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.