We’d never seen so many men without
pants. Or shorts. It wasn’t what we’d expected of twenty-first century Romans,
but, being our first trip to the Eternal City, we were open to anything. After
our first dozen or so sightings, though, it became ever more apparent that
these were not, in fact, locals. By our second day we had learned that they
were Scots in town for the big Six Nations Italy-Scotland rugby match,
which ended up being played before a 75,000 strong crowd, a great percentage of
whom wore kilts (and, despite Lauren’s curiosity on the subject, we never did
find out if it is common practice to forego any other article of clothing
underneath the plaid and pleats).
Lured
into a trattoria on our first afternoon
in Rome by its proximity to our apartment and our hunger, we probably paid more
than we should have but enjoyed a long lunch with two enormous courses. My
second featured an eye staring out blankly. Luckily, the gustatory experience
proved much more interesting than the fish’s expression. The sea bass, cooked
and served whole with roasted potatoes and fresh tomatoes on a bed of lettuce,
qualifies among the better fish I’ve had—so tender, moist, and full of flavor.
Niko is reliable when it comes to food choices at restaurants and Italy is
always ready to give him his favorite dish: la pizza margherita. With the little guy still sick but on the mend and
generally not favorable to cities we didn’t know how this little trip south
would turn out, but thanks to the full effect of antibiotics finally kicking
in, plenty of delicious pizza and gelato and, most importantly, a much-prized
stroller lent to us by a British friend of Lauren’s in Lucca, when it came time
to return north Niko didn’t want to leave.
Our
home base sat within a block or two of the Pantheon and not too far (a judgment
made possible because of aforementioned stroller) from many other tourist
sites. Besides making sure we got at least one gelato a day (and happening upon
two of the best gelaterias in Rome by pure chance) Ingrid also showed some
interest in these heavily touristed historical buildings, piazzas, obelisks and
monuments—especially the ones with direct bearing on the gods (as with the
Pantheon) in large part due to her reading of Percy Jackson and the Olympians
series by Rick Riordan.
We hadn’t intended to see many of these places given
Niko’s dislike of walking and not being sure how quickly he would be rid of the
worst of his illness, but we lucked out (thank you Zara, goddess of strollers!)
and ended up visiting the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, the Coliseum, Explora
(Rome’s Children’s Museum), Villa Borghese (large city park), the Spanish
Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Quirinale neighborhood, the Campo de’ Fiori,
Santa Maria Sopra Minerva and Sant’Ignazio churches, Piazza Venezia and the
Altare della Patria (or “wedding cake” as some refer to it, a giant monument to
unified Italy’s first king, Victor Emmanuel II), and, as if that wasn’t enough
(it was for Lauren and Niko), Ingrid and I walked to the Vatican and back to
visit St. Peter’s Basilica. Mamma mia, che bella!
On
Sunday we knew our sojourn would be coming to an end and we’d have to be headed
back on the Frecciargento in the early
afternoon. I journeyed out mid-morning to find gloriously traffic-free streets.
It so happened to be the morning of the Maratona di Roma, so I positioned myself below the “wedding cake” for
a fine view of the start.
The hand-cyclers came roaring around the corner
first, most practically completely on their backs, arms turning in tandem
around and around to propel themselves forward. It was very inspiring to see
these athletes making the best of their situation and racing despite
difficulties that would make many not even consider competition (and oh, those
cobblestones must’ve been rough!). The “able-bodied” marathoners came next,
thousands upon thousands, roughly half of whom were foreigners.
After they
passed I was about to head back to the apartment but stuck around when I
noticed the organizers hurriedly switching some road blockades and announcing
that runners were coming through again. It turns out a 4k fun run started after
the marathon. People from six to ninety ran and walked past me with the biggest
smiles I’ve seen in a long time, some with their dogs, some with their kids or
grandparents, some alone or in groups of friends. Witnessing nearly 100,000
people between both events out exercising on this beautiful spring day put me
in a great mood and hopeful for city-dwellers everywhere.
After
some more sightseeing and marathon watching that morning we made our way toward
the nearest metro station, some two or three kilometers away. Taxis weren’t
running inside the marathon loops so we counted our blessings once more for the
passeggino and also for the wheels on
our suitcase. Sometimes it’s not your day but others the pizza lands right-side
up and thus it was for us when, with time dwindling before our train left the
station and the metro car finally showed up—packed so much noses peeked out,
funhouse-like faces plastered to the windows—and we shoved our stroller and
children into the sweaty mass that when the horn buzzed and the door closed on
the handle to our suitcase (which was still out on the platform) Lauren managed
to maintain her grip while I pried the doors back open and quickly snatched the
valigia back in, we made it to
the station in time, and even got an earlier regional train from Firenze back
to Lucca since it was running ten minutes late. If I believed in such things, I
would have to say that in the great balancing act of chance we were due for
such a flip of the pizza.
Will
Ingrid and Niko remember the Pantheon or all of the obelisks we recorded? Or
even the hand-made, organic gelato? Something tells me that eventually these
memories will fade until they are memories constructed more from photos and
their parents’ nth retelling of tales
from the trip. But we had a great time and all left with smiles. Right now
that’s just what we needed. Whatever they remember or don’t is just fine and,
if I had to bet, I’d wager it would be the thousands of men in skirts that ends
up sticking. And I’d double my bet had we personally—visually—found out to be
true what Lauren suspected the Scots’ underlying sartorial choice did not include.
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