Rome in June, Lived After Dark · Dimos Mertzanidis

I know Rome well. I had just never been there in June.

June in Rome is hot in a way that reorganizes your whole day. By the middle of the afternoon the stone is throwing the warmth back at you, the light goes flat and hard, and the sensible thing is to give up and find some shade until it lets go. So the day bends toward the evening. You go out late, you stay out late, and the city hands you its best hours once the worst of the heat has passed.

Which is why this Rome became an evening city for me. Rome has enough of itself that you can walk out of a door at six in the evening and be somewhere worth standing within four minutes, and that is a rare quality in a capital city.

What I did instead was climb the same set of steps about six times, at six different hours, because they kept changing.

The Spanish Steps in low evening sun, the twin bell towers of Trinita dei Monti and the obelisk above, ochre retaining walls glowing, only a few people on the stairs — The same staircase in one evening: ten to seven, quarter to seven, and ten past eleven at night.

Piazza di Spagna seen from partway up the Spanish Steps, a large crowd filling the square below between ochre and cream buildings — The same staircase in one evening: ten to seven, quarter to seven, and ten past eleven at night.

Arriving into the heat

I dropped my bag and was back out on the street inside an hour, at quarter to six, which in June is exactly when Rome becomes worth walking.

Roman buildings in late afternoon go from beige to gold to a kind of burnt apricot, and the narrow streets act like funnels for it, so you turn a corner and walk straight into a wall of warm color with people silhouetted at the far end.

A narrow Roman street between tall ochre buildings in late afternoon light, people walking toward awnings at the far end — From 17:45. The streets going gold on the way to Piazza di Spagna.

An ochre corner house with a small attic tower and plants along its ledge, sun flaring behind it, seen from below across a stone balustrade — From 17:45. The streets going gold on the way to Piazza di Spagna.

The boat that sits below the steps

Everyone photographs the staircase. Almost nobody photographs the fountain at the bottom of it, which is a shame, because the fountain is the better object.

It is a stone boat, half sunk into its own basin, water coming out of it in thin unhurried streams from holes at the prow and along the sides. The whole thing sits low, well below street level, so you look down into it rather than up at it. In the middle of a square heaving with several hundred people at twenty to seven in the evening, it is doing something completely calm.

I went back to it that night, close to eleven, and with the crowd thinned out and the shopfronts lit behind it, the water had gone from turquoise to a deep still green. Same object, different animal.

The stone boat fountain at the foot of the Spanish Steps, water running from its prow, a dense crowd and ochre buildings behind in evening light — 18:42, then back again after eleven. The Barcaccia keeps working long after the square empties.

The same boat fountain at night, lit from the square, still green water, people and lit shopfronts in the background — 18:42, then back again after eleven. The Barcaccia keeps working long after the square empties.

Above it, the steps themselves. From the bottom they read as one long ochre ramp with the church at the top and the obelisk lined up dead center, which is such a confident piece of staging that you forgive it for being on every postcard. Halfway up there is a broken gap in the old stone parapet, and if you crouch to it you get the whole square framed inside a jagged hole, hundreds of people going about their evening inside a stone keyhole.

The Spanish Steps from the foot, the twin towers of Trinita dei Monti and the obelisk centred above the empty stairs in evening light — Ten to seven. The gap in the parapet is the best free viewfinder in Rome.

Piazza di Spagna seen through a broken gap in a weathered stone parapet, crowds and buildings sharp inside the opening, stone blurred around it — Ten to seven. The gap in the parapet is the best free viewfinder in Rome.

The hour when Rome stops shouting

At twenty past seven I gave up walking and sat down for a spritz, which in June in Rome is less a drink than a piece of infrastructure. Two of them arrived on a marble table under an awning, orange as a traffic cone, with the ice already sweating. Around the table the street kept moving, the pharmacy cross glowing green across the way, and I sat there long enough to watch the light leave the top floors of the buildings opposite.

Then down to the river, because the Tiber at dusk is the quietest place in the middle of the city.

It runs low and green between high stone walls, with plane trees leaning over the embankment and boats moored along one side, and at half past eight there was almost nobody on it. Rome barely uses its river. Dublin lives on the Liffey and Paris lives on the Seine, but Rome turned its back on the Tiber centuries ago and left it down there in its trench, doing nothing in particular, which on a hot evening is exactly what you want from a river.

