Sure, it's big. Designed to contain 50 000 bloodthirsty Romans, it's pretty hefty. The arena itself is brilliantly preserved, and you can see the underground network of tunnels that men and beasts would be led through towards their imminent deaths. You can even see the numerals on top of the gates to divide the spectators by class - that's how perfectly it's withstood 2000 years. But it's not either of these things that make the Coloseum so breathtaking. It's the feeling you get standing inside, a feeling of immense smallness when faced with such a monument, a gladiator of all buildings, the enemy of the pretty twirls of parisian decorations or quaint streets of Florence.
Everything about it reeks of power and strength, everything straight and purposeful. I've never felt a building to be so masculine. You can feel the drips of blood and sweat on your skin, and in your ears a growing roar from the carnal crowds. Looking at the ruins - where the building seems to evaporate at the edges - it's surprisingly easy to let your imagination fill in the gaps. Before long, you're faced with the full grandeur of the place as it once was, and squinting your eyes into the overhead sunlight you can make out the dragging footprints of those who fought here before: the dooming and the doomed.
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