Shelley's Grave

"I'll send for you."

So I said, most impractically, to the obliging calico cat with yellow eyes, as we turned to depart the old Protestant Cemetery, that walled oasis of green quietude in the midst of hurried, cacophonous Rome. She had materialized, Ariel-like, just as we were running short of time to find Shelley's grave, having somehow gotten lost amidst the crowded maze of old gravestones near the ancient pyramid of Cestius. Presto, the calico, presented herself as our spontaneous mascot and guide. "Take us to Shelley's grave," I said half jokingly to our newfound feline friend. Momentarily, we saw it, Shelley's famous gravestone.

It's no surprise to meet a cat, calico or otherwise, in the Protestant Cemetery, as English speakers call this place. Countless cats live on the grounds of the quaint burial ground known to Italians as il Cimitero Acattolico (the cemetery for non-Catholics) or il Cimitero Straniero (the cemetery for foreigners). You can't help noticing them even if you just stroll around the outside walls of the place, peering through chinks and crannies, possibly having failed to arrive on the right day or the right time to enter the grounds--these designations being subject to change. Cats scamper furtively along the stone walls; they doze in nooks, lounge on benches, drape themselves over gravestones. Many are skittish of strangers, but some are sociable, even gregarious. The cats are part of the aura of the place. The staff feed them, using money contributed by sympathetic cemetery visitors. But then, cats are part of the aura of many places in Italy, though not often in such numbers as at the Protestant Cemetery.

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