Two orange spritz cocktails with black straws on a marble cafe table under an awning, a dessert glass and a plate beside them — 19:17 to 20:53. Spritz, then the river, which nobody was using.

A cafe terrace on a Roman street at dusk, an orange spritz on the table in the foreground, a green pharmacy cross glowing on the ochre building opposite — 19:17 to 20:53. Spritz, then the river, which nobody was using.

The walk delivered the Palazzo di Giustizia, floodlit and enormous, every window and arcade picked out in white against a dark sky. Romans call it the Palazzaccio, roughly the ugly great palace. At twenty to nine at night, lit like that, it is not ugly at all.

The Palace of Justice floodlit at night, rows of ornate windows and arcades in white stone against a dark sky — 20:43. The Palazzaccio, making its case after dark.

Dinner, and the fountain at half past eleven

Dinner was in a place with whole cured hams hanging in rows from a rack above the counter, a sign reading Ginger, sapori e salute, and an open kitchen underneath doing everything at once. I have a weakness for rooms like this. You can see the work, the food has not been hidden away behind a wall, and the hams swinging overhead tell you what the place cares about before anyone hands you a menu.

The wine was a white from Etna, Aedes, from a producer called I Custodi delle vigne dell'Etna. A volcanic white in Rome in June, cold enough to hurt slightly. I photographed the bottle, which I almost never do, because the label was beautiful: a line drawing of old vines, a lot of white space, the year 2024 at the bottom.

Whole cured hams hanging in rows from a metal rack above an open kitchen counter, a sign above reading Ginger sapori e salute — 21:29 and 22:26. The hams first, the Etna white second.

A bottle of Aedes Etna Bianco 2024 from I Custodi delle vigne dell'Etna on a table, the label showing a line drawing of old vines — 21:29 and 22:26. The hams first, the Etna white second.

Then, because it was still only half eleven and the city was clearly not going to bed, the Trevi.

I want to be honest about this one. The Trevi Fountain at 23:34 in June is not a quiet spiritual experience. There are hundreds of people, several of them on the phone to somebody at home, and you are queueing gently for a spot at the railing. And it does not matter even slightly. The thing is lit from below, the water is a color that should not exist in a stone basin in the middle of a dense city, and the whole enormous carved wall of it comes at you the moment you turn the corner from a street barely wide enough for two people. I stood there far longer than I meant to.

The Trevi Fountain floodlit at night, its carved facade and sculpted figures above a basin of bright turquoise water — 23:34. Worth the crowd, which is not a sentence I write often.

Uphill for the air

One day started slowly and went up, which is the correct direction in Rome in June. Heat sits in the streets down in the center, so you climb until you find some air.

On the way there was a stone arch thrown across a narrow street between two buildings, with cars parked underneath it, the kind of casual structural drama that would be a monument anywhere else. Then a long green wall on the climb, thick ivy hanging over old grotto arches, with a palazzo above it and umbrella pines against the sky.

A stone arch spanning a narrow Roman street between two buildings, cars parked below and warm light on the far facades — 11:46 and 12:52. Rome hides its climbs behind ordinary streets.

A tall wall of dense ivy over old grotto arches on a hillside, a pale palazzo and umbrella pines above it under a blue sky — 11:46 and 12:52. Rome hides its climbs behind ordinary streets.

At the top, the Pincio terrace, and the view that makes the whole climb worth it. Piazza del Popolo lies directly below with its obelisk, and beyond it the city runs flat and pale all the way to the dome of St Peter's on the horizon. On the day I was there the piazza had a stage and marquees built across half of it for some event, which I mention because leaving it out would be tidying up reality. Even with a stage in it, the view is one of the great free things in Europe.

The view from the Pincio terrace over Piazza del Popolo with its obelisk and temporary event stage, the city stretching flat to the dome of St Peter's on the horizon — 13:54, from the Pincio. The dome on the skyline is as close as I got to the Vatican.

The green lake

Behind the terrace, Villa Borghese opens up, and in the middle of it there is a small artificial lake that had gone a full, uncompromising green.

Not murky. Green like paint. Around the edge, umbrella pines and stone banks, people out in rowing boats moving slowly across the surface, and on a little island in the middle a small temple with Ionic columns, sitting there looking like it has been transplanted from somewhere else entirely. Which, in spirit, it has: the pediment carries an inscription in Greek, ΑΣΚΛΗΠΙΩΙ ΣΩΤΗΡΙ, to Asclepius the savior.

