The architectural highlight of Rome for me was the Pantheon. Like much here, that thing is old; it’s not even the original Pantheon and it was built circa 125. But what blows my mind, particularly as Dana and I stood inside, directly in the center, and looked up, is that modern structural engineers can’t fully explain how the fuck the temple’s 5,000-ton dome stands up. If you were to hire a team of burly men from New Jersey to recreate it using modern building materials, it would collapse under its own weight.
Eggheads theorize the Romans used different grades of concrete, starting with the dense and heavy stuff at the dome’s base, graduating up to lighter composites, then topping it off with a pumicelike substance. (It’s beyond me why someone can’t just X-ray the thing or something to find out definitively.) There’s also a hole centered in the top of the dome, which helps disperse weight and in a perfect balance of form and function, lets in light majestically. It also, of course, lets in rain, but the Romans covered that by secreting several drains in the marble floor below.
We toured the Pantheon early this morning, which was a fine idea, because there was no one there except a few early risers and a wandering elderly priest cassocked in white, probably assigned to provide a colorful local human element for tourists’ snapshots.
Raphael, who died in 1520, was buried at the Pantheon on request and his epitaph is the most conceited I’ve yet read; I love it.
Ille hic est Raphael timuit quo sospite vinci rerum magna parens et moriente mori.
Here lies Raphael. When he was alive, Nature was afraid to be bested by him. When he died, she wanted to die herself.
Later in the day, wandering around near the Tiber River, we happened upon the Mouth of Truth. Dana gave it a try and managed to retain her hand. It’s strange that a manhole cover could become a talisman and tourist attraction, but I’m sure the Audrey Hepburn association doesn’t hurt.
We had trouble locating Domus Aurea, a.k.a. Nero’s house, but found it closed for renovation, a curious status for a ruin. We scaled the lunkish Castel Sant’Angelo, a onetime fortress near Vatican City. Via a secret tunnel, the pope could flee to the stronghold if the Vatican came under siege.
We dined on the Piazza Pasquino at Cul de Sac, foremost an enoteca with an astounding 1,500 varieties of wine, most of which line the walls inside the narrow dining room. Tiny rope nets run the length of the lowest shelf, presumably to prevent bottles errantly nudged over the edge from conking a diner on the head. I had deliciously browned and savory involtini, beef rolls that reminded me of the ones my mom makes, right down to the toothpicks that hold the shape.
