Roman holiday
Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I fall in love easily. Not with people – I’m a little more cautious before I allow myself to fall head-over-heels for someone – but with places. Cities, specifically, although I have been known to develop feelings for villages, oceans, and mountain ranges as well. There was Paris, last year, which I knew I loved as soon as I flung open the apartment window and stared out at the Eiffel Tower all lit up at night; New York and San Francisco, both of which I’ll admit that I fell for as soon as I caught a glimpse of them out the airplane window; and then the Cinque Terre and Santorini, both small but charming and complete with picture-perfect glimpses of a bright-blue sea and almost impossibly gorgeous villages spilling over steep cliffs.
I fell in love with Rome in the middle of a narrow, crooked and cobblestoned street in the heart of the city’s historic centre. It was hot out – nearly thirty degrees – and I was sweating more than one should sweat when one is trying her hardest to look chic and authentically Italian, but at that particular moment, it didn’t matter. A pack of vespas had just rushed by me, the smell of pizza and smokey wood-fired oven was floating tantalizingly through the air, and the sunlight was hitting the reddish stone walls (draped oh-so-picturesquely with ivy) just so, in a way that made them seem almost alive with colour and energy. As I stood there, every sense overloaded with sound and moment and smell, I realized, quite suddenly, that it had happened: I was in love with Rome.
For a girl who lives a good chunk of her life in the kitchen, worships a well-prepared plate of pasta, and considers a slice of freshly-baked focaccia bread (still warm from the oven) to be one of life’s greatest pleasures, Rome was a logical destination. Throw in a city-wide appreciation for all things espresso-related, and a visit had become almost compulsory; it was, in a way, a required pilgrimage for anyone who considered herself a proper food lover.
Still, before I arrived, I wasn’t sure about Rome. I was worried that it somehow wouldn’t live up to its expectations, that it wouldn’t be the buzzing, lively metropolis always depicted in movies and in books – I was worried, I guess, that I had fallen victim to false advertising.
I needn’t have worried.
I spent my week in Rome wandering the streets, camera in hand, stopping along the way in randomly selected bars for a shot of espresso or a perfectly prepared cappuccino with just the right amount of foam on top. I lingered in lively trattorias over giant plates of pasta or crisp-crusted pizzas (always with a carafe of wine, as that’s how the locals do it, and clearly it would’t do to disrespect the local customs), and I sat in crowded piazzas staring at monuments and watching the Italians (always sharply dressed) walk and bike by. And when I needed a break, I retreated to the calm and quiet of my bed and breakfast, where – obviously – I would brew up yet another cup of coffee and then sit back to contemplate the day.
I did not see the Colosseum or the Roman Forum. I wandered into the courtyard of the Vatican, felt suitably impressed by its grandeur, and wandered back out. I made my way through one museum – the Borghese – and was appropriately awe-struck by all that marble and all those paintings, but then I felt little need to see any of the other museums.
Maybe if I got bored, I told myself as I happily wandered down yet another impossibly picturesque street, maybe I would see more museums. I didn’t get bored.
Because I may not have done the conventional tourist route (obviously, given my healthy disdain for all things considered conventionally touristy), but I’m fairly certain I soaked up just as much culture and knowledge as any of those museums could have offered me. Given the choice between viewing a marble statute in a glass box while fellow North Americans crowd around for a closer look (the conventional culture lesson) or attempting to order a cappuccino, in Italian, in a bar crowded with non-English-speaking locals (culture lesson through immersion), I think it’s clear which experience I prefer.
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