street of snakes

Crossing a street in Roma is about taking a deep breath and just going for it. It’s exhilarating and terrifying to step in front of 400 scooters, taxis, and a bus or two, but if you don’t swallow the fear of certain death, you’ll never get anywhere.

(If you need help getting started, lock step with an old lady or purposeful businessman. It took me 3 hours to start throwing myself into traffic like a true Roman. Just keep walking.)

And just as I’m becoming confident in my avenue-crossing skills, clever navigation of the inscrutable bus map, and a near-faultless sense of direction and comfort with the winding streets of the Centro Storico (read: ability to walk home well over a few blocks without consulting a map after drinking half a bottle of wine), it’s about time to go. And possibly at the right moment, after my second and most winning bowl of bucatini all’amatriciana (god, that’s good). On to Napoli and then Positano, where, according to Lonely Planet, the food is generally mediocre tourist fare, and expensive to boot. Here’s hoping for a surprise. Or molti sorpresi. I dreamed of vongole tonight — maybe that’s a good sign.

The novelty of arrival having worn off, plus the combination of overeating on day one, heat, and loneliness, has actually made me want to eat less, which is better on the stomach, and on the pocketbook, honestly. Swearing off secondi (well, eschewing for the moment, anyway) and a post-cena espresso is an experiment in progress. On the loneliness, it waited until day 4 (or is it 5?) to set in, but I’m banking on a change of scenery and the challenges of navigating a completely unknown city to squelch it.

Today’s deliciousness: Not starving but knowing full well that I’d never find anything worth ingesting near Piazza di Spagna later, I found a nice little place in Monti near Via de Serpenti (Street of Snakes) that served up crispy, chewy pizza with bufala, carfiofi (artichokes), and prosciutto, a perfect light meal paired with a beer, ideal not least because it didn’t require a post-meal nap. Unfortunately, my outing later to Trastevere and a leisurely couple of Proseccos at a neighborhood bar did me in, but this is why I love Roma, and Italy in general: You can wake up at 9:45 pm and not worry about missing dinner. In fact, you might have trouble finding a table.

For dinner, simplicity: prosciutto e melone, and that fantastic pasta. And wine. Lots of wine.

A few things that suck about dining alone:

• You can’t try everything.
• You feel like a cow when you attempt it anyway.
• Indifferent service feels like a personal affront.

A few great things about dining alone:

• You can go wherever, whenever you want.
• You can embrace wanton people-watching.
• Indifferent service can strangely turn into very earnest entreaties to walk that way for the ottimo view, or smiles and a very firm handshake and grazie mille at the end of the meal.

beer and ravioli for lunch in Trastevere

Who knew the Italians were caught up in the small-production beer trend? Well, “caught up” is likely an overstatement, but then, this is the birthplace of Slow Food, so why not?

The Trentatre Ambrata pale ale-style beer I tried was actually quite good, and stood up nicely to the ravioli, cool breeze, and excellent people-watching I enjoyed in Trastevere over lunch. You can read more about the beer on the Italian site Cronache di Birra (Chronicle of Beer).

Since I ate way too much today, I’ll omit the play-by-play, but some observations:

• Artichokes properly fried giudia-style are my new favorite anything.
• Italians usually wield the knife with their strong hand, eat with the other. I continue to cut up my food at will…that’s how I roll.
• Romans love salt. Love it.

On Italian secondi: I don’t know why I keep ordering them, as they’re rarely worth the price of admission. I’m apparently experimenting to see whether they’re honestly mediocre or I’m simply too full by then to fully enjoy whatever it is I’ve ordered.

On a whim I went for the grilled baby lamb to follow a small bowl of bucatini all’amatriciana and its gloriously crispy guanciale bits. I skipped the fried lamb’s brains and sweetbreads in favor of an antipasto of Giggetto’s famous fried artichokes, fiori di zucchini ripieni (zucchini flowers stuffed with anchovy, I believe), and stockafisso (baccala). There’s really only so much fried I can do in one sitting.

Italians tend to cook the crap out of their meat (the exception being the nearly raw and phenomenally awesome bistecca alla fiorentina). My chop? For one thing, it seemed to have been hacked in one slice from the rib, the bone removal was such a pain in the ass, but the flavor was powerful: My lamb sported the charred, crusty bits that make the Italian grigliata so remarkable. But worth the trouble? I’d save room for gelato instead.

I’m back in Roma, which is strange in so many ways, the weirdest and most wonderful being that I know now that my Italian has improved infinitely since I was here last. They understand me! And dining alone is less boring when you can understand what the ragazzi at the next table are complaining about.

I landed finally at my little bed and breakfast in the Jewish Ghetto , and after a nice chat with Simone (”my inglese is horribile!”) killed some of the jet lag with a nap and long shower, then first real order of business: coffee. Pronto.

At the bar I met clearly retired and bored Enzo, who was terribly excited by the fact that I was not only traveling da sola but could also chat (sort of with him) and his handsome young barista friend. No one seems to understand why on earth I’d learn Italian, but they love it. Good start.

On to food: a late-evening snack of some thin pizza from Forno di Campo de’Fiori, hacked from a counter-wide slab, folded, and delivered into my grateful hands in about 4 seconds and 2 euros.

Restored, I wandered over to the Forum for a short evening visit (in the waning light, devoid of people, it looks like a stage set – completely unreal), realizing along the way that I was thinking in Italian. Short phrases, but still.

For dinner I headed near Piazza Farnese, landing at Da Sergio, on a quiet back street, with an outside table. Success: some solid cacio e pepe (why are Italian basics always so much better than anything I can do at home?), beef with rucola, un quarto di vino rosso, and an espresso – cheap, easy, and all I needed to get on with a late-evening stroll along the river. And now I collapse.