Pigeons, seagulls, churches, fountains. When I think about recurring images of Rome, these come to mind like a Haiku. The Baroque proliferation in the 16 and 1700s regurgitated sumptuous marble fountains with boldly chiselled protagonists across the city; I can rattle them off like flipping through those concertina postcard sets: Trevi Fountain, Turtle Fountain, Fountain of the Four Rivers, Neptune Fountain, Seahorse Fountain, Triton Fountain, Fountain of the Bees, Fountain of the Books, Fountain of the Artists, The Acqua Paola Fountain, Pantheon Fountain, Boat Fountain, The Four Fountains. They merit a post of their own.
The most tranquil of the fountains would never feature in a tourist-worthy ‘3 Days in Rome’ whirlwind guide book. For this I am most thankful because La Fontana Oscura is, in fact, my favourite fountain in Rome. Enmeshed in the sprawling gardens of Villa Borghese, it appears quite subdued at first glance; a demure debutante standing on the sidelines at a lavish ball – especially when compared to the theatre of the Bernini fountains or even the Trevi. Simple, marble, tiered and circular. No outlandish tritons, gods or mythological creatures. When it is not restored with meticulous scrubbing, the marble is a greying which is even further accentuated by the shadows that the trees cast around it. Concentrically around the fountain are a series of benches and rectangular marble blocks. These stubby sculpted pillars are where I perch myself to read, just because it makes me feel superiorly intellectual to sit atop the block and lean against the tree.
When researching to write about this place that I have grown to adore, I found a painting that shown that these blocks once held statues of what appear to be Grecian-style women (see above). Although I do not profess to know anything about the history of art, it gave me the impression of the fountain being a secret ladies’ bath. Aside from a sporadic dog taking a dip, the fountain is a place I come to when I want to find a corner in the beehive of Rome where buzzing recedes, and all I can hear are the sounds of water gently trickling over the tiers. Birdsong flooding my ears. The wandering saxophonist whose feeble jazz carries on the breeze. Dogs yapping. Owners calling. Owners berating their pooch for jumping in the fountain. Tourists haphazardly weaving around the marble benches on their four-man bike contraptions. Sporadic bible study groups from America using the fountain as a site of open air mass while I grapple with the syntactic complexities of “Wuthering Heights”. Tourists declaring this to be a “relaxing spot” before proceeding to have their picnic lunch right near me. Too near. As I said, so relaxing.
While I certainly romanticise this place as every expat does, I also simply love it here. I assure you, many times I do have it all to myself and it has become a little bubble in the city centre to hide away.
Un bacio x
Skye
The Adopted Italian 