Rome is a junkyard

The Via dei Coronari, where I'm staying, is an old narrow street in the centre of Rome, just off Piazza Navona. It's so narrow and old that, when I arrived, my taxi driver refused to drive up it (though, as he charged me a fare which bore no relation to what was flashing on the meter - È domenica!: It's Sunday! - this may not have been strictly necessary).

On Monday morning, I woke up to find the street lined almost exclusively with Antique shops. They open at odd times of day; some in the morning; some, like blossoms after the daily rain showers have cleared, in the evening. At other times of day, cafes bloom: a shop with all kinds of household and hair brushes; one selling Venetian glass beads. But in the evening it's the antique shops. Their suitably antique proprietors peer from each doorway, looking hopefully for the customers I have never seen inside.

Inside each shop is a jumble of old Rome. Marble horses' heads; tin cigarette ads; luminescent blown-glass balls; gilt mirrors, slightly foxed; indifferent (mock or real?) 18th century landscapes; intact baroque fireplaces. How long has Rome been a junkyard? Since the Middle Ages when builders chipped at the larger stones in the Imperial forum to make bricks for the new churches? Longer?

At the beginning of the 21st century Rome is a cannibal city, constantly dismantling and restoring itself with; pricing itself high and dispersing itself endlessly accross the globe.

How long can it keep on consuming itself? Can there be any end to it?

(Yes, I did notice those election thingies going on yesterday, but I need to catch my breath. I'll be posting about them tomorrow.)