* * *
WITH THE SHOCK OF FOUR shots of espresso giving me a much-needed boost, I trailed happily behind Daisy, soaking up Rome. The warm air licked up my bare legs, flirting at the hem of my linen shift. I remained mindful of the gaps in the ancient roads, while she glided across them without even glancing down.
In heels.
If she was Grace Kelly, I was Bambi on new legs tripping over lifted edges and thick gaps even in my gold Tieks.
I thought I knew what Rome looked like, based on the fact that I’d studied art history, held a degree in the subject, in fact. Key word there . . . thought.
The truth was, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Studying thin white pages filled with reproductions of its art and travel guides for reference couldn’t have prepared me for the full Roman immersive experience. What was that line from Good Will Hunting? I bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. I was the Will Hunting of Rome. There wasn’t a textbook available that could put into words what this city looked like to virgin eyes.
The brilliant late-afternoon sun chased the rooftops glistening and gleaming over steam pipes and clay tiles. The city even had its own sound. You could almost hear the history with every step on the road, every scoop of gelato, each slap of the pizza, and every buona sera shouted from the stoops. Daisy pointed, I gaped. An explanation of what I was gawking at always came seconds before she had to practically push up my chin to stop a pigeon from roosting inside my mouth.
We sat for a much-needed rest on the edge of a fountain. I leaned back, soaking up the last of the setting sun when Daisy said she’d be right back.
Sitting beside me, she held out a bag of arancini. “Something to hold us over until dinner.”
“These are ridiculously good,” I moaned, biting into it with gusto. The melted mozzarella at the center was incredible.
“You’re in for a treat, then, because this is just street food. This place we’re headed, Avery, you’ll want to marry the gnocchi. Melt in your mouth and sinful. No, no, get the arrabiata, spicy and delectable. Wait! I know, get the fresh pesto. The garlic sings in your mouth!” she rambled excitedly.
I warmed at this version of her. Even though back home Daisy came from a well-to-do family, had a top-notch education, and grew up in the same wealthy, Waspy lifestyle that Daniel and I did, things weren’t that easy for her. She never quite fit in with the crowd we ran with. She was a tomboy in a sea of debutantes.
Always the first to challenge authority, especially the mothers like Bitsy who looked down their noses at an intelligent, driven, and God forbid, opinionated young woman, she rankled people with her independence.
Here, European Daisy was carefree, ebullient, and so full of life it was shining out of her. Anything that may have held her back at home was fostered here, not smothered. This life suited her perfectly. She embraced the culture fully and without a care in the world. She ciaod and come staid to everyone we passed.
“And the zuppa? Dio mio.”
“What does that mean, dio mio?”
She shrugged, waving to another shop owner. “Something like oh my goodness. I don’t know, really. Everyone says it differently, too. And don’t get me started on all the different dialects; the dialects alone are a completely different language.”
The area of the Rome where she lived, I was discovering, was a living and breathing organism.
“It’s not as touristy as, say, right up by the Vatican or the other hugely popular landmarks. Trastevere,” she said perfectly and excitedly, “is a younger crowd. Working class, amazing nightlife, but very chill. It’s like this little secret corner of the city that’s fiery and magnetic.”
“Is that why you picked this neighborhood to live?”
Nodding, she pointed to an alley coming up. “The firm helped me scout places before I moved here from Boston. This was the first place I looked at and I didn’t bother checking the rest. I fell in love with my little corner.”
“I can see why.” It suited her with the bursts of color and energy.
We walked down a small alley that felt like we’d entered a postcard. Bicycles leaned against the roughened lemon-colored buildings. Lines of clothes were draped between them, dripping fat water droplets around us. Tables topped with white umbrellas were filling up. Singles, couples, families—everyone taking seats and greeting each other.
Daisy chirped nonstop. “The pistachio gelato here? Orgasmic. You gotta come here some afternoon; there’s a guy that sells these little flowers that he’ll weave into your hair for, like, a dollar; they’re so cute! If you need anything, condoms, tampons, aspirin, come here.”
“Condoms?” I laughed, shaking my head.
She shrugged as if it were perfectly acceptable to assume I’d need some while here.
I knew better than to argue with her, so I just smiled and nodded. We weaved in and out of the Piazza di Santa Maria’s labyrinth of streets. Glittering mosaics that were baked into the masonry glinted as the fading sunlight blanketed the buildings in a golden glow. The centers of the streets were filled with terra-cotta planters, ivy, and bright red flowers pouring over the edges. In the approaching sunset, they were bathed in gorgeous golden hues.
And pedestrians. Hundreds walked about like a Roman heartbeat livening up the city as they took in dinner menus or window shopped. Some shared a gelato or a glass of wine. It was nice to see people out enjoying their city, just for the pleasure of it. No one seemed to walk simply to enjoy Boston anymore. We were always in a rush or had a faceful of technology. But you could tell that for the people who lived here, Rome was their backyard, their front yard, their living room, their dining room . . . and maybe even their bedroom.
