A memory of Ostia – Mary O’Donnell on an Italian idyll

The mere idea of Italy often sparks thoughts of classical antiquity – Pompeii and Herculaneum, the Colosseum, or Hadrian’s Villa. In 1976, our family travelled to Ostia Lido, just up the road from Ostia Antica, the latter considered to rival Pompeii on account of the preservation of its buildings, frescoes and mosaics.

But this was a sun holiday, and the question of ruins, even those of this once significant city at the mouth of the Tiber, were far from our thoughts as my parents, my aunt and I entered through the heavy door of a beautiful old apartment in the heart of modern Ostia. Being Irish, we were in search of heat, light, and slow days on the nearby yellow sand beach.

I’d just completed my first year at university, and was feeling pleased with myself, happy to swing along with the old folk and join in the daily rituals of the body, far from philosophy lectures on ethics and logic. With a cooling drink to hand, bikini on, and a touch of suncream with no UV filter, I was reading EL Doctorow’s Ragtime, and was very caught up in its tapestry of pre-first World War America.

In late May, Ostia was very hot. My glamorous aunt lay in the noon sunshine, shoulders and chest pinking up nicely to first degree burns, as were mine. Our exposed skin tightened and warped like barbecuing chicken as the hours slid by, and that evening both she and I had headaches, dizziness and mild sunstroke. My parents, both fairer skinned, didn’t offer their flesh to the god Apollo with such conviction, but wisely covered themselves up.

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Later, in the evening streets, the sounds of Ostian family life spilled and surged as grandparents, parents and children descended on the trattorias, the air pungent with the scent of Parmesan cheese and fresh pasta. The clamour of voices urgent to be heard, revealed a society in which family dramas unfolded openly and expressively.

A day came when it was decided that we’d head to Rome to see Pope Paul VI. On the train we were surrounded by busy commuters and country people, in front of me a hardy-looking older woman rapidly shelling peas into a colander, beside her a man with a speckled hen clamped firmly beneath his arm. At Roma Termini the outpouring of bodies from the train was a thick soup of flesh, pushing and shoving, and we were with them, dragged along and up the steps, out into blazing sunshine again, where my father bent his head to consult the map.

In the Vatican Auditorium, the buzz of expectant voices from the seated thousands rose feverishly as we awaited the man referred to as “keeper of the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven”. I sat observing. Two long flanges of cardinals appeared on stage, dressed like a row of big birds in tropical colours. Finally, Pope Paul was borne in on a high chair, the sedia gestatoria, one hand acknowledging the frantic gathering as he was lowered gently to the ground. I recall his mild voice as a blur of Italian, and how he welcomed the different nationalities, each of which acknowledged him with even more excited cheering and clapping.

Later, we wandered in and out through Bernini’s massive Doric colonnades, my mother and aunt in matching yellow linen suits, I in denim and gypsy headscarf, my father at the rear also in denim. We made our way inside the vastness of the Vatican to see the Michelangelo’s Pietà. Safe within a bullet-proof case after being dealt 12 hammer blows in 1972 by a Hungarian who declared himself to be Jesus Christ, it remains the strongest vision I took away from that day, the sight of the limp body of Christ, all earthly torment over.

It didn’t matter that we never saw Ostia Antica, that we didn’t sift through its ancient, streets, or take diligent notes. We had found a culture in the streets and byways of the modern, among people doing modern, ordinary things.

We were alive in the present, in a foreign place, enjoying relaxed meals, good wines, close to people who inspired new thoughts and comparisons, our skins browning from the sun.

How good that was!