It’s little surprise that when the summer heat hit, the ancient Romans were eager to trade the stench and squalor of the capital for the salty sea breeze of their coastal villas. From the picture Juvenal paints, the Eternal City has been eternally unbearable during the summer swelter.
Myself, I would value a barren offshore island more than Rome’s urban heat; Squalor and isolation are minor evils compared to this endless nightmare of fire and collapsing houses, the cruel city’s myriad perils – and poets reciting their works in August!
Juvenal, Satires 3.5-10
August is only slightly more oppressive today than it was in antiquity. And while herds of tourists rather than incessant public poetry recitals are the objects of much modern ire, today’s Romans undeniably share their ancestors’ eagerness to escape.
It was Rome’s first emperor, Augustus, who instituted the Ferragosto – a public holiday Italians still look forward to every August 15. The ancient Ferragosto didn’t constitute the en masse coastal exodus it does today. Yet affluent Romans would still use the festive period to flee to their respective villas for the coast or the fresh air of the country.
We know a great deal about these villas, not least through the letters of Cicero and the Younger Pliny: those with sea views were good; those that stretched down to the shore even better.
Cicero had dozens of villas, including one in Tusculum which was essentially a resort town for the rich and powerful, and another, surrounded by a fresh, flowing river where he could read and write — philosophy as opposed to work emails — in peace.
Cicero didn’t much like staying at his villa in Formiae though. His valuable beach time was constantly being interrupted by passing acquaintances – a Sebosus or Arrius, or whichever other political or business associate had retreated to the Latin coast. As he reveals in a letter to his friend Atticus.
My house is a basilica rather than a villa, owing to the crowds of visitors from Formiae. But (you’ll say) do I really compare the Aemilian tribe to the crowd in a basilica? Well, I say nothing about the common ruck—the rest of them don’t bother me after ten o’clock. But C. Arrius is my next door neighbour, or rather, he almost lives in my house, and even declares that the reason for his not going to Rome is that he may spend whole days with me here philosophizing! And then, lo and behold, on my other side is Sebosus, that friend of Catulus! Which way am I to turn?
Cicero, Ad Atticus, 2.14
The frequency of Cicero’s seaside interruptions suggests something that shouldn’t come as a surprise to any modern Roman, Tuscan, Italian, Greek, or anyone else living within the modern coastal confines of the ancient empire:
At the height of Mediterranean summers, the best beaches have always been packed.
Through all the people we’ve encountered and the journeys we’ve been on throughout this series, one theme shines through clearly. That although ancient Greeks and Romans don’t seem to have had a word (or concept) that directly maps onto our idea of “pleasure travel,” many of them clearly enjoyed the experience of travel itself, for its own sake.
Aristocrats travelled for historical and religious research. Pliny travelled for science; plenty of people traveled for health reasons, or to see a spectacle or a chariot race, or to dedicate sacrifices to a god. All the same, they clearly relished opportunities to visit famous historical sites and tourist attractions, and, as Aelius Aristides tells us, even spend a day on some local “adventure activities.”
We might find it strange that Greeks and Romans needed to make excuses to have an enjoyable vacation — but don’t we, in a way, do the same?
“This will be great for Instagram,” we tell ourselves. “That place has always been on my bucket list.”
Our culture, like that of the Romans, tends to be intensely practically minded; sometimes to a fault. And while our justifications have evolved over the centuries, the principle remains: we’re always coming up with excuses to get out of the city and see the world. Because, intrinsically and innately, that’s what we’re naturally inclined to do.
