Roman Holiday.

14 June.

Many happy returns of the day to myself.

Coffee date at 8.30am, check.

Beauty treatments, check.

Passport, check.

Chortle in the pharmacy? Check.

2pm flight, tick tick boom.

Rome.

Greeted at the airport by a shabby looking, un-shaven/washed middle aged man who neither spoke English or posessed the the ability to drive. Still, he bore my name on a piece of card. I was happy enough with that*.

Jumped into his suprisingly modern BMW casual as you like, had a little bump on the way out, no bother. It's only when your driver is straddling the middle and outside lane whilst playing on his phone and seemingly playing chicken with every other road user that I found your nerves can get the better of you.

I'm no homing pigeon, but this chap wasn't either. I eneded up finding the hotel myself, yet paid him 5 euro more than quoted. I must've just been overjoyed that I remained unharmed.

Based on a busy street in the West of Rome (Domus Aurelia), we set about our relaxing jaunt with a nice gin & stroll around the foreign streets, relishing the warmer atmosphere.

A 15 minute ramble to the Vatican, Mother almost passed out with joy. Wittering on about Benedict, we eased her away to discover the Ponte Parione area, finding a Trattoria, cos we're really cultured. Course it was a great idea going to such a joint, considering not one of us can speak a word of Italian, understand a word of Italian, or read a word of Italian. As it turned out, the punt I took on my meal was victorious. Choosing Saltimbocca, I was presented with veal wrapped in parma ham and sage. Ironic as I'd thought my meal was a vegetarian dish and mother had specified one want/need only ... meat. Hers came in the form of plain pasta**.

With seriously delicious wine, a meal that translates as 'jump in your mouth and a buoyancy that comes with the first day of ones holiday, I felt a flutter of ebullience for the days ahead. 

We spotted this flag on the way, still no idea where it's from or why it's there ...

*I've always wanted to be picked up at the airport by sign. Stems from a lifetime of waiting around for those supposed to be picking me up being incessantly late. The record so far is 3 hours. I live 20 minutes from the bloody airport.

** I should've used this site for food-advice, clued up and amusing.