Tom likes to hide things so as not to upset waitstaff. For instance, he quickly placed bits of our uneaten hotel breakfast into the little trash can on the table (which are interesting enough to mention on their own). He likes to cut small pieces of cheese or what not and place it on my plate so it looks like we share the blame in not finishing our food. Then there was sneaking the uneaten bits and gristle of Florentine steak back onto the butcher block so it looked like we had eaten more than we had.
I love him, its cute, its funny, but today not so much... I wanted the hotel to realize just how bad their breakfast was. The salami tasted like fish, the croissant like sand, just plain terrible.
I am trying not to let Rome get me down, but it is hard to fall in love with this touristic city. We walk past the Hard Rock Café and $4 croissants, past the four fountains at a busy intersection. We turn away from the crowds and find unique monuments, arches, columns... this stuff is everywhere. As we get to the real "old city" we get hassled (albeit politely) by a sad looking old man in a gladiator costume who grabs me to take a picture. Then keeps saying "professional, pay, professional".
We walk through the Traiano forums, which I mistake for something more famous. I am disgusted to see them half buried under roads and constructions. There are no plaques explaining what I am looking at and half of the ruins have been turned into a make shift modern art museum. There are stray cats and stupid looking giant black olives, I mean "art", randomly strewn through out. Are those tiles modern, ancient, what was this place? Guess I'll never know.
We are hassled by tour guides and post card sellers at the Colosseum. We get in line behind the most stereotypical New Yorkers, who think Detroit is a scummy city and every Italian is going to rob you. They hated Paris because they claim the French were rude, it is people like this that prolong this myth. Then I hear their ridiculous story, of course... I'm sorry but if you came into my high end restaurant, showed no respect for my culture, and insisted on ordering something "simple", something not like this stuff on the menu, "don't you have any grilled chicken", I'd probably be shocked too. Then you can go off back to your friends and tell them what a rude bunch of people live in my country.
We wander around the Colosseum getting free tours by following groups of people. It was interesting to hear about the water battles from an excited guide, but most of it is stuff we've heard before. We leave out of the place starving, and there is nothing around us but expensive food carts and tired pizza joints. I have a mini-breakdown as waves of annoyance and hunger collide... this is not how I want to end my trip.
Rant: I am sick of restaurateurs pushing their food, sick of tourists, I don't want to settle for Franco-American tasting pizza, I hate those New Yorkers, I don't even want to go see the Vatican any more. I want to end my trip feeling happy and refreshed and loving the world, I don't want to hate Rome. Meh...
We sit atop the Palatine Hill to regain peace and enthusiasm. Tom studies ways to say "fuck off" to pushy vendors. Rome is shaped by tourism and all the employees from ticket vendors to gladiators seem miserable and unhappy as the tourists trample the lands. Tonight we will investigate where Romans are happy, and we will be happy, maybe Navona, maybe Traverse. We will find the places the real Italians go to get away from the tourists, to drink vino and be happy, good food instead of tired pizza.
Palatine has cleansed our spirits. It is never ending peace and beautiful, so much so that we have a hard time finding the exit, only more hilltops and ruins and views. We do dumb jumping shots off the columns and then make our way down past some ancient pigeon coups. Busloads of Asian tourists unload. I follow an Italian man as he tells his daughter the history of the Roman Forum in a storybook style narration. Her wide eyes look up in awe, and I can't understand a word, but I am entranced.
I am tired of looking at the map, and Tom is excited to take over. "Get me to Navona for wine and snacks," I instruct. Tom tries the refreshing water from the fountain. We make our way to Campo di Fiori, try to avoid getting hit by traffic. I see nothing but "risorante" around here, but we turn a back alley and find artists working in their shops.
We stop off at Lot 87 wine bar (lots of things called "wine bar" in this city, hundreds). It is nothing special but a neighborhood bar with beer on tap and wine by the glass. The man says I speak good Italian and gives us a big plate of seasoned olives. We watch Italian MTV in the background as we plan our night and rest our feet, which are starting to ache badly for the first time all trip. Italian Boiling Point, reminds us of Tommie Lou. They use Tommy Sebach in a cookie commercial. We watch hilarious Foo Fighters video, they actually play videos, imagine that.
We grab a panini with prosciutto crudo and mozzarella, it warm, its good. We eat it and laugh at the tourists with their pizzas. Its time for more gelato, chocolate with real nuts, panna cotta with fresh berries, and the mousse really is mousse. The Pantheon is filled with tourists, the occulus opens to a beautiful deep cerulean as birds circle the top. Feet hurting, feeling buzzed. As we sip fresh cappacino we decide our night plans, we will have a Nick and Carrie night and just hop from interesting place to interesting place.
First stop, an Irish bar that serves 32 flavors of hot chocolate, too bad we are full. MTV Europe on again, more music videos. I listen in on the conversation of the British people beside me. Man claims to be the most content person in the world. Tom points out that we haven't "watched" anything all trip, no concert, no play, no movies. Is that why our feet hurt so much?
We have wine in a wine bar / martini bar / ciccheteria / sushi bar / weird weird. They have an assortment of weird free food, something that tastes strangely like sushi although it doesn't look it. The place is decked out in sea anemone lights, which is a nice change from the big pasta bunch lights we see in the tourist joints. We are enjoying the satellite radio of good 80s tunes.
We pass a lit up red bar with seats outside, when we try and come back the next day (Sundays always bad to find places) you wouldn't even know the place existed, all boarded up. We stop into a pasta shop run by metal heads playing iron maiden. Penis pasta sits right up next to all the gourmet flavors, even comes in gourmet flavors, squid ink, artichoke, basil.
The Quetzacoatl Chocolateir is overpriced, but we feel obligated to buy since she stayed open for us. It reminds me of the chocolate shop in New York City, "66 doowlars a pound." We find a wine bar that Todd recommended with a great underground feel, wood wine cases on the wall and swanky music. It is good snack food and a long wine list, huge portions of delicious meats and cheeses.
Pinot Nero smells pinot-y, but is slightly carbonated. A light strawberry wine. The Frasesco smells of black cherry and dark fruits, simple but good. Our cheese range from salty, sour, sweet, from soft ricotta texture to brie to chalky hard, and yet they are all goat cheese. We eat raw, but cured, beef and it is delicious, like roast beef. The spiciest salami is well balanced by the creamiest of the goat. We devour the table, including the strange mystery marmalades.
Tom and I start to split up when we see a flower seller coming, that deters them. We watch as people are just starting their dinners close to 11 pm along the Via Veneto. These are definitely "risorante" places, but I have see that word used on places that are certainly not uber fancy. Is there a rhyme or a reason?