They are as much a part of the urban fabric as red fire hydrants in New York City or pavement cafes in Paris.

No street corner or cobbled piazza in Italy is complete without an “edicola”, a kiosk that sells newspapers, magazines and tram tickets.

But thousands have died out in recent decades, falling prey to the pressures of mass tourism and the decline of newspaper sales.

Now, many have resorted to selling cheap tat such as plastic centurion helmets and “hot priest” calendars featuring handsome young Vatican prelates in a desperate attempt to stay afloat.

Big cities like Rome, Milan and Naples have been particularly badly hit by the closures – last year alone, 54 kiosks shut in the capital.

One of them is located in a cobbled lane called Vicolo De’ Modelli, right in front of the Trevi Fountain, which is among Rome’s most visited tourist sites.

Owned by the same family for a century, it once did a thriving trade, but recently closed and now sits forlorn and abandoned, its shutters locked.

Elsewhere in the Eternal City, kiosks that once saw vendors peer out from behind stacks of books and magazines have notably switched to catering for tourists.

Their exteriors are festooned with baseball caps, fridge magnets and Tishirts adorned with I Love Rome, while the shelves are packed with toys, trinkets and Panini football cards for kids.

Some even have ATMs attached and are stocked with fridges offering cold drinks.

Decline of newspapers

One of the main reasons for the demise of the kiosks, and the increasingly common shift in their offerings, is the steep decline in the number of newspapers and magazines that Italians buy.

In a trend that is familiar to most countries, people now get their news on their phones, tablets and computers instead of buying daily papers.

In 2007, more than five million newspapers were sold in Italy each day. That number has now fallen to around two million, according to the Federation of Italian Newspapers, or FIEG.

Meanwhile, the number of kiosks and newsagents in the country has fallen by two-thirds in the past two decades, to around 12,000 today.

Across the country, a quarter of towns and villages now have nowhere to buy a newspaper.

“People are just not buying newspapers anymore – they buy much cheaper subscriptions and get their news online,” said Daniel Polacco, 31, who with his father owns a classic octagonal kiosk near Rome’s Largo Argentina, a broad piazza where Julius Caesar was murdered on the Ides of March 2,000 years ago.

“We used to sell 600 or 700 papers a day, nowadays we’re lucky to sell 150.”

But it is not just the dramatic fall in newspaper reading that has sounded the death knell for many kiosks.

The historic centres of cities like Rome, Florence and Venice are now increasingly dedicated to tourism, with booming visitor numbers fuelled by budget airlines and accommodation booking sites such as Airbnb.

A visitor from Manchester or Melbourne is unlikely to want to snap up the latest edition of La Gazzetta dello Sport or Corriere della Sera.

In October, Florence announced it was banning new short-term residential lets in its historic centre in an attempt to keep more homes available for locals.

The number of Airbnb apartments in the city has jumped from 6,000 in 2016 to more than 14,000.

Long work hours

Another factor thought to be contributing to the decline of kiosks, many of which are a distinctive octagonal shape and painted a deep shade of green, are the exacting demands running one entails.

“The hours are really long,” said Mr Polacco. “We open at 4.30am and in the summer months we don’t close until 8pm. Some owners decided that it’s not worth the hassle.”

Across the Tiber, in Rome’s Trastevere district, Alfredo Bonelli agrees. “I get up at 4am each day to open up at 5am, whatever the weather,” said Mr Bonelli, peering out from the hatch of his octagonal green kiosk.

“It’s a job that requires a physical presence, seven days a week. We’re open for 12 hours each day.”

Mr Bonelli works the morning shift and then hands over to his 46-year-old son, who mans the kiosk for the rest of the day.

Many kiosks are family affairs, but young Italians are increasingly reluctant to follow in the footsteps of their mothers and fathers. On top of the long hours, the financial rewards are also considered inadequate.

“It’s a big sacrifice that a lot of young people are not willing to make. It’s sad to see kiosks closed and abandoned,” said Mr Bonelli.

Kiosks diversify to survive

The only way to buck the trend and cling onto survival is to diversify, according to Andrea Innocenti, the president of Snag, a trade union that represents newsstand owners.

“We need to stop thinking of kiosks as relics from the past, as being like telephone boxes in the age of mobile phones,” he said earlier this year. “We can have a future.”

As part of that diversification effort, many kiosks now offer much more than newspapers and bus tickets.

As Mr Bonelli speaks, a young Italian man walks up and asks him if he sells face masks. He does, and hands one over for a euro.

Amid the changes, there has also been a distinct shift in the ownership of many kiosks, with Bangladeshi migrants seeing an opportunity and buying them up.

The kiosks they run tend to be particularly heavy on tourist tat like plastic centurion helmets and selfie sticks, but they still sell a few newspapers on the side.

Nearly half of all kiosks and newsstands now rely on selling more than just newspapers and magazines, according to a survey carried out by Snag.

It said that one in three Italians go to their local “edicola” at least once a week, spending an average of 10 euros.

And while the industry’s future remains uncertain, the rate of closures has slowed a little over the last two years, offering a glimmer of hope that kiosks may yet continue as a fixture of daily life for millions of Italians.

For all the economic woes of newsstands in Italy, the vast majority of people interviewed in the survey – 96 per cent – believe that kiosks are a vital focal point for social life in their neighbourhoods. Losing those that continue to cling on would be a blow.

“You get to know the community, you see children grow up, you build up a rapport with people,” said Mr Bonelli, who was bundled up against the chill of a dank December morning in a puffer jacket and black fingerless gloves. “It takes commitment, but it suits me.”