Every Roman story begins in front of the Pantheon, where two thousand years of mornings have started the same way: a fountain, a portico, a coffee taken standing up.

Inside, the oculus lets the sky in by the metre. Outside, the piazza keeps your table in the shade of the columns.

Across the river the city loosens its collar: ochre walls, ivy over the doorways, laundry strung high like flags of an easier republic.

There is a trattoria with six tables where the menu is whatever the market decided, and the wine arrives before you ask.

Via Condotti runs straight at the Spanish Steps like a sentence at its full stop. The doormen remember names, the maisons remember measures, and everything can be sent to your residence.

Behind one quiet door, a glover who has fitted three generations of the same families, drawer by drawer.

When the light drops, Rome comes down to the river. The angels of Ponte Sant'Angelo hold their poses against the gold, and the lanterns double themselves in the water.

Ask for the walk at seven: castle, bridge, and the first negroni where the plane trees start.

And then Rome does what Rome does best: it steps back to look at itself. On the Aventine the orange trees frame the rooftops, the pines hold the horizon, and the dome sits exactly where it should.