When in Rome…
After passing first year with a smooth 40% I thought a mini break en seul was in order, Rome seemed like an obvious choice for a culture-vulture Anthropologist, you’d think anyway.
Having had my flight delayed for two and a half hours (thanks Ryanair), I arrived in Rome at midnight with a delusional vision of Goddesses on vespas, all the pizza I could dream of and my choice of relics to fill the visit with. Back to reality, in my attempts to become an alpha male, I thought I’d escape the taxi queue which, by this point was so long I thought I was going to fossilize. Stumbling across a local man sporting a Mario-esque afro, he started saying “Taxee Taxee”, at first I was a little sceptical but hey, “when in Rome” and hopped in. By the way, I learned to hate that phrase.
Driving by some PVC fashioned prostitutes 30 minutes later, I realised the driver had no idea where he was going as we passed them for the third time. Reaching the hostel, reluctantly and majorly ripped off, I coughed up 65 Euros, checked in and passed out.
Arriving in the city I passed the Spanish steps which went on for miles, I was about to climb my Everest but gave up and changed direction as the sun oozed colour, and not fire, over an Italian couple holding hands. Tourist style I followed the map in my hand and headed towards the Trevi fountain. I couldn’t help but stare at the statues which dreamt their centuries away and dug in my pocket for a coin to throw in, as the tale tells you will return to Rome. Me being very much single noticed the endless amount of young Italians in Love, kissing in every corner and the constant whispers of Cara Mia. I hid behind my ray bans and wandered in search of comfort, which of course came in the form of food. After eating my 6th nutella ice cream of the day I made my way to the Colosseum and was instantly harassed by a drunken gladiator who found it amusing to poke me with a plastic sword. En route to the Vatican I was wondering what God had installed for this excursion, little did I know my demise would consist of public humiliation.
Waiting to get in to St Peter’s, I thought my prayers has been answered as an Italian bella asked for a lighter, I took it out of my bag and chivalrously set it alight, along with her long brown hair. Eff my life. Trip over I headed to the airport and tried to check in, only to be told my flight left the day before. Having visions of my card being declined or my bank manager having a coronary, I paid for a new flight and sighed.
A heads up to anybody avoiding the Roman romance would be a few days in Berlin, why not immerse yourself in Germany’s energetic City of Design. But singletons, avoid Rome at all costs.
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