The Metro Mover is free, and the turnstiles that line that base of the station are symbolic, without rotating arms so that people come and go, talking of Michelangelo as they will. Last night the gates were up, locked, the broad switchback cement staircase out of bounds. I circled round back, onto the deck of the bar behind, and leapt up to latch onto the first switchback, cement rasping my forearms, to pull myself up and over and in.

Novecento was in full swing below me, filled with socialites, a cacophony of raised voices, artificial laughter and music. I crabbed across the platform, and then leapt the iron fence onto the tracks. Out and towards the stationary Mover, stranded above the city like a beached whale on an airy shoreline. Walking quickly and carefully along the cement beam, over the road, past construction sites, wary and alert, to snap off some shots. I then headed back, up and over just as a rogue Mover came sighing in behind me, the world suddenly incandescing in its headlights. I rushed the last few yards and surged over the railing seconds before its double tires rubber-licked over the slender cement walkway along which I had catwalked. Up and over and then down and away, exhilarated and laughing over my close call.