Rome Blog II
a faint groan approaches, becoming a roar that ricochets through my room before eventually fading into the distance. a lingering smell - a hurried coat of paint - and the stale street air below. city air. rarely crisp, never fresh, too busy with the bins, cafes, cars, animals and people. too busy. city air.
young people pervade the streets, especially at this time. on their way to. on their way from. from somewhere a low murmur escalates up the slant of my window into earshot. time passes, and a raised voice is now orchestrating howls of laughter across the road. suddenly the zip of a careering car followed by a wince of breaks, obedient to the command of the junction lights on the corner of my road. a clean reverberation of bass. everyone is in a hurry at that age.
an acid green pharmacy sign has forced its way through my shutters, the light violently displayed on my wall, as if about to reduce to sludge the caramel wafer standing between myself and my flatmate. always meant for people outside but most noticed by us within.
during this flurry of activity, I hear a car honk. there’s always a honk.
on many occasions that’s all I’ve thought Rome is really. a series of honks. honks of disapproval that the traffic light operator hasn’t changed the colour to green. honks to warn a reversing driver of your imminent passing. even if said driver is checking their mirrors as they reverse, there is a honk. if said driver isn’t looking at all, a honk. a honk if you’re slow off the mark. a honk even if you are. a honk at someone you recognise, someone who sees you, someone who waves in response, and after such a friendly honk, how rude would it be, to not say hello? a meeting between honker and honkee? alas, you have put yourself in the honking line for an irritated, stationary honker to honk. a honker needs but one reason, and you fell for it, honk line and sinker. a honk for this. a honk for that. a honk if someone else honks, because in Rome it seems to not honk while others are honking is to cast yourself as an outsider, an Other.
there was a medium-length honk the other night from the bin man who needed the empty car with flashing hazards to move, so the bin man could be the man who emptied the bins. no one came. a medium-to-long-lenth honk followed. then what was a long-length honk for sure, a scary honk. a honk that spoke of anger.
then it came. the honk steadied itself, pausing, as if atop a mountain staring into the vast expanse beyond, as far as the eye can see. taking deep breaths, sucking all the air into its lungs, depriving surrounding life of it, the rising pulse giving way to bulging veins and eyes maddened as vision dissolved into mist, the honk let out a roar that perforated the bins and the empty car and the junction traffic lights and the stale city air and the pharmacy sign and the caramel wafer wall. it stretched for an eternity, unwavering, to the end of the earth and off the edge.
no one came to appease the honk.
the bin man drove on.
and now my eyes darken.
I wake up early. I open my shutters. a grey light has replaced the darkest folds of the night. now the day is long. I see just two cars moving from left to right along the main road. one honks at the other.
a new day begins.
Went straight outside and honked my car 👏
triffic