I traveled back to Rome in February, and it was everything I hoped it would be. For the first time I stayed in Trastevere, a neighborhood across the Tiber from the city center whose cobbled alleys are lined with climbing roses, potted herbs, leftist graffiti, and the most charming bars and restaurants. My apartment was near the end of an alley with steps up to the ring road and Monteverde. Two blocks in one direction was the daily market where the most delightful woman sold me strawberries (real ones, delicate and sweet), the best oranges I’ve ever eaten, meaty black olives al forno, and radicchio or rucola. Two blocks the other way was Ma Che Siete Venuti a Fa, a friendly craft beer bar with some of the best brews in Europe and no pretension whatsoever.
I hate standing in lines and fighting crowds, so I skipped many of the first-tier attractions and museums. Instead I opted for a day trip to Ostia, where you can wander quiet, beautiful city ruins unbothered. Where the 2,000-year-old market warehouses are still used as warehouses, only for ancient artifacts that are being studied and organized (how meta!). Then a 10-minute train ride to the coast to enjoy an impeccable seafood lunch and soak my feet in the Mediterranean.
A friend introduced me to a Roman native, a sommelier who offers food, wine, and history tours. We dipped in and out of his favorite restaurants in the Jewish ghetto and Trastevere for snacks and glasses of wine while he regaled us with history and legends, pointing out landmarks and details we never would have found on our own.
And the food. The food! I performed my usual detailed research and combined that with inquiries to the locals about the spots they recommend. We gorged ourselves on farm fare at Colline Emiliane, which specializes in cuisine from the Emilia Romagna region—think egg-rich tortellini in brodo, pot roast with anchovy-herb salsa verde, and mashed potatoes that are basically half parmigiano reggiano. Iconic coffee bar San Calisto totally delivered with outdoor tables on the piazza dominated by old men who were literally arguing heatedly about spaghetti con vongole while I sipped my espresso. Perfection. My favorite place to eat and drink was Latteria Trastevere, a wine bar that’s open all hours and serves impeccably sourced local food and natural wines. One can only eat so many multi-course meals of Roman food like spaghetti carbonara and stewed oxtail on one week, so the relaxed vibe of the wine bars over formal restaurants was a relief some days. Not that the Roman-style meals weren’t amazing! The first rainy night I arrived, we wandered across the river to an incredible dinner at Cesare al Pellegrino. Standouts were the skate and broken spaghetti soup with romanesco broccoli, as well as the gnocchi with oxtail sauce. Seriously, I’m still thinking about that soup. I need to recreate it at home.
I’ve read the recent think pieces and the cultural chatter about travel—how it can be self-deluding, overly privileged, bad for the environment, disrespectful of other cultures, residents forced out of popular areas by high prices and tourist-oriented businesses. These are all genuine problems. I’ve sat with those ideas and taken them to heart. Some people do travel in ways that make me uncomfortable. You won’t catch me on a Disney cruise or at a tropical resort that exploits indigenous people whose environment and way of life have been decimated. Not that my behavior is beyond reproach. Just that everything in our lives is a compromise.
There’s no substitute for real-life experiences and immersion in other cultures. Leaving my bubble and reckoning with the vastness of the world, with its diversity. Struggling with a new language in an unfamiliar place. It’s worth the effort.
A few weeks ago I was gazing up at the mosaics in a 1,000-year-old-basilica while tours of Catholic Jubilee pilgrims were herded around me in their matching bandanas, speaking half a dozen different languages. A few years ago, a Costa Rican spice farmer excitedly showed me the vanilla orchids he grows organically in a coastal forest, before we climbed up to a platform with a view of the entire misty valley and drank chocolate that had been grown on the spot. I won’t forget being chided by a grandmother who runs a tiny trattoria out of her living room in Emilia-Romagna because my friend didn’t eat all the salami on her plate (my brother and I rushed to finish it for her, reminded of our own Italian grandfather who did not tolerate wasted food).
Travel keeps me curious, prompting me to seek out new experiences and places near home as well. It clears my head, quiets my anxiety, nurtures new friendships, gives me ideas for recipes and projects, makes connections across oceans and languages. I’m still thinking of the man who ran the seafood restaurant in Ostia, a grin spreading across his face when I took my first approving bite of the day’s special, fresh pasta with prawns and hot-pink pureed radicchio. I descended two layers (and two millennia) under the Basilica di San Clemente to walk through a first-century Roman home fed by a mountain spring that still bubbles up into a stone basin behind the wall, so close I could touch it. I’m grateful to the enoteca owner with a very limited selection of locally made amari that aren’t sold anywhere else. I never knew that amaro could taste like the sea, and now I do.
There is NOTHING like travel! My dad used to swoon over the cheesecake he ate at a bakery (with no name) in the Jewish Ghetto. I wonder if it's still there?