ECHO 19/4/06 - To Rome

5.45am - men are drinking hard in the departure lounge - already on the second pint with chasers - gathered in a scrum around the free-standing Bar Est - a slough of bad air - one is red in the face and grins his way over to the observation window, glass in hand to look at the sunrise break through a low line of cloud - a plate smashes and sounds throughout the mezzanine - an announcement: ‘Welcome to Luton Airport. Please keep your belongings with you at all times’ etc. - the red faced man crumbles and melts against the vast pane

Cold dawn out on the tarmac, breath steaming, tired cheeks twitch - the faces of seven Romans leaving English soil; beautiful faces, still sun-kissed, earthy, deep-lined - but these are not wealthy Romans, these are probably farmers or factory workers, their clothes are slightly outdated and worn: jumpers and jerseys that are still in one piece but have seen better days - the flash of a wind-on camera as the daughter uses up the remainder of her film on images of the plane’s interior - in this story maybe it is the first time this Roman family has been abroad, come away for Easter week, the excitement of seeing alien things, the ever-present absorption that travel offers - only the grandfather, wearily looking around the cabin, eyeing the ordered throng as they take their seats, settle children, stow their hand luggage is keen to be back home, surrounded by familiarity, routine safe; his thick and still muddied fingers hold on to a comic book which he turns to and opens studious and earnest - he remains reading for the entire flight - until we descend over the Eternal City itself; the familiar sights are beautifully clear this morning; at altitude I can map all the tourist sights and my own favourite haunts: the Pantheon, Trastevere - I follow my lead to Castel Sant Angelo, back over the water toward the Forum - a mad, dark jigsaw puzzle of red ochre shapes from up here - then a child cries out joyfully ‘colosseo!’ and the entire plane looks to it’s right, out over shoulders through the portholes toward the pitted shape of bloody Imperial greatness

Rome -

Mini dramas at the airport, mini comedies - a young and pretty Italian woman parades through baggage reclaim in her high heeled boots, she may be a model - a late middle-aged man turns at the sound of her heels on the tiles as she struts past looking for her flight bag on the carousel, his eyes linger of course - his sour-faced wife standing next to him also turns a moment later to see what he is looking at, and he looks away instantly sheepish - nothing is spoken but everything is said in the look of a dragon bearing down on a lamb

Termini rail station - There is a subtle change since I was last here 7 months ago - the stricken underclass of Rome are present like never before - fat women bound in sorry faded rags recline on the floor and in corners, dribbling, cursing, holding out the upturned palm; mad Turkish men with thick black hair jabber at crazy speed at the roadside entrances, talking to no-one and everyone at the same time

Sexual politics on the rails -

A young couple, late teens, she a student, he a wide-boy from Tibertina, stand at the trackside on Platform 4 from where the train north to Florence will depart - the boy launches himself at her and holds her face in his hands, kissing furiously her tightly pursed lips; she consents but with her head tilted back as if part of her is trying to get away - she likes him but he mauls her too much - “such is the way of it with boys this age” she tells herself, she’ll be pleased when he is on the train - but she’ll ask herself the same question as she walks home: why does she always say yes when he calls and asks her to meet up?; then she’ll say to herself “next time I must refuse him”, yet she never does - the boy flicks a cigarette butt away with his forefinger, it leaps between the rail and the wheel housing then falls smouldering on to sleepers; he gives her one last holding embrace and waves a cheeky goodbye - she turns without waving, but despite all she smiles to herself

The ageing, fat ex-rock singer with his gothic, diamond encrusted cross around his neck; short-sleeved shirt, aviator sunglasses - calls his mistress on his little flip top mobile phone from the carriage whilst waiting for his wife to join him - he dials the number not stored in the machines memory - he talks quietly to the mistress, laughs gently - his is a voice like cracked wood, deep, gritty - he tells the woman he loves her, misses her, but what can he do? His wife wanted to come away together for Easter, do some shopping, eat out - he couldn’t say no or she’d get suspicious - he agrees with something his mistress says, then tells her he’ll be over to visit tomorrow - he has one eye on the doors, knowing he’s pushing his luck; so he says his goodbyes and flips the phone shut and off - a few minutes later his wife arrives: late 40s, chic shades, mini-skirt, white net tights, calf-length leather boots - there is no hello as she sits next to him, silent disinterest shared

The train departs exactly 13.14 - it is heaving with folk on their way home for siestas

The train gets noisy at Tiburtina, a small group of young ‘ragazzi’ singing and playing knocky on the windows to attract the attention of girls and acquaintances passing on the platform - the young Romeo I saw earlier gets off and descends the underpass smoking another cigarette

Rome to Chiusi -

From the window I see whores (20 at least) along a main arterial road close by Ristorante Romulus (neon yellow sign, empty car park) in the high, white heat of the day. The rush of cars and lorry traffic. People heading home for lunch too this way. The whores are on the lookout to cadge business from the overspill coming out of the nearby factories (technology execs; shop stewards; young boys with their first wage packets). Some of the women stand alone, spaced at least 200 yards apart; others in loose groups of three or four - one always at the roadside the rest sitting back in the shade and sharing a bottle of water, waiting their turn - they all wear dresses cut away at the belly, showing cleavage, figure hugging, some wear hot-pants and miniature vests - most are in their late teens/early twenties, one or two are over thirty, showing signs of middle age yet flaunting easily alongside the rest

A large white cow nuzzles a dead brown calf lying on its side in a meadow - the cow raises its head to the rest of the herd who begin to walk slowly toward her

The Italian word for thunderbolt: fulmine -

The crazy old lady who cannot go anywhere without her portable radio; listening to Italian dramas in the afternoon at full volume on the train - at first everyone around her is annoyed by the noise though no-one has the nerve to ask her to turn it down, after all she’s old, maybe she’s deaf - but as the journey extends and the motion lulls the carriage into dozing they realise the benefits of the story - she knew she was right all along

Chiusi to Caioncola -

A (Red?) Kite wheeling low over the trackside verge - a Buzzard hounded by Hooded Crows; White Egrets collected in a draining dyke and in the marshy meadow by the station - spring here is a thrust of life: of sudden intense heat in the day cooling rapidly in the late afternoon, thunderstorms growling but never quite unleashed; wood smoke and bonfires clearing away the winter rot; wisteria on the pergola full of bees and those large black droning beetles, and a chain of fat ants works its way up one of the wooden posts and into the blooms; and a Nightingale singing a welcome like none other. He continues on and off throughout the afternoon, moving his roost. I finally go to bed close on midnight - long day, brain numb, right ear blocked still by the pressure of the plane’s earlier descent so I hear my interior. About 2am I awake and the Nightingale is still singing, alone, earning well his name -