A Traveller in Rome by H.v. Morton, Visit Amazon's H. V. Morton Page, search

By H.v. Morton, Visit Amazon's H. V. Morton Page, search results, Learn about Author Central, H. V. Morton,

H.V. Morton's evocative account of his days in Nineteen Fifties Rome—the fabled period of los angeles Dolce Vita—remains an crucial advisor to what makes the everlasting urban everlasting. In his attribute anecdotal sort, Morton leads the reader on a well-informed and pleasant trip round the urban, from the Fontana di Trevi and the Colosseum to the Vatican Gardens loud with beautiful birdsong. He additionally takes time to contemplate such everlasting subject matters because the idiosyncrasies of Italian drivers in addition to the ominous chances in the back of an strange absence of pigeons within the Piazza di San Pietro. As TourismWorld.com commented lately: "H.V. Morton.. . .wrote of Rome with sort, involvement, and fervour. His e-book In seek of Rome could be the definitive advisor publication at the everlasting City."

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Two lengths of timber would be let down from the back to the road and upon these the little barrels would be neatly rolled into the wineshops. I never knew what happened after eight or nine o’clock until dusk, when I would return to find the first neon lights glowing and the old lady over the way just a grey face against the gloom of her lonely flat. Sometimes I would leave the pensione at six o’clock in the morning, which is the best time of all in the Roman summer. The air has been freshened during the night and seems to hold a faint scent of flowers.

We saw the ruins of an aqueduct limping across the landscape, and though I recognized it from photographs I had seen, I could not give it a name. I was finding out in the first ten minutes that a visit to Rome is not a matter of discovery, but of remembrance. We dashed through the outer suburbs, where blocks of stark concrete flats, the modern descendants of the Roman insulae, but apparently a good deal more solid and upright, stood amongst piles of rubble; then we passed through the Aurelian Wall by way of a turreted gate and joined a great press of green tramcars and ‘buses, while illustrations from books, the subjects of postcards from friends, and the pictures upon the walls of old-fashioned vicarages, sprang into life all round us.

Was this the place I had been dreaming about for weeks? I could see nothing but the building opposite, which had been carelessly splashed with brown limewash many years ago. From its windows faces looked at me with the hostile curiosity of those who observe a new boy. Men wearing odd little sculptors’ caps made of newspaper were repairing the roof. I could see shops, restaurants, a barber’s shop, and a quick lunch bar where food simmered in pans in the window, together with plates of peaches and jars of olives and artichokes.

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