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I
try
to
look
at
the
Pantheon
every
chance
I
get
,
since
I
am
here
in
Rome
after
all
,
and
an
old
proverb
says
that
anyone
who
goes
to
Rome
without
seeing
the
Pantheon
"
goes
and
comes
back
an
ass
.
"
On
my
way
back
home
I
take
a
little
detour
and
stop
at
the
address
in
Rome
I
find
most
strangely
affecting
-
the
Augusteum
.
This
big
,
round
,
ruined
pile
of
brick
started
life
as
a
glorious
mausoleum
,
built
by
Octavian
Augustus
to
house
his
remains
and
the
remains
of
his
family
for
all
of
eternity
.
It
must
have
been
impossible
for
the
emperor
to
have
imagined
at
the
time
that
Rome
would
ever
be
anything
but
a
mighty
Augustus
-
worshipping
empire
.
How
could
he
possibly
have
foreseen
the
collapse
of
the
realm
?
Or
known
that
,
with
all
the
aqueducts
destroyed
by
barbarians
and
with
the
great
roads
left
in
ruin
,
the
city
would
empty
of
citizens
,
and
it
would
take
almost
twenty
centuries
before
Rome
ever
recovered
the
population
she
had
boasted
during
her
height
of
glory
?
Augustus
’
s
mausoleum
fell
to
ruins
and
thieves
during
the
Dark
Ages
.
Somebody
stole
the
emperor
’
s
ashes
-
no
telling
who
.
By
the
twelfth
century
,
though
,
the
monument
had
been
renovated
into
a
fortress
for
the
powerful
Colonna
family
,
to
protect
them
from
assaults
by
various
warring
princes
.
Then
the
Augusteum
was
transformed
somehow
into
a
vineyard
,
then
a
Renaissance
garden
,
then
a
bullring
(
we
’
re
in
the
eighteenth
century
now
)
,
then
a
fireworks
depository
,
then
a
concert
hall
.
In
the
1930s
,
Mussolini
seized
the
property
and
restored
it
down
to
its
classical
foundations
,
so
that
it
could
someday
be
the
final
resting
place
for
his
remains
.
(
Again
,
it
must
have
been
impossible
back
then
to
imagine
that
Rome
could
ever
be
anything
but
a
Mussolini
-
worshipping
empire
.
)
Of
course
,
Mussolini
’
s
fascist
dream
did
not
last
,
nor
did
he
get
the
imperial
burial
he
’
d
anticipated
.
Today
the
Augusteum
is
one
of
the
quietest
and
loneliest
places
in
Rome
,
buried
deep
in
the
ground
.
The
city
has
grown
up
around
it
over
the
centuries
.
(
One
inch
a
year
is
the
general
rule
of
thumb
for
the
accumulation
of
time
’
s
debris
.
)
Traffic
above
the
monument
spins
in
a
hectic
circle
,
and
nobody
ever
goes
down
there
-
from
what
I
can
tell
-
except
to
use
the
place
as
a
public
bathroom
.
But
the
building
still
exists
,
holding
its
Roman
ground
with
dignity
,
waiting
for
its
next
incarnation
.
I
find
the
endurance
of
the
Augusteum
so
reassuring
,
that
this
structure
has
had
such
an
erratic
career
,
yet
always
adjusted
to
the
particular
wildness
of
the
times
.
To
me
,
the
Augusteum
is
like
a
person
who
’
s
led
a
totally
crazy
life
-
who
maybe
started
out
as
a
housewife
,
then
unexpectedly
became
a
widow
,
then
took
up
fan
-
dancing
to
make
money
,
ended
up
somehow
as
the
first
female
dentist
in
outer
space
,
and
then
tried
her
hand
at
national
politics
-
yet
who
has
managed
to
hold
an
intact
sense
of
herself
throughout
every
upheaval
.
I
look
at
the
Augusteum
,
and
I
think
that
perhaps
my
life
has
not
actually
been
so
chaotic
,
after
all
.
It
is
merely
this
world
that
is
chaotic
,
bringing
changes
to
us
all
that
nobody
could
have
anticipated
.
The
Augusteum
warns
me
not
to
get
attached
to
any
obsolete
ideas
about
who
I
am
,
what
I
represent
,
whom
I
belong
to
,
or
what
function
I
may
once
have
intended
to
serve
Yesterday
I
might
have
been
a
glorious
monument
to
somebody
,
true
enough
-
but
tomorrow
I
could
be
a
fireworks
depository
.
Even
in
the
Eternal
City
,
says
the
silent
Augusteum
,
one
must
always
be
prepared
for
riotous
and
endless
waves
of
transformation
.
I
had
shipped
ahead
a
box
of
books
to
myself
,
right
before
I
left
New
York
to
move
to
Italy
.
The
box
was
guaranteed
to
arrive
at
my
Roman
apartment
within
four
to
six
days
,
but
I
think
the
Italian
post
office
must
have
misread
that
instruction
as
"
forty
-
six
days
,
"
for
two
months
have
passed
now
,
and
I
have
seen
no
sign
of
my
box
.
My
Italian
friends
tell
me
to
put
the
box
out
of
my
mind
completely
.
They
say
that
the
box
may
arrive
or
it
may
not
arrive
,
but
such
things
are
out
of
our
hands
.
"
Did
someone
maybe
steal
it
?
"
I
ask
Luca
Spaghetti
.
"
Did
the
post
office
lose
it
?
"
