ROME: 27th April 2016

In April this year, my sister and I left Western Australia for our second European holiday together. Arriving in Rome at the Fiumicino airport, we were greeted by our driver and whisked away to the Farnese Hotel which is situated in a quiet residential area, away from the central bustle, but close to

Situated in a quiet residential area – the view from our hotel window

a metro station and good quality restaurants, where the locals ate and where I had to use my limited Italian or hope for one English speaking staff member.

Tired after our long flight, we unpacked our cases and, with directions from the concierge, headed for a mini-mart nearby, intending to buy a bottle of wine for me and diet-coke for my sister, plus something simple to eat in our tiny suite as we were too tired to bother going out that night. The mini-mart was about to close, so, back to the hotel we went. With further directions from the concierge, we walked for several blocks in the opposite direction, ready to sit down and eat wherever we could find a place open. It was after 6pm, people sat outside several bars, drinking, but food wasn’t yet on the agenda.

Eventually (probably only about ten minutes down the road, but I was staggering with fatigue after a sleepless long flight) we found the second promised mini-mart. The site and smell of prosciuttos and cheeses, roasted and marinated capsicum, eggplant, artichokes, olives and crunchy breads delighted us. The whole shop was smaller than my kitchen, but from floor to ceiling it was crammed with everything that a busy worker might need to grab on the way home.

‘Parla Inglese per favore?’ I asked the pink cheeked, grandmotherly lady behind the counter. I’m not sure what she said, but, thanks to her apologetic tone and her hands waving about like  flustered birds, the meaning was clear – ‘I’m very sorry, no. Do you speak Italian?’

And I had forgotten to take my pocket sized English/Italian language book with me.

‘Ah,’ was my initial response as I tried to resurrect the little Italian I had learned about twenty years before. ‘Non parlo Italiano,’ I said with a doubtful smile. ‘Per favore, prosciutto?’

The shopkeeper and I were able to communicate very nicely with lots of finger pointing. I even remembered my primary numbers and, with a bit of prompting, the Italian words for some of the items. Meanwhile my dear sister, who was supposed to have done a quick course in Italian on the internet before we left Australia, stood back, only helping out when she wanted something I hadn’t asked for, like ‘Get more of those olives, they look delicious.’

Each selection was served in a separate plastic container and when I demonstrated eating utensils, the kindly signora found some plastic knives and forks in an open packet under the counter and gave us two of each, plus paper serviettes. And of course we

Captured on my time-set camera ‘Cheers to us and a great holiday!’

bought a bottle of Italian white wine (I did remember how to ask for Vino bianco secco, but couldn’t understand anything else on the label.)

Back at Hotel Farnese, feeling pretty pleased with ourselves, we found a couple of wine glasses in our bar fridge, served our meal in assorted plastic containers and enjoyed our first of many simple feasts.