Margaret and I both grew up around Southern California, so we noticed things on the way to the boat at Ostia like loquats and eucalyptus.
I always think that aside from all the old buildings, Italy looks just like California because of the plants and trees.
So it was no suprise that on the last Friday of ‘Culture Week’, when all the great museums and sites in Rome were open for free – we struck out to the Tiber River at Ostia; a place as indistinct and yet specific as your own backyard from childhood.
Gliding out on the water, I noticed that the tide was a few feet higher than when Eric and I left the boat.
“Its funny how boating culture always has these two extremes of leisure and necessity right next to each other.” said Margaret.
And its true. On one side of the river huge yachts line the bank.
On the other side is a muddy and abandoned island. I heard that this spot is popular for archeological poaching. The shifting silt of the Tiber keeps spitting up bits of antiquity.
It seems that whenever Rome was sacked, families would throw their riches into the river instead of having it seized by the invaders. After hundreds of years, the river still uncovers things occasionally and deposits them here; the last large obstruction before the sea.
The only relics visible from the water are these neglected boats. A few more winters on the island and they will be wrecks.
And then we floated past the best relic of all,
the Equa, slowly sinking into the mud.
We peered into the windows and portholes and were treated to a peculiar sensation specific to observing shipwrecks;
all that heavy equipment, off angle and half submerged, causes a kind of vertigo, and with the tidal current sucking around her rotted hull – it’s like the moment of capsize was frozen with us inside it.
We decided to pull up on the island and walk around.
The interior was low and dense with plants.
As we walked I kept an eye out for antiques.
If we found anything it would be in the mud along the bank,
but walking out into the mud proved tricky and there was a moment that we were both stuck fast.
As we left the island and headed toward sea,
we put on our life preservers.
On the left side were large yachts,
and lift nets.
We were getting close to the mouth of the Tiber.
I could see that the tide was pushing us out quickly, and that there were waves beyond the jetties.
“Get ready to take some pictures, Margaret” I said. My plan was to let us drift a bit beyond the jetties, get a picture, and then row back in.
Here is the picture.
We tied up on the jetty and climbed over it to have a look at the sea from land.
I could see a sailboat out there dipping in the waves, and I wondered what it would be like out there in my boat.
But I saw the waves crahing up on the rocks and thought about how she was broken up about a mile from here last month.
Maybe it was better to be inside the protected jetty.
We paddled back,
and found a place to stash the boat.
Next came the task of trying to find a train back to Rome.
“Where are we?” we wondered.
“Its funny how all these beach towns have the same kind of tacky feel.” said Margaret.
She pointed out some ship related architechture.
“Nothing says vacation like carved wood elephants,” I said.
Being at the beach in early summer, before the crowds, always has a great feeling, like preemptive nostalgia.
We found a bus to the train,
and a train back to Rome.
Along the way we were traveling right along the Tiber River, and I recognized some of the landmarks from my trips this week,
like the ‘Gasometro’ tower.
On the way back we stopped to peer into the Protestant Graveyard in Rome, where Keats’ grave is visible.
“Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water” read Margaret. “What does it mean?” I asked.
“I’m not really sure.” said Margaret. “Something about spirituality maybe, or the eternal nature of art. Its just good writing.” She said.
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