I stood in front of that for a while. A Greek dedication, on a temple, on an island, in a green lake, in the middle of a Roman park, on an afternoon at half past two. There was also a cormorant on the near shore drying itself out, entirely uninterested in any of it.

A small Ionic temple with a columned portico standing on the far bank of a bright green lake, trees behind it — 14:15 to 14:33. The lake was that color. No filter, no help from me.

The wide green lake in Villa Borghese with rowing boats on the water and the small temple among trees on the far side — 14:15 to 14:33. The lake was that color. No filter, no help from me.

Sant'Ignazio, at half past ten at night

The best thing I saw in Rome I saw at 22:33, standing in a church with my head tipped all the way back.

Sant'Ignazio has a flat ceiling. It does not look flat. Andrea Pozzo painted architecture onto it, columns and arches and open sky climbing away above the real building, so the stone seems to keep going up for another fifty meters before it opens into air full of figures. Standing in the nave at night, with the church almost empty and the lighting low and warm, the illusion is close to total. You know it is paint. Your neck does not.

I looked at it, walked a few steps, and looked again, because the whole trick depends on where you stand. From the right spot it locks into place perfectly. Move ten meters and the painted columns start to lean and buckle. A three hundred year old piece of engineering aimed squarely at one pair of eyes.

The painted vault of Sant Ignazio seen from below, illusionistic columns and arches opening into a sky crowded with figures — 22:33. A flat ceiling pretending, extremely well, to be a hole in the roof.

Nine in the morning, the Pantheon

If you do one thing in Rome on a schedule, do this one. Get to the Pantheon early.

Just before ten in the morning it was busy but not impossible, and the building does something that no amount of prior knowledge prepares you for. You come in from a bright hot square through a portico of enormous granite columns, and then the room simply opens: a perfect sphere of space, a coffered dome climbing in rings, and a single round hole at the top with the June sun coming straight through it in a hard white disc.

The oculus is open to the sky. No glass. When it rains in Rome, it rains inside the Pantheon, and the floor is very slightly domed with drains cut into it, because the people who built it knew that and solved it.

The coffered dome of the Pantheon seen from directly below, rings of sunken panels narrowing to the open circular oculus with white sky through it — 09:57. The only light source in the building.

Around the walls, the building has been quietly doing a second job for a very long time. There is a dark porphyry tomb between two columns, with wreaths and lilies still in bud on the step in front of it, and the inscription above reads UMBERTO I RE D'ITALIA. A king of Italy, buried in a Roman temple that later became a church, with somebody still bringing him flowers on an ordinary morning. In a niche further along, a marble Madonna and Child stands in a frame of colored stone, calm about the whole arrangement.

A dark porphyry tomb inside the Pantheon between two tall columns, inscribed Umberto I Re d Italia, with wreaths and lilies in bud on the step below — 09:53 to 09:55. Someone had brought flowers that morning.

A marble statue of the Madonna and Child standing in a niche framed with colored marble inside the Pantheon — 09:53 to 09:55. Someone had brought flowers that morning.

Navona, and the walk west

Piazza Navona at half eleven was the calmest I saw any famous space in Rome. It is a long oval, because it is built on the shape of a stadium that was there first, and that single fact rearranges how you see it: the buildings are arranged around a running track.

Bernini's Four Rivers fountain sits in the middle with the obelisk coming out of it, and the church front beside it goes up in that restless baroque way where nothing is allowed to be a flat surface. The pavement was almost empty. Two hours earlier the Pantheon had been full.

Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers in Piazza Navona, carved figures and rock around the base of an obelisk, the baroque church of Sant Agnese behind — 11:33. The oval is the footprint of a Roman stadium, which is why it is that shape.

Piazza Navona seen along its length, the obelisk and fountain to one side, ochre buildings down both flanks under a bright sky — 11:33. The oval is the footprint of a Roman stadium, which is why it is that shape.

West of Navona the streets narrow and get quiet fast. Ivy comes down whole facades. There is a corner building so completely covered that from below, looking up, it reads as a green wedge cutting into the sky. Around it, a shop with paintings stacked outside on the cobbles, the Colosseum and St Peter's in oils, and a sunflower portrait in colors nobody has ever seen in Rome, all of it just leaned against the wall in the sun.

