Rome

Rome is not a city with ruins; she is a conversation between twenty-seven centuries that happens to have traffic. The Pantheon's dome — poured before the word 'concrete' had a translation — still takes the rain through its open eye; the Forum's broken columns hold up nothing but the sky and the entire idea of the West; and Romans ride past all of it arguing about lunch, which is the correct priority.

The sensible traveller books the Colosseum for the first slot and walks the Forum while the stones are still cool; takes the Pantheon at opening, when the light falls in one gold column; climbs the Campidoglio for Marcus Aurelius and the view the emperors kept for themselves; and surrenders the evening to Trastevere, where dinner is loud, long and non-negotiable. The Vatican is another state and another postal — give it its own morning.

The Guide's honesty: carbonara carries no cream — ordering it so is a misdemeanor —; the nasoni fountains pour cold water free for anyone who learns to cap the spout; 'skip-the-line' sold on the sidewalk skips mostly your money; and August belongs to Ferragosto, when Rome hands herself to visitors and goes to the sea. October is her secret encore: book it.