Fourteen miles, one thousand calories, a hot day in Southern Italy, and jet-lag. There were metros and wrong stations, an unabridged journey through new and ancient cityscapes, and creatures cowering under cars.
I fit in a workout before sunrise then wake my sister up, promising a market and bakeries, I’ll pay. We walk around and stumble into where we need to be by chance: the Testaccio district.
It’s a rough neighborhood, not as striking as Trastevere, not as busy as the center, and it’s very local. We walk into a bakery and I brush off the rust on my Italian. In a market, we get strange looks from people shuffling about their mornings.
Proudly, loudly, very American-ly, we get three pizzas by the slice. They’re unique and delicious: hummus with olive, sun-dried tomato, and ricotta strawberry.
We’re satisfied, but our rampage has just begun.
The night before, I had to skip dinner. My train came after a late plane, and then I took another train and ended up in my AirBnb at 11:30 pm.
What I’m getting to is that I was hungry. Freya, my sister, was hungry, and this poor market had no chance. Things were eaten, hearts broken; that place will never be the same.
Long. Heat. Sun.
A Few Hours Later:
We’d walked until blistered, sweat until ragged. The collection of a few trying days of travel had begun to show its wear, and there we were, walking to Piramide station, to our first tour, when we saw a creature more helpless than we were.
It hid under a car, didn’t wag its tail at us, and growled if we came near, but we stayed with the puppy for two and a half hours. Sadly, after calling the police five times, looking for the owner, and asking everybody who walked by for help, we had to leave that dog alone in the Eternal City.
The sun was hot then, and we traded it for the muggy underground.
I told my sister we were going to be late only to have her scoff at me. Temperatures rise as we walk through a park with no trees, under the midday sun of a Roman summer.
We get to our tour late and enter the excavation site of an ancient estate. We barely hang onto the guide’s words as a cool breeze intoxicates our dehydrated minds. We pass the crowd around Trevi Fountain and head to a square built above a desecrated arena.
It’s been a long day: a morning walk and workout, the market, a lost puppy, the wrong metro stop, and a tour of the city’s center. We’re not done yet though, not until after visiting Gustamundo.
It’s on a long and shallow hill, beside a busy road where traffic scatters litter into the intersection. Unsuspecting, unless I knew better, I’d have missed the samosas, the peanut-y goodness, the swath of spices and ginger and heat on rice, the wonderful people, and the hummus, the hummus, the hummus.
Gustamundo
Listed as an Airbnb experience, this restaurant offers a five-course meal consisting of dishes from different regions, prepared by immigrants who are from there. It’s amazing and highly affordable. More than most things, when in Rome do this.
During dinner, my sister and I were immersed in conversations about the world, humanity, and mangoes.
My favorite part of Rome was at the end. It wasn’t the Colosseum, not the market or the center, and if given the choice between going back to Gustamundo or visiting the Vatican again, I couldn’t give you an answer.
Thank You!