a week in rome, from a to z
A is for Appian Way. When we arrived in Rome, my husband was ambivalent about the city. After the hills of Tuscany and the canals of Venice, it felt modern, dirty, sprawling and not so magical. But after a 6-mile morning run the next day, his tune had changed. Turns out, pounding the pavement — when that pavement includes part of the ancient road that was Rome’s gateway to the East, built in 312 BC and trod upon by Julius Caesar himself — is pretty magical.
B is for beauty. My daughter picked out a used dress from a street market outside Rome. It was a little too big for her but I found it endearing that amid the pinks and purples in the $5 bin she zeroed in on a drapey, toga-inspired piece with gold threads that glinted in the afternoon sun. In it, walking over one of Rome’s bridges over the Tiber, she was my little Roman goddess.
C is for Colosseum. Rome’s most famous landmark is, predictably, packed with large tour groups and selfie sticks. It’s also a little hard for kids to digest its grandeur given its condition; less than a third of the original structure remains. But just seeing the shape of its famous broken facade is still a powerful experience. And the kids paid special attention to the stories of the exotic animal slaughters and gladiator competitions held in this ancient arena. It was also fascinating to look down at the hypogeum, the underground maze of tunnels and rooms beneath the Colosseum’s former wooden floor, where archaeologists are still unearthing secrets of the past.
D is for domes. We saw lots of them!
The famed dome at the Pantheon, the 2nd-century Roman temple that’s now a church and one of Rome’s best-preserved ancient buildings.
Lulu marveling at a false dome — a painted trick of the eye — at the Chiesa di Sant' Ignazio di Loyola.
E is for Enzo. The namesake owner of a popular trattoria in the Trastavere neighborhood sold his restaurant before he died, and these days his business is booming. Patrons line up before lunch and dinner; there are just a handful of seats in the tiny, no-frills joint. It was one of our best meals in Italy. Highlights: the otherworldly rigatoni carbonara and the friends (puppies! babies!) we made while standing in the queue.
Hungrily eyeing the restaurant from the queue.
Max’s carbonara (foreground) and Lulu’s cacio e pepe, or cheese and pepper (rear) were showstoppers.
F is for fireworks. Around midnight one weeknight, our apartment shook. I opened the window closest to the noise — in the bathroom — and discovered a huge fireworks display. As I watched colors explode in the black sky, I a) said a small prayer for the miracle of neither of my kids waking up and b) reflected on how natural it felt for Italians in this rip-roaring, lively city to be celebrating (what? I still have no idea), at this time of night, in this very, very loud manner. In New York, I likely would be annoyed and might consider calling 311 to report the scofflaws who were keeping me awake. In Rome, I stood on the toilet and enjoyed the show.
G is for the golden hour. In the blazing heat of an Italian summer, it’s easier to take good photos during the so-called golden hour, just after sunrise or just before sunset. Thanks to my fantastic husband for using this effect to my benefit from time to time.
H is for how to order coffee in Italy. I still don’t really know. The lexicon is completely different (for instance there is no such thing as espresso here; it’s called café) and so is the philosophy on daily caffeination. In the morning I like a very strong cup of coffee or espresso — so thick that my husband lovingly refers to it as sludge — lightened by near-scalding soy or oat milk. At our local cafe in Rome, where construction workers and businesspeople line up at the bar before work for a quick shot of café, or perhaps a macchiato marked with foam, trying to communicate my order was at first an exercise in frustration.
They were aghast when I tried to order a double — ok, some days it was a triple — with hot soy milk. They delivered three shots in separate little cups the first time. They shook their heads gravely and said all that coffee for one person was dangerous. But over the course of the week they came around. They’d get their machine whirring when they saw me, pour the soy milk and chuckle (lovingly?) at my strange American habit.
I is for icy goodness. Gelato favorites included Otaleg (gelato spelled backwards), Frigidarium and Fatamorgana. We ate traditional flavors: dark chocolate, pistachio, passionfruit and Max’s favorite, straciatella (similar to vanilla chocolate chip). We tried inventive flavors like Pecorino cheese, honey & orange peel; black licorice; lemon ricotta; donut peach; watermelon with dark chocolate “seeds,” and violet & rose petal.
THE LULU: Otaleg’s berrylicious frutti di bosco atop sinful dark chocolate.
THE MAX: Frigidarium’s signature flavor (caramel, chocolate and cookie) with straciatella.
J is for jumping on the bus. We logged many, many steps in this city, which is easy to navigate on foot. But when we needed a break, the public buses doubled as low-cost sightseeing tours.
K is for ka-ching. Tossing a coin into the Trevi Fountain is supposed to guarantee you good fortune and a return trip to Rome. More than $1.5 million a year in international change is collected during cleanings — and earlier this year the mayor of Rome decided the funds will go to the City Council for improvement projects instead of the Catholic charity that had used the money to help the needy for decades.
Lulu and Max after tossing their coins in the famed Trevi Fountain.
L is for lightning. A fantastic storm blew through Rome one night. It was eerily quiet, looked like a light show and illuminated the apartment for more than half an hour. It reminded me of a giant storm that rocked the house where we were guests when I traveled through Italy at age 12 with my father and sister. It was even more impressive than the man-made fireworks outside our windows a few nights earlier.
M is for milestones. In our local park, Max picked up another child’s bike one afternoon. After a few minutes of trying, and a couple of spills, he was off on his first solo, training wheel-free ride. Go Max!
N is for nuns. We found ourselves on the same walking route as these Sisters one day. I found it impossible to resist photographing them.
O is for Orvieto. We stopped here on the way to Rome after an eventful week in Venice. It’s a postcard-perfect village famous for its wine (we paid $4 for half a liter of the local house white, which tasted better than what I buy in NYC) and sprawling network of underground tunnels.
Navigators practice their map-reading skills.
The kids in a subterranean dovecote, where in medieval times residents trapped and kept pigeons … for dinner.
P is for pizza. I don’t name-check a lot of restaurants but Pizzeria Da Baffetto — recommended by a good friend — lived up to its hype for simple, delicious Roman pies.
Q is for questions. Max, a Ghostbusters superfan, had many when he spotted this car.
R is for Romulus and Remus. In Roman mythology, these twin brothers were set adrift on the Tiber River. They later were rescued, and suckled, by a she-wolf and eventually founded Rome. We had fun trying to imagine where on this wide river — whose banks are now dotted with restaurants, bars, homeless encampments and carnivals — the wolf might have spotted the babies in their basket.
S is for shave. A first for my husband — he paid someone to shave his face. