…or “Cimitero degli Inglesi,” or ‘The Protestant Cemetery in Rome,” or the cemetery of artists and poets – such as Keats and Shelley – is a mysterious hidden place partially enclosed by the Aurelian Walls and in the shadow of the ancient Roman Piramide Cestia which I often pass on my bike, but on this warm sunny afternoon we find the hidden side entry and wander the green burial sanctuary (cemeteries being a frequent point of interest when seeking out visits to the major green spaces appearing on the maps of the cities I find myself in) dating back at least to 1748 when it appears in Nolli’s map of Rome – and is the final resting place for nearly 4000 non-Catholic citizens of mostly Britain, Germany, Greece, Russia, Scandinavia, China, and even some Italians – and having always imagined being sprinkled around some tree when the time comes (or like Andy Warhol – “When I die I don’t want to leave any leftovers. I’d like to disappear. People wouldn’t say he died today, they’d say he disappeared. But I do like the idea of people turning into dust or sand…”), today I am surprised to feel a little desire for a modest piece of stone here with my name on it (or better yet – nameless like Keats) where future visitors can come to pile scavenged oranges – as my friend did today on the grave of the Italian poet whose work she is translating – and then comforting to read that Goethe had similar feelings while on his ‘Italian Journeys‘ almost 225 years ago.