I walked past the fountain three times without realizing it, once even stopping to study the delicate stone right in front of me. She was tucked quietly in a corner surrounded by noise, and my brusque gazes didn’t begin to dream that she held any more significance than a simple violet growing quietly amid rocks.

Rimondi Fountain, they call it. Megali Vryssi: Fountain of Lions. And like an American, I looked in every direction for gargantuan felines, maned and fiercely commanding in a pool the size of a small lake — because that’s how Americans think.

And so of course I had to laugh when I finally saw the eggshell wall carved lightly with a gentle hand during my … wait for it … fourth pass with blind tourist’s eyes. A Venetian sculpture on a wall of Arabic, held erect by Corinthian pillars — an arranged marriage of artists.

I sat in the square to try and know her a bit, and simultaneously watched the tourists’ bulbs explode again and again and again, posing with smiles before this tiny giant of silent survival.

I learned a mountain-full that day.

Note: This 17th century (1629) (300 years before my mother’s birth) was named for Venetian Rector Antonio Rimondi. Also called Mehali Vryssi, the fountains spout from four lions’ heads into a marble basin, making it a virtual time capsule of the city’s history over the last 2,000 years.

The pillars are Corinthian; the lion heads are Venetian; and the back wall is a Turkish restoration. In 1930, the overhead vault was torn down to accommodate motorized vehicles.

Sigh.