History of Rome: Arch to Part II

It's hard to take time to post everyday, but I did promise. I've had a bit of spare time at work this morning (yes, I'm working at B'lowfish and it's b'lAWESOME), so I thought I'd update with this bridge (or arch) for part II of the Rome trip. I hope it sufficiently whets your appetite, or wets your pants, until I can do it proper (or do it dirty).

NOTE: This article was written using a British version of Word. Please ignore any irregular spellingz.

Moving on… inside the aeroporto was a stern-looking driver sternly awaiting our arrival, compliments of Eugenio. If the driver we had on the Amsterdam trip bore any resemblance to Jason Stratham from The Transporter, it would be that of Jason Stratham’s illegitimate, thrice removed, quirky uncle in comparison to our new driver, the Italian Job, who ripped through the streets, sparing no mercy for traffic laws/signs/lanes, nor pity for other drivers. The ride went by rather quick as we raced through the night, serenaded by the soothing Italian sounds of Usher and Ne-yo while clutching the ‘oh shit’ handles around the perimeter of the van to prevent serious concussions. As we entered the streets of Trestavere, a sort of Roman suburb across the Tiber River, I peered out the window and absorbed the dirtay-like inner-city surroundings as the van filled with hushed murmurs of “please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” And then we stopped.

The First Meeting of Eugenio: Poised on the sidewalk next to a red-clad, petite yet very curvy, Staten Island/Roman hybrid female companion, a smiling, gum-snapping, night time sunglass wearing Eugenio was eager to greet us (so he could immediately leave his socks on and get back to bidness, or so it seemed – if you know what I mean). After checking out our floral pattern regurgitated, Brady Bunch shag-pad with Eugenio, who gave me numerous handshakes and chest punches during the tour, we set off for a desperate yet wonderful 11pm Trestaverean dinner.

Walking out of the courtyard and turning onto the street, we passed several teenagers who were too busy defacing the side of our building with graffiti to look up and say “buona sera.” We talked about how some of us were (upon first impressions) less than pleased by staying in a shady part of the city, but I attributed the shadiness to the fact that it was night time and the sun was not up yet. Finally we discovered a savoury saviour of a trattoria, stolen away within a nook of a side street. Traditionally decked out with dark lit stone walls, a single, aged waitor, red and white checkered tablecloths, and completed by a Lady & the Tramp-esque ambience, we were convinced we had found the right place. Then, after asking if we wanted anything to drink –to which we responded yes and nothing more– the waiter shuffled off and came back with two bottles of house wine (€4 each). Now we knew we found the right place. Then we ate… bruschetta, pizzas, pastas, and we thought “what would we have ever done without finding this place.”

After the best meal we’ve had since leaving the U.S., we strolled down the cobblestone streets and piazzas of Trestavere, seeping through locals. Then, very late, as everything closed up for what was left of the night, we made our way back to bed (& breakfast).