Giornale #3

As we stepped out from the Spagna metro stop, the bustle of the Spanish steps overwhelmed my senses.  The stomping of horses mixed with the calls of vendors and the lingering whiff of perfume from nearby fashion houses was almost too much to handle.  It wasn’t until I stepped under the cool shade of the Keats-Shelley house and away from the masses that I started to feel a sense of peace.  When we entered the building, we were greeted by a young British woman; I felt a guilty sense of pleasure at hearing the familiar sounds of English.  The cramped spiral staircase and chipped paint reminded me of my school in London, an oasis among the clogged streets of Bloomsbury.  We entered the first room and automatically my inner writer went into geek mode.  Nestled amongst the shining mahogany were fragments of letters from Keats and Shelley as well as portraits of family members.  Books, their spines gilded and hidden behind a fortress of glass, begged to be read amongst the words of the literary greats.  Pictures of Keats as a young boy glistened underneath brass oil lamps and the muted glow of candlelight.  The next two rooms were similar in their layout, full of brass and oak and the perfect setting to have a glass of bourbon.  These rooms, in comparison to the rest of Roman interior, lacked the bright pastels and large windows but felt cozier than the airy spaces I’d seen on this trip.  Keats’s bedroom also followed a similar pattern. The museum curators had made sure to retain furniture from the period and still framed letters from Keats’s closest friends and family on the surrounding walls.  They also made sure to specify that that was where he eventually passed.  The only window overlooked the Spanish Steps and I could still hear the chatter from the staircase.  In all honesty, that room wouldn’t be a bad place to spend your last few days.  At least you would still feel as if you were connected to the world, even if your body refused to leave your bed.  One of my favorite treasures from the museum, a letter was written by Shelley to Keats, was placed under a glass box by his bed.  I found myself mesmerized by the cursive and the folds in the parchment as if Keats phantom hands were still crinkling the paper.  When I was leaving, I placed my hand on the door frame and paused, breathing in the space where one of the world’s greatest poets had taken his last breath.  As a writer, it was a moment that would stay with me.  Of course, I had to memorialize the visit with a book of his poems from the gift shop.  We left the house and descended back into the chaos.  Children splashed in the fountain and crowds of teenagers, many in black t-shirts and jeans, swarmed the steps.  Despite the crowds and the blaring sun, I felt at peace.  I had paid my respects to a poetry icon, a man who died too soon in a city that was supposed to bring him health.  Rome had captured both his mind, body, and soul.