Tuesday, or Today I have been mostly getting lost in San Lorenzo

The trouble with having morning classes (and no mates) is that the afternoons and evenings do tend to drag somewhat. It seems like Fates way of showing its fundamental contempt for me- it KNOWS that given the choice I would rise no sooner than noon, and so it throws this at me- "You shall rise daily at seven and study until your preferred time of waking-and then you shall have NOTHING TO DO FOR THE REST OF THE DAY! What do you make of THAT, Slugabed?" Well, fuck you Fate, but I suppose it must be for the bast (although I have yet to work out quite why).

So, full of resolve to be a diligent student, I decided to head for Feltrinelli to find dictionaries, vocabulary guides, exercise books etc. etc. so that I could fill the long, sad hours knocking about on my own reiterating what I had learned that morning and self-teaching the stuff I hadn't. Well, OBVIOUSLY, I got lost (I do apologise for this annoying trope- am sincerely hoping that this phase passes as my feet are starting to hurt from forever going in totally the wrong direction then having to guess my way back) and never made it. But I am actually incredibly glad that I didn't, because I stumbled across something rather wonderful.

I had been heading towards Termini and, as happens all too often, just missed by a street or two and ended up in San Lorenzo on a road I had stayed on during a trip last spring. Well, I knew that I was going in the wrong direction but I could see something monument-y at the end of the Via Tiburtina and naturally couldn't resist. There was a flower market just outside the entrance for reasons I didn't grasp straightaway, but as soon as I walked through the huge arch inscribed with Latin lamentations it became clear- a cemetary. Initially it just looked like a single courtyard with a dramatic statue in the centre- I had intended to stroll around the square and then take my leave (in truth, I was after a slice of pizza and hadn't intended to stay long), but one turn exposed a set of stairs with a striking Fascistic looking church at its peak.

Well, you can't not look, can you?

Climbing these imposing stairs you realise more fully the contrasts and contradictions of the surrounding tombs; the huge and the humble, Classical and Baroque and modern minimalist all vying for attention in this sprawling necropolis. Once I reached the church it was clear that there was far, far more to it that I had expected- framed by tall, startlingly green trees you could see these memorials, thousands of them in so many dramatically different styles, spreading at least a further square mile.

I can say without exaggeration that it is one of the most beautiful places that I have ever seen in my life-you know those places where curiosity and sheer awe compels you to keep walking much further than you had intended (and given that I was wearing my customary ridiculous shoes, this was quite an undertaking)? I stayed just wandering for two hours, marvelling at the sheer enormity and ambition. But it was so much more than that.

Don't get me wrong- the spectacle and grandeur of the larger edifices were breathtaking- specific mention must go to the Monument for the Fallen which you reach if you persevere right to the other side of the cemetery from the Piazza del Verano- a fairly standard (if exaggerated in typical Italian fashion) war memorial made oddly affecting by the surrounding statues representing each branch of the armed forces- personifications in bronze. What gives it an added peculiarity is the fact that you can see through the two arches which flank the list of the dead onto a heaving motorway, and then further to the distant hills. The juxtaposition- calm/frantic/calm- seems fitting, and yet also disorientating.

To say nothing of the vast and varied mausolea dedicated to certain families or individuals, either at ground level or scaling a mountain of marbles, lined up in less than perfect rows, the impact they must have had individually now simply part of a collaborative effort, a united front to impress upon the viewer the magnitude of death and loss. But though this cemetery owes much of its visual impact to these works of art (tasteful or not), the reason why it is so charming, as is so often the case, is in the detail.

The pictures of the deceased which decorated the graves, for examples, either glamorous in their prime or stately in their late years. I lingered particularly on one photograph in what of the many chambers where cremated ashes are held, an exuberant image of a couple holding each other and smiling in the way that only those in love can muster for a camera without looking false. A loving inscription from their daughter was testament, as if one were needed, to lives well lived. There is something about these photographs- looking around your standard English graveyard the overwhelming sense is that of ones own mortality, the inevitability of death, and the anonynimity of those who have already gone. Seeing these pictures, regardless of at what time of life they were taken, allows even strangers to gain (or even to guess at) insight into the lives that their subjects lived, rather than fixating on a slab which refuses to betray anything personal about the individual it covers. The words, "Beloved Wife and Mother" upon a tombstone become a bit redundant when instead you can see an image of her in context, in the act of being beloved.

Another striking feature compounding this unexpected vibrancy- the smell of fresh flowers pervades the entire complex. As a result of this, the colours which abound make for an aura of unexpected well-being, if not joy exactly, but it is this astonishing fragrance, this reminder of life and beauty, touching that most subtle of senses, which is more provocative and more capable of stirring an emotion, a memory, than any statue or epitaph. But for me, there was one other thing. Without wishing to be mawkish (heaven forbid), amid all the show and splendour, the single thing that touched me most was one elderly lady.

You would recognise the type, an Italian donna of a certain age, immaculately dressed- painstakingly coiffed hair, a little too much make-up to look natural, fur coat right the way down to the heels. This picture of elegance, incongruously, was on her knees before her husband's grave, wielding a large plastic gardening brush, clearing the soil from the flowers she had planted and replacing them with new ones. For me, this encapsulated the whole experience. Such dignity, such attention to detail, such pride, all basically a mask for raw emotion and humility in the face of grief. Her plastic brush said "Beloved Husband" better than anything I can think of.