A corner building entirely covered in ivy, photographed from below so the green facade rises as a wedge against the sky — 12:38, a few streets west of Navona, where the tour groups stop coming.

A narrow street with an ivy covered wall running down one side, people walking in the distance between ochre buildings — 12:38, a few streets west of Navona, where the tour groups stop coming.

Then the river again, in daylight this time, and the walk that ends at Castel Sant'Angelo. Hadrian built it as his own tomb, then it became a fortress, then a prison, then a museum, which is a career. From the bridge the Tiber was low and green with the banks showing, and the arches frame the dome of St Peter's if you stand in the right place, which somebody clearly worked out a long time ago.

The Tiber seen through the curved ironwork of a bridge railing, green water and a stone bridge upstream — 13:06 to 13:15. Hadrian's tomb, later a fortress, later a prison.

The arches of Ponte Sant Angelo over the low green Tiber with the drum of Castel Sant Angelo rising behind — 13:06 to 13:15. Hadrian's tomb, later a fortress, later a prison.

Lunch was across the river at five to three: one pasta in a deep tomato sauce with pieces of guanciale, one yellow with cheese and pepper and more guanciale, both in battered metal pans, with a plate of roast potatoes, sauteed greens and four fried rice balls between them. Rome does about six ingredients, correctly, at a temperature that suggests somebody was watching the pan.

Thick tube pasta in a rich tomato sauce with pieces of guanciale and grated cheese, served in a battered metal pan — 14:56, across the river. Two pastas and a plate of fried things, which is a complete lunch.

Pasta coated in a yellow cheese and pepper sauce with pieces of guanciale, served in a metal pan — 14:56, across the river. Two pastas and a plate of fried things, which is a complete lunch.

The Cavea, under an orange sky

One evening had somewhere else to be entirely.

At quarter to nine I walked up a path lined with olive trees and street lamps, in a slow crowd all going the same way, out toward the Auditorium Parco della Musica. The Cavea is the open air bowl at the center of it, sunk between the concert halls, and at that hour the sky above it was still holding light while the stage below had already gone warm.

People walking a tree lined path at dusk toward a venue, street lamps lit against a pale evening sky — 20:45 and 20:59. The Cavea filling up while there was still light in the sky.

An open air stage seen across a filling audience at dusk, lighting rig above and a grand piano and instruments set out under warm light — 20:45 and 20:59. The Cavea filling up while there was still light in the sky.

It was Ludovico Einaudi. A grand piano at the center, an ensemble around him with strings and percussion and electronics, and the back of the stage lit in a single deep orange that turned the whole bowl the color of a stove ring. From where I sat the audience became a field of silhouettes, thousands of heads between me and the light, and when the piano came in properly, several thousand people went genuinely quiet, which is a sound in itself.

The audience bowl at the Cavea seen from above, thousands of silhouetted heads facing a stage washed in deep orange light — 21:23. The back wall of the stage held that orange for most of the night.

The open air stage in deep orange light with the ensemble small at the center, silhouetted audience in the foreground — 21:23. The back wall of the stage held that orange for most of the night.

He spoke to the audience between pieces, sitting sideways on the piano stool in a hat and a dark jacket with a hand mic, in the unhurried way of somebody who has done this in front of a lot of people and is not performing being relaxed. Then he would turn back to the keys and the room would drop again.

Ludovico Einaudi sitting sideways at a grand piano in a hat and dark jacket, speaking into a hand held microphone between pieces — 21:37 to 23:01. The last frame is the curtain call, everybody out front together.

The stage under orange light with the ensemble playing, keyboards and percussion behind and the pianist standing center stage — 21:37 to 23:01. The last frame is the curtain call, everybody out front together.

It finished just after eleven, and I came out into a warm night with the city still fully awake below.

What Rome gave me was a staircase at six different hours, a boat fountain that keeps pouring long after everyone goes home, a Greek temple on a green lake, a ceiling that lies to your eyes at half past ten at night, and a piano in an open bowl under an orange sky.

Rome is a city with far more of itself than anyone can hold in one go, and the pleasure is in finding out which parts of it come to you. The ruins are not going anywhere. That is rather the point of them.