The Big Read: Living la dolce vita

Once, under the stimulus of some mood or strong liquid, I decided the next time I was in Rome I would swim in the Trevi Fountain.

When I was younger I put everything off till later, because I am lazy and there was always a lot more later to come. Now I've reached that age when procrastination feels less like procrastination and more like deciding not to do it. Now I have to do things I wouldn't have done when young, just to establish I'm still young enough to do them. It's terrible irony and it'll get me into trouble one of these days.

On Sunday afternoon I went to Trevi to case the joint. It's hot in Rome right now, an overcast coastal closeness that dampens the shirt and mortifies the hair, but the sheets of clean falling water freshen the air and the white marble makes it jolly and bright. The square is strangely too small for the fountain. It's like one of those mansions that people build in Wierda Valley or Winchester Hills, taking up almost all the property so that there're lots of rooms inside but nowhere to play Frisbee. The piazza was filled with people taking pictures or sitting dazed at the thought of how much of Rome they still had to see before supper. And there were policemen.

The Italian police save a lot of manpower and energy by not enforcing traffic laws, and spend it instead on policing the Trevi. For centuries it used to be that drinking the waters guaranteed your return to Rome, but somehow over the last hundred years people have decided that a coin in the fountain also does the trick, so now every day between 1000 and 3000 euros are tossed away, and cops and carabinieri prowl the place, making sure no one goes wading to scoop up coins with their toes.

A large sergeant in aviator shades stood arms folded, trouser-fabric stretched tight over his thighs, eyeing the crowd in the proud certainty that only the force of his presence held us back from a headlong rush to the water.

I figured that as long as there were tourists, there would be police there to make sure no one made like Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita. I'd have to return when it was empty. I took a drink of the water from a cupped hand, and Americans recoiled in horror. The water still flows from the aquaduct that fed it 500 years ago - it's cool and pure and delicious.

I had dinner in one of the back streets on the other side of Piazza Navonna, between the church and the river. If you've never had pizza with fresh zucchini flowers, anchovies and black truffles, I suggest you do so before it's too late. I had an outside table and it rained a little, but a light, warm rain, enough to make the cobblestones shine silver-black in the lamplight, not enough to dilute my wine.

I returned to the fountain at 11pm. There were fewer tourists but still too many. I noticed closed-circuit surveillance cameras on the streetlights. I went back to my apartment and set my alarm for 3.30am.

There was a bell ringing somewhere as I walked back down the Corso. There's always a bell ringing somewhere in Rome. The dim yellow streetlights threw dim yellow light on the yellow buildings. Somewhere in the sky I saw a pale star.

The thunder of the fountains is louder when the city is sleeping. There were no policemen, but the cameras were still there. I sat on the lowest step and feigned a yawn while surreptitiously kicking off my shoes. I casually moved to the lip of the pool, swirling the water with my fingertips. There was a seagull sleeping on the triton's head. The water is a clear, fine pale blue. I thought, maybe this is enough. Maybe I don't need to actually get into the damn thing.

I swung my legs over and waded quickly into the middle. The water was pleasant and came to my thighs. I wanted to dip underneath but that might look like I was ducking for coins. I could feel the coppers and euro pieces under the soles of my feet. I wanted to make it all the way to the glassy waterfall but my nerve broke: in my mind's eye I saw Italian policemen sliding down brass poles and scrambling on motorcycles to get to the Trevi and arrest the dumb-ass South African.

I swung back and grabbed my shoes and beat a dripping retreat, running like an Italian war hero. In my head I thought: I'm not too old to do things. In my head my father's voice answered: You're not too old for a damn good hiding.