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I sat by the Trevi fountain trying to decide whether I would throw in a coin as you’re supposed to do and what I’d wish for if I did. A man who looked to be in his late 50’s climbed over the lip of the fountain and waded out into the middle. The tourists began laughing and clapping. He started shouting and took off his shirt. He withdrew a razorblade from his pocket, proceeded to unwrap it from its paper sheath, and he started slicing across his stomach. He didn’t cut very deep, but blood quickly began trickling down his front and into the water.The tourists gasped a little each time he cut.They kept making wishes though, throwing in their coins over their shoulders. They kept taking photos of one another too, some choosing to position themselves so the man stood in the middle of the fountain couldn’t be seen and others trying to make sure he was visible in the background.He kept cutting and shouting, sometimes trying to phone someone using a cellphone he kept his pocket. He started gesturing at his wrists with the razorblade.I wondered if he was going to kill himself, and whether anyone would move, and whether I would be brave enough to wade out into blood and coins and water and try to stop him bleeding his life out into the fountain. I felt sick.The police arrived then, pushing the tourist crowds back. He climbed higher on the fountain, kept cutting and bleeding and shouting.The tourists were now forced to throw their coins in from afar - from behind the police barrier. Some missed, the coins ricocheting and tinkling off the surrounding stone, while others had the skill to land them in the bloody water.They kept eating ice-cream and making wishes and taking photos. They didn’t stop when the police started talking to him, when he stopped cutting himself, when they waded out to him, or when they eventually led him slowly to the side, a towel draped over his shoulders.I wonder what they wished for.I stood in the Colosseum a few hours later and watched a feral cat stalk through the grass in the remains of the arena below. Hunting mice, I suppose. It started to rain, the tourists laughing and going inside to seek cover, and the cat stopped and hugged up against a crumbling arena wall. I couldn’t see him after a while.I left Rome. I didn’t make a wish. Click for high-res photo

I sat by the Trevi fountain trying to decide whether I would throw in a coin as you’re supposed to do and what I’d wish for if I did. A man who looked to be in his late 50’s climbed over the lip of the fountain and waded out into the middle. The tourists began laughing and clapping. He started shouting and took off his shirt. He withdrew a razorblade from his pocket, proceeded to unwrap it from its paper sheath, and he started slicing across his stomach. He didn’t cut very deep, but blood quickly began trickling down his front and into the water.
The tourists gasped a little each time he cut.
They kept making wishes though, throwing in their coins over their shoulders. They kept taking photos of one another too, some choosing to position themselves so the man stood in the middle of the fountain couldn’t be seen and others trying to make sure he was visible in the background.
He kept cutting and shouting, sometimes trying to phone someone using a cellphone he kept his pocket. He started gesturing at his wrists with the razorblade.
I wondered if he was going to kill himself, and whether anyone would move, and whether I would be brave enough to wade out into blood and coins and water and try to stop him bleeding his life out into the fountain. I felt sick.
The police arrived then, pushing the tourist crowds back. He climbed higher on the fountain, kept cutting and bleeding and shouting.
The tourists were now forced to throw their coins in from afar - from behind the police barrier. Some missed, the coins ricocheting and tinkling off the surrounding stone, while others had the skill to land them in the bloody water.
They kept eating ice-cream and making wishes and taking photos. They didn’t stop when the police started talking to him, when he stopped cutting himself, when they waded out to him, or when they eventually led him slowly to the side, a towel draped over his shoulders.
I wonder what they wished for.
I stood in the Colosseum a few hours later and watched a feral cat stalk through the grass in the remains of the arena below. Hunting mice, I suppose. It started to rain, the tourists laughing and going inside to seek cover, and the cat stopped and hugged up against a crumbling arena wall. I couldn’t see him after a while.
I left Rome. I didn’t make a wish.

International Sign Language

Me, in terrible Italian: <Hi. I’m just a tourist. Do you speak English?>
Shopkeeper: Ah, a little. Si.
Me: Do you have any razorblades? For shaving? <mimics shaving>
Shopkeeper: Ah! Si, si. <gestures at large selection of Mach 5’s, blades with moisturiser strips, etc.>
Me: No, um. Razorblades. Like, uh… <mimics shaving, then slitting wrists with same imaginary item> 
Shopkeeper: Aaah! Si! Si! <gets some razorblades from behind the counter> €1.50!
Me: Thank you.
Shopkeeper: Enjoy!

Worst. Rock Concert. Ever.

I saw the Pope giving his weekly public address in St Peter’s square today.
I arrived just as he began to slowly ascend the steps to the podium. I was initially confused by what I assumed was some kind of circus-organ music accompanying him but was prepared to give the man kudos for not taking himself too seriously. It slowly resolved into a hymn warped by the square acoustics, but my confusion wasn’t helped by a one large screen (of the many surrounding the square) that was seemingly dedicated solely to what I mentally labeled as ‘Previous Pope-scapades.’ These took the form of scenes of him hugging children, disembarking from planes in Africa, and odd cutaways to people just kinda floating in clouds. I still don’t really know what that was about.
Just as a bishop stood to address the crowd for the first time, a hush fell over the them and I couldn’t help but hope for a quick “Previously, on ‘The Pope’…” montage, possibly with the ‘24’ music playing over it. I was disappointed.
The main body of the speeches took the form of thanks and mentions of dioceses and groups of newly ordained priests that were in attendance. Since each group would stand, shout, and wave flags they’d brought each time this happened, it gave the whole event a very festival-like atmosphere. People were wooing and taking photos and eating pizza and applying suntan lotion. It was a mix of strange languages and odd clothing. I really would not have been surprised to se someone launching a big beach-ball into the crowd to be knocked around, possibly with His Holiness’ face adorning it, or maybe some kind of tasteful depiction of Jesus just kinda hanging out on a beach. I briefly considered starting a Mexican-wave, but I wasn’t sure whether they did that here and I didn’t want to risk being the one guy in a crowd watching the Pope that was waving his arms around in a suspicious manner. I imagine the Pope has pretty good snipers for just this kind of situation and really, it’s probably just easier for him to have suspicious people shot. Better to be safe than sorry. “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than to seek permission” as the saying goes, and I imagine it’s especially true if you’re Pope.
I’d make sure I had amazing snipers if I was Pope.
My favourite attendees were a large Irish family who, after the initial Pope excitement had settled down, proceeded to dish out sandwiches and settle in to watch him address the various groups in a selection of languages. After getting bored pretty quickly, they let the kids run free and spent some time reading their guidebooks, sat there in St Peter’s square. Eventually they seemed to just forget about the Pope entirely. The mother only just looked up at him again as His Holiness was leaving and quickly nudged her husband to alert him.
“Kids!” he shouted. “Kids! Look! The Pope’s on the move!”
They all stopped and beamed, somehow proud, sandwiches still in hand, as the tiny figure disappeared off in the distance.
The youngest daughter gave him a little wave.