This blog was written by 3rd year BA Classical Studies student Rosela Peraj.
As I stepped off the plane into Rome, I was wrapped by the late summer warmth. It radiated from cobblestones of the Via Flaminia, upward like a palpable aura, mingling the intoxicating aroma of espresso with the earthy aroma of dust, emphasised by the loud hum of scooters, taxis and conversation, weaving in and out of streets.
The grandiose steps of the British School at Rome, left a thrill of awe, and in a strange yet pleasant way it overwhelmed me. The building itself seemed to be a living archive, resonating with the presence of artists sketching in the courtyard, classicists immersed over books, and threads of laughter weaving through timeworn halls.
Soon enough, this place became a home. Some evenings, I would find a corner under the dim light and dive deep into either various ancient cults, Ovid’s comedic love advice, or simply enjoy the peace under the musty air of library after a long day of walking 20,000 steps and finding shelter under churches from the blazing sun. The silence wrapped me, while a gentle turning of pages was the only disturbance to the distant symphony of the city behind shutters.
Our days started early; the sun was already well up the sky and heating the air by the time we plunged headlong into the busy embrace of Rome. Standing in the Forum, I imagined the echo of senators’ voices off grand marble columns. I gazed upon the grand weathered stone of the Colosseum. We climbed the steps of Castel Sant’Angelo, once Hadrian’s tomb and then a papal fortress, toward a vision of the Tiber below.
One of the moments that I found most breathtaking, was in the Domus Aurea, where intense grottesche frescoes appeared on the walls playful, fantastic creatures winding through vines and masks, the treasured art of ancient artists.
As the afternoons rolled in, life slowed to a more leisurely pace. I found myself sketching in the quiet corners of courtyards or downing espressos with vivid chatter of shared experiences, snippets of poetry, and fascinating stories from ancient myths. Afternoons would result in a well needed gelato break taking in all we had learned and plans of our next outings. Sometimes we would simply sit in silence, soaking in the shifting light across a temple façade, with the city bustle around us.
Evenings turned into a comforting ritual. Long tables, brimmed with laughter and conversation as we enjoyed some wine. We exchanged story after story, laughing and dazed under the burning skies. Sometimes at night, after dinner, I’d journey down to the lively Piazza di Popolo or Navona, or find a tranquil place along the Tiber, either for a stroll or a small midnight adventure with new friends. Some nights, I’d head over to the library and delve deep into a book until I lost track of time.
Those two weeks flashed by in whirlwind exploration and warmth. Our last dinner, illuminated by candles lit between us, was a colourful and fragrant night, filled with even more laughter about our days, reminiscing over lost cities, chatting over who had the worst sunburn, light-hearted debates on who was the greatest leader of Rome, and what we’d miss the most from this place. Probably at this moment, I understood the look of loss and longing in Bernini’s Medusa.
When it was finally time to go, Rome felt less like just a city for me than as an ongoing conversation, a dialogue between past and present, history and art, scholarship and life.