In April, the air in Rome changes weight. It becomes lighter, yet it pushes you to walk more. If there is one time of year when climbing the Aventine makes sense for practical reasons as well as aesthetic ones, this is it. Forget the summer afternoons when the asphalt burns and the river humidity rises up the slopes. Go early in the morning, around nine, when the tour buses are still dropping off groups at the Colosseum and up here there is only someone walking their dog or people heading to work in private villas.
The hill of the defeated
The Aventine today is a residential neighborhood for the wealthy. It is full of quiet buildings, embassies, and ivy-covered boundary walls. But before becoming an exclusive area, it was the place where the fate of the city was decided. Everyone knows the legend of the founding of Rome. Very few stop to think about Remus's point of view. He chose this hill to scan the sky for divine signs, while his brother stood opposite, on the Palatine. The story of the counting of the vultures favored Romulus. This event condemned the Aventine to remain a marginal area for centuries, inhabited by the plebs and kept outside the sacred boundary of the nascent Roman power.
Today, this original marginality has become a gilded isolation. Walking along via di Santa Sabina means enjoying a physical detachment from the Lungotevere traffic flowing just a few meters below. You hear the noise of cars in the distance, but you are protected by a barrier of maritime pines and ancient walls.
The garden we think is ancient
Everyone ends up at the Giardino degli Aranci. I go there often too, even though it gets crowded on spring weekends. The curious thing is that most people who pass through the gate are convinced they are walking in a Renaissance or otherwise very old park. Instead, the current layout is a twentieth-century invention. Architect Raffaele De Vico designed it in 1931, positioning the central path to frame the dome of Saint Peter's in the background. Details on the park's design explain well how the space was built around the tree under which, according to the Dominican friars' tradition, Saint Dominic preached.
By the way, the large fountain with the thermal basin and the marble mask you find at the entrance has nothing to do with the original garden. It was stuck there during the Fascist era by recovering pieces scattered around the city. In April, the bitter orange trees are full of colorful fruit. They look good in photos, but do not try to eat them. They are sour and astringent, good only for making marmalade, provided someone has the patience to pick them.
The useless line for the keyhole
Continuing toward the end of the hill, you reach the piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta. It is an enclosed space, protected by high walls, designed in the eighteenth century by Giovan Battista Piranesi. The pillars are full of miniature obelisks and military references carved into the tuff. Unfortunately, almost no one looks at the square itself. The attention of passersby is entirely on the green door of the Priory.
For some years now, at any time of day, you find a line of thirty or forty people waiting to look through the keyhole to see the dome of Saint Peter's aligned with the internal hedges. Honestly, it is a massive waste of time. I have seen tourists wait forty minutes in the sun to take a blurry photo with their phone pressed against the brass of the door. If you pass by and there is no one there, take a look. Otherwise, ignore the door, look at the details of Piranesi's walls, and continue your walk. Director Paolo Sorrentino used these streets at night for some scenes in his films. The routes linked to his film shoots convey the quiet atmosphere of the place much better than a noisy daytime queue.
The brick churches and the rose garden
The real reason to come up here, beyond the viewpoints, are the churches. Santa Sabina is a 5th-century basilica. No baroque marble, no gold, no heavy frescoes on the ceilings. You find only spolia columns taken from pagan temples and bare brick walls. Light enters through large windows covered in selenite, creating a milky illumination not found in any other large church in the city. On the wooden door at the entrance, there is one of the first known depictions of the crucifixion. It is small, carved into a panel at the top left. You have to look closely to notice it.
A few meters away, you encounter Sant'Anselmo. It is a much more recent building, constructed at the end of the nineteenth century, but it houses the headquarters of the Benedictine monks. If you happen to be around here around seven in the evening, you can listen to the monks singing vespers in Gregorian chant.
Since we are in April, there is one last mandatory stop before heading down. The Roseto Comunale opens its gates right in this period, coinciding with the birthday of Rome on April 21. It is located on the slopes of the Aventine, overlooking the Circus Maximus. Once upon a time, there was a Jewish cemetery here, and the paths of the rose garden were designed in the shape of a menorah to remember it.
Once you finish the tour among the flowers, do not head back toward the center. Look for the Clivo dei Publicii and descend on the other side of the hill, toward Testaccio. The transition from the noble palaces of the Aventine to the working-class houses of the former butcher's district is abrupt. Yet it puts you exactly where you need to be for lunchtime. Head straight for the covered market or look for a table at Felice a Testaccio, hoping they still have a free spot to let you eat the tonnarelli cacio e pepe.