An autistic boy’s fantastic trip to Rome
7-year-old boy, who is autistic, and his father experience the Colosseum and ancient Rome
The passenger in the seat next to me on the noon flight to Rome keeps laughing, loudly. I’d be annoyed, but it’s my 7-year-old son, Fraser, and it’s my fault. I’ve given him “Asterix the Gladiator,” a comic book I loved when I was his age, to read during the flight. After the umpteenth guffaw, I ask what’s so funny: “The gladiators are refusing to fight!”
Fraser has autism spectrum disorder. His condition once would have been described as Asperger’s syndrome, and he is “high-functioning,” but Fraser is happy with plain “autistic.” He has huge, all-encompassing passions: tigers, the prehistoric era, writing comics and ancient Rome, which he fell in love with after watching an episode of his favorite program, “Horrible Histories.” I’d often said I’d take him to Rome, and now I’m delivering.
It should be great fun, and our
schedule is carefully planned to avoid overconsumption — we’re visiting one or two highlights a day — but I’m fretting. Rome is noisy and unpredictable, which could be stressful for an autistic child (and, of course, his father). I’m also concerned that the city won’t live up to his expectations: Ancient structures can be beautiful, magical even, but they’re not as immediately engaging as TV shows and fullcolor comic books. And then there’s the food: Was it sensible of me to agree in advance that he can have salami pizza for every meal because he finds unfamiliar food very difficult?
Fraser, on the other hand, is pretty calm. I’m surprised by how unapprehensive he seems, although he’s used to traveling and doesn’t always let on that’s he worried. In fact, our first challenge doesn’t arrive until after we check into our small and friendly hotel, the Relais Forus Inn in the city center.
We set off to experience our first taste of ancient Rome: the Pantheon. It’s a 20-minute trek featuring
growling, hooting traffic and huge, unruly crosswalks. Fraser grips my hand and concentrates hard as a scooter threatens to collide with us. He keeps his hood up, but when I ask him if he needs his noise-canceling headphones, he says no.
As we walk, we enjoy a distant glimpse of the Colosseum — Fraser visibly shivers with excitement — and the Vittorio Emanuele II Monument, the overbearing, flamboyantly white 19th-century monstrosity on Capitoline Hill built to honor that first king of a united Italy. I’m not a fan, and I tell Fraser it’s sometimes derisively called the “Typewriter.” He disagrees: “I like it.”
I’ve seen the Pantheon before, but I’d forgotten how big it is. Opened as a Roman temple around A.D. 126, it has the largest reinforced concrete dome in the world, with a circular hole in the center. Fraser spends a minute staring up at it, spinning around, before I stop him for fear he will fall over.
We leave the Pantheon in search of pizza. When we find it at Baffetto 2, an offshoot of its well-known parent, we’re the second people in (at just after 6:30 p.m., too early for most Romans) and Fraser is impatient. “How long will it be?” “Just a few seconds.”
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 ...” he counts. “Is he cooking our pizza right now?” “Yes, Fraser, right now.” When it arrives — perhaps five minutes later — we fall on it like wolves.
That first night, it takes Fraser a while to fall sleep, but his weighted blanket — which we’ve brought from home — and a pile of familiar books help. We get up at 8 a.m., and while I’m eating the breakfast supplied by the hotel, he has the same thing he has every day at home in London: two whole-grain cereal bars with a mug of weak Earl Grey tea. It’s a crucial bit of normality on a very unusual and exciting day. This morning, a Wednesday, is the big one: the Colosseum.
Fraser is a bundle of energy as we wait, running in circles and flapping. (This is how he expresses excitement or anxiety.) He stops now and then to offer an observation. “Did you know that the Romans invented the whoopee cushion?” I did not. (That fact came from “Horrible Histories.”) When we get inside, Fraser just wants to see the auditorium, which he savors in near silence.
“What do you think, Fraser?” “I love it.”
We spend two blissful hours inspecting every nook and cranny. The fact that the Colosseum features so heavily in books and films about Rome is what makes it so important to Fraser — plus, as he tells me, animals were once kept here. It’s two passions in one place. He normally dislikes crowds but, an occasional grimace aside, he seems OK. He points down to the cellar-level chambers and passageways that would have been covered by the stadium floor. “That’s where the gladiators and big cats were kept,” he tells me. “Were there many tigers?” I ask. “No, most of the fights were with lions. Tigers are very well camouflaged, and lions live in groups, so it would have been easier to find them.”
In the permanent exhibition about the Colosseum on the building’s second floor, Fraser wanders up to a large chunk of engraved marble, created (a sign says) to commemorate the restoration of the arena floor after an earthquake in A.D. 443. “Can we touch it?” Fraser asks. “It doesn’t say you can’t,” I reply. Fraser, who revels in touch, is delighted.
Another pizza, at a place nearby called Alle Carrette, follows. “I don’t think they had pizza back in Roman times,” Fraser says between mouthfuls. No, I agree. “Why would you eat mice if you had pizza?” (Romans ate dormice dipped in honey, a fact that amuses both of us). “Yes,” he says, nodding.
We go to the Roman Forum afterward. It’s my favorite afternoon of the trip: The Forum is perfection in the warm sunshine, and it’s relatively empty, except for dozens and dozens of seagulls. “Do you think gulls are descended from Romans, Fraser? They seem terribly confident.” A frown. “No, gulls are descended from dinosaurs.” I leave it there.
We take a seat on a prone chunk of marble. It’s almost tranquil: I can hear a busker 200 yards away in the Via dei Fori Imperiali, playing “That’s Alright, Mama.”
Afterward, we spend the afternoon wandering this way and that, finishing up overlooking the Circus Maximus from the back of Palatine Hill. By 8:30 p.m. — after, you guessed it, another pizza — we’re both dog tired. Sleep comes easily.
On Thursday, we start with the Baths of Caracalla, an immense, brick-built ruin perhaps a 10minute walk from the Colosseum but with far fewer visitors — which is why we scheduled it to follow Wednesday’s excitement. It’s thrillingly atmospheric. We pause in a room that once contained a natatio, or swimming pool. “Would you like to have a bath here?” I ask Fraser. “Oh no,” he says. “I like to have my bath at home.”
When pizza time approaches, I make a last-minute alteration to my plan to visit Casa Manco, a much talked-about pizza stand in the Testaccio market. Although the pizza looks delicious, it’s not what Fraser is expecting: too thick, not enough salami. We go to a nearby restaurant, Mattarello, which has the right kind of pizza. As Fraser devours it, the young waiter approaches. “Which is better, Italian or English pizza?” he asks Fraser. “Italian!” is the answer, to my relief. It’s the sort of amiable, straightforward treatment we get everywhere; I’m not sure how aware of Fraser’s autism people here are, but more often than not, Italians are kind to children.
Back at the hotel, it’s time for more “Asterix.” “Every book ends with them eating wild boar,” Fraser says, approvingly, as he leans back on his bed. Our trip, inevitably, ends with us eating pizza. It has been a great three days: My fears were largely unfounded. Planning where we’d go and what we’d eat before we arrived was vital — Fraser likes to know what’s coming next — but the key thing has been his attitude. He doesn’t like to moan and he’s pretty much always positive. He’s the perfect traveling partner.
“What was the highlight?” I ask him as we wait for our flight home. “The Colosseum,” he says, “and the infinite pizza!”