WITH THE SHOCK OF FOUR shots of espresso giving me a much-needed boost, I trailed happily behind Daisy, soaking up Rome. The warm air licked up my bare legs, flirting at the hem of my linen shift. I remained mindful of the gaps in the ancient roads, while she glided across them without even glancing down.
In heels.
If she was Grace Kelly, I was Bambi on new legs tripping over lifted edges and thick gaps even in my gold Tieks.
I thought I knew what Rome looked like, based on the fact that I’d studied art history, held a degree in the subject, in fact. Key word there . . . thought.
The truth was, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Studying thin white pages filled with reproductions of its art and travel guides for reference couldn’t have prepared me for the full Roman immersive experience. What was that line from Good Will Hunting? I bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. I was the Will Hunting of Rome. There wasn’t a textbook available that could put into words what this city looked like to virgin eyes.
The brilliant late-afternoon sun chased the rooftops glistening and gleaming over steam pipes and clay tiles. The city even had its own sound. You could almost hear the history with every step on the road, every scoop of gelato, each slap of the pizza, and every buona sera shouted from the stoops. Daisy pointed, I gaped. An explanation of what I was gawking at always came seconds before she had to practically push up my chin to stop a pigeon from roosting inside my mouth.
We sat for a much-needed rest on the edge of a fountain. I leaned back, soaking up the last of the setting sun when Daisy said she’d be right back.
Sitting beside me, she held out a bag of arancini. “Something to hold us over until dinner.”
“These are ridiculously good,” I moaned, biting into it with gusto. The melted mozzarella at the center was incredible.
“You’re in for a treat, then, because this is just street food. This place we’re headed, Avery, you’ll want to marry the gnocchi. Melt in your mouth and sinful. No, no, get the arrabiata, spicy and delectable. Wait! I know, get the fresh pesto. The garlic sings in your mouth!” she rambled excitedly.
I warmed at this version of her. Even though back home Daisy came from a well-to-do family, had a top-notch education, and grew up in the same wealthy, Waspy lifestyle that Daniel and I did, things weren’t that easy for her. She never quite fit in with the crowd we ran with. She was a tomboy in a sea of debutantes.
Always the first to challenge authority, especially the mothers like Bitsy who looked down their noses at an intelligent, driven, and God forbid, opinionated young woman, she rankled people with her independence.
Here, European Daisy was carefree, ebullient, and so full of life it was shining out of her. Anything that may have held her back at home was fostered here, not smothered. This life suited her perfectly. She embraced the culture fully and without a care in the world. She ciaod and come staid to everyone we passed.
“And the zuppa? Dio mio.”
“What does that mean, dio mio?”
She shrugged, waving to another shop owner. “Something like oh my goodness. I don’t know, really. Everyone says it differently, too. And don’t get me started on all the different dialects; the dialects alone are a completely different language.”
The area of the Rome where she lived, I was discovering, was a living and breathing organism.
“It’s not as touristy as, say, right up by the Vatican or the other hugely popular landmarks. Trastevere,” she said perfectly and excitedly, “is a younger crowd. Working class, amazing nightlife, but very chill. It’s like this little secret corner of the city that’s fiery and magnetic.”
“Is that why you picked this neighborhood to live?”
Nodding, she pointed to an alley coming up. “The firm helped me scout places before I moved here from Boston. This was the first place I looked at and I didn’t bother checking the rest. I fell in love with my little corner.”
“I can see why.” It suited her with the bursts of color and energy.
We walked down a small alley that felt like we’d entered a postcard. Bicycles leaned against the roughened lemon-colored buildings. Lines of clothes were draped between them, dripping fat water droplets around us. Tables topped with white umbrellas were filling up. Singles, couples, families—everyone taking seats and greeting each other.
Daisy chirped nonstop. “The pistachio gelato here? Orgasmic. You gotta come here some afternoon; there’s a guy that sells these little flowers that he’ll weave into your hair for, like, a dollar; they’re so cute! If you need anything, condoms, tampons, aspirin, come here.”
“Condoms?” I laughed, shaking my head.
She shrugged as if it were perfectly acceptable to assume I’d need some while here.
I knew better than to argue with her, so I just smiled and nodded. We weaved in and out of the Piazza di Santa Maria’s labyrinth of streets. Glittering mosaics that were baked into the masonry glinted as the fading sunlight blanketed the buildings in a golden glow. The centers of the streets were filled with terra-cotta planters, ivy, and bright red flowers pouring over the edges. In the approaching sunset, they were bathed in gorgeous golden hues.
And pedestrians. Hundreds walked about like a Roman heartbeat livening up the city as they took in dinner menus or window shopped. Some shared a gelato or a glass of wine. It was nice to see people out enjoying their city, just for the pleasure of it. No one seemed to walk simply to enjoy Boston anymore. We were always in a rush or had a faceful of technology. But you could tell that for the people who lived here, Rome was their backyard, their front yard, their living room, their dining room . . . and maybe even their bedroom.
