Rome, Italy

It’s mid-April and we’re in the midst of an ice-storm that’s so bad school’s been cancelled.  Wrapped in a blanket, sipping on a cup of hot cocoa that’s laced with a little zing, is the perfect time to reminisce about the warm heat of Rome, the cooling gelato and the kind smiles of strangers.  

Thinking of last summer…

I arrive to Rome on a steamy day at the start of July.  Clear directions are noted on the palm of my hand, but still, when I get off the train the buzz of people and heat disorient my sense of direction.  Instead of wandering the streets looking for road signs, I ask one of the many policemen at the station to point me in the right direction. One does so, dryly, without a smile. I remind myself that service in Europe doesn’t have to come with a smile and that’s OK, because outside of the station’s perimeter, I’m met with many warm smiles, including the one of my host at the hostel who cheerfully draws circles around the many spots in Rome with special mention of where to find the gelato that locals, rather than tourists, eat.

Because it is already evening, I head to where I’m told is the place for small streets and an aperitif: Trastevere.  Thus, officially, my time in Rome starts with an aperitif. My aperol barbieri, followed by an aperol soda, are deliciously refreshing.  

 

For the next week I wander Rome, always by foot, and never veering away from a set of stairs if I see one, though Rome is engulfed in a heat wave; 39°C is the daily norm.  Not to worry: Rome is generously sprinkled with numerous drinking fountains pouring out deliciously sweet and refreshing water.  A new friend shows me that if I cap my hand against the spout, I’ll create a drinking fountain.

  

The heat abates my hunger.   I live on a diet of croissants, cafes, gelato, focaccia and 2 to 3 glasses of wine.  Seeing the tourist menus doesn’t whet my appetite, but when I’m hungry I end up in Emporio di Emma where my stomach stretches to happiness: Fiore di zucca con Alici di Sicilia (deep fried zucchini flower stuffed with anchovies and mozzarella), Il nostro supplì al telefono (deep fried risotto rice ball with mozarella), a Margherita e Bufala cruda and a bottle of wine dispel my hunger.

I’m often stopped and asked for directions in a language that is neither Italian nor English.  I’ve been wandering long enough that I’m usually able to direct tourists to the spots they desire.  If not, we stand there with my marked and torn map open, exchanging brief stories of our travels.

What about me, I wonder, says,  “Ask me.”

Walking through some square, a man standing outside of a church calls me over.  He’s collecting money for a charity that helps people with substance abuse. He’s the stereotypical Italian who charms with his smile, his easy conversation, his name (Phillipe), his compliments and his cheerful dzień dobry.

When I’m sipping on wine under an umbrella, the waiters come over to chat, too.  On the streets, people smile and say, “Ciao.”

Rome is known as the sensual city of love, but I find it perfectly comfortable, and not at all lonely, to be here solo.  There’s always someone cheerful and friendly that stops for a chat. There’s even a night very much like something out of a movie, where a gorgeous Italian man takes me on an evening tour of Rome.

Though I don’t intend to, I do find Trevi fountain. It’s beautiful, but much more charming in, La Dolce Vita where a mob of tourists isn’t surrounding it, their arms up, holding their selfie sticks, exposing a day’s worth of body must.  It’s also noisy; although I can’t locate its origin, the air is filled with an incessant whistle. Police? Guards? Street vendors? Tourists?  It’s too busy.

Fleeing the main drags, I hide at Villa Borghese where the cicadas are the only buzz.  People slowly amble by or rent pedal-golf carts. The heat is almost unbearable, but life at the Villa is slow, and slows down even more when you stop to lie down in a spot of shade.

Of course, I visit all of the other landmarks that Rome is known for: the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the Pantheon, the Spanish Stairs, and any church that’s open.

In my hostel I meet Elizabeth, a solo-traveller from Mexico.  We go to the outdoor Terme di Caracalla to see a production of Carmen and realize that our meeting was one of those fortuitous collisions in the universe that often happens when you travel – Carmen takes place at the US and Mexican border, and here we are, I and Elizabeth, she from Mexico, and I from north of the border, watching Carmen in Rome, Italy.  It’s perfect.

The next evening, Elizabeth’s last in Rome, we have dinner at Osteria da Fortunata.  Sadly, the main restaurant is full, so our gorgeous waiter walks us over to another spot where we get to sit outside in the cooling night air.  Elizabeth is not shy, and asks lots of questions about the menu. We’re asking the waiter for a wine recommendations, to celebrate life and happy chance meetings, when we hear a question directed at us by a friendly voice coming from a table behind ours.

“What did you order? What kind of wine do you normally like? What do you feel like now?” Alberto asks a slew of questions in fluent English, laced with a lovely Italian accent.  After he’s made his recommendation, we continue to chat. “I’m not harassing you. This is Italy. We talk to each other here,” he chuckles. We easily exchange facts about our lives, holidays, interests and before the evening is over we’ve got each other’s contact information.  Alberto and his wife finish their meal before we do; we kiss and hug warm goodbyes. This, more than walking around to see the sights, is the true flavour of Italy: sitting in a restaurant and making quick friends with strangers.

We stay in the restaurant until closing.  The waiter brings out a massive piece of tiramisu with two forks, on the house, and then begins to clean up around us.  After midnight, we stroll along the Tiber river where no one seems to mind that a new day has already started. We toast our adventures with mimosas.