saying ‘Signorina, we are your angels!’ This tourist cum pilgrim can only agree.