The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 2D

Day Two (…la notte…)—October 1, 2007

I can’t remember exactly how long of a break we had back at the hotel, but it wasn’t nearly long enough for the likes of me. I was exhausted from pumping out so much raw tourist juice, and I really could have used some time to recharge my batteries, as it were. There was time for a quick shower (no time to indulge in a Roman bath, ha ha…ha), change my shoes for some sandals that were a helluva lot more comfortable than the sneakers I’d been wearing all day, and to grab my spare memory card for my camera (I thought I’d taken it with me when I left that morning, and as it was I had only about 5 pictures left after leaving the Piazza Navona)…after all, I just can’t satisfy my need to take craplousy pictures.

So, feeling slightly rested, it was time to go out for the last part of our Roman squaliday. We were going out for dinner at a little place that was reportedly a favorite of Fellini. But first, a little trip to another famous part of Rome: the Spanish Steps.

So, why would something in Rome be called the Spanish Steps? Just because it’s close to the Spanish Embassy (which, oddly enough, is near the Piazza di Spagna).

Our bus dropped us off God knows where and, after a short walk, we reached the Piazza Trinità dei Monti just as the sun started to set. The Piazza Trinità dei Monti is pretty much at the top of the Spanish Steps. The piazza had the usual souvenir stands as well as artists’ booths and, as it was sunset, there was a pretty spiffy view of a view of the city. There was a church in the background (I know, I know, a church in Rome?), but I could never figure out what the name of it was (curse you, Internet, for failing me in my quest to identify every single Roman church).

But the Piazza Trinità dei Monti has a fairly famous church just at the top of the Spanish Steps known as the Santissima Trinità al Monte Pincio. Yep, quite a mouthful.

If my math and memory are right, there are basically three tiers in the Spanish Steps. The first tier (if you’re walking from the top to the bottom) leads you to small landing (where you could probably rest and catch your breath if you were hoofing it up the Spanish Steps rather than walking down them). The second tier leads to another small landing where, if you look behind you, gives you a pretty good view of the Santissima Trinità al Monte Pincio and, if you look down, gives you a pretty clear look at the Piazza di Spagna. If you push pass the crush of bodies sitting and/or loitering on the bottommost tier of steps you make it to the actual Piazza di Spagna. There is a pretty nice fountain there (the Fontana della Barcaccia, or the Fisherman’s Fountain), which depicted some kind of watery hellbeast but I couldn’t get too close to it because of all the bodies sitting around it. The Piazza di Spagna also has yet another obelisk at one end (where I didn’t go, as it was getting dark and spooky by this time). After gawking at the Piazza di Spagna for a while (and failing to notice that all the pictures I’d taken since arriving at the Piazza Trinità dei Monti were…well, there’s no other way to say it, pretty damn lousy…I forgot to remember that it’s never a good idea to move while the flash hasn’t finished flashing its magic flash powers, so all my photos are basically blurs), we went in search of FOOD.

I can’t remember the name of the restaurant we went; all I remember is our tour guide repeatedly told us it was a place that Fellini dug. At any rate, the restaurant’s foyer had many stills from his films, so I could see they took a little pride in the association. I was hoping for at least a leering dwarf or two, and on that level I was disappointed, but the food was tasty as can be. Believe it or not, we had pasta that night.

Now, since Italy kind of has a reputation for pasta, each region tries to make its local pasta specialties, well, special. Whether it’s the shape of the noodle or the sauce that accompanies it, no two pasta dishes really taste the same. I believe the pasta we had that night was something that translates literally into “strangled priest” pasta (basically, two short tubes twisted together with a light tomato-based sauce).

I don’t really remember if this was the night I had the strangled priest pasta, or if it was on another night, and the reason I really can’t remember is…well, I think I got a wee bit tipsy, and I’m not a drinker (teetotaler, that’s me). But there was a full bottle of white wine and a full bottle of red wine and, well, that red wasn’t long for this world when the lounge singer started up and I realized, much to my horror, that I’d be listening to way too many versions of “Volare” over the next few days.

I needed something to dull the pain and horror, and that’s the story I’m sticking with.

One other cool thing I noticed about the restaurant (and, no, it wasn’t just because I may or may not have been well into my cups by this point) is the ceiling rolled back, giving a kind of open air feel to the place. As it was a pretty mild night this was quite a treat.

There was another tour group there, and they were full of raving drunks (at least the matron who flashed her bra at us seemed to be a little sloshed).

At some point the wait staff politely saw us out the door (it must have been around 10), and as we staggered through a moonlit plaza toward the bus, our tour guide, Antonella, presented the ladies of the group with a rose from a local vendor. I got a pretty pink one, and I think my Mom’s was also pink. (We ended up leaving them in the hotel room, because we had no way of keeping them in water.)

On the bus back to the hotel, it dawned on me that, after 14 years, I finally made it to Rome. I had originally intended to spend about 4 or 5 days back during my 1993 trip. This time around, only 1 day was available to see what I could, and while I knew it was impossible to see it all (or even to see what I did see as long as I would have liked to), I think we did a pretty good job of seeing a lot in a short time.

I passed out cold that night, only knowing I’d be regretting the next morning’s possible (possible, mind you) hangover during the 7 hour bus ride to our next destination: Venice.

Blurry pictures can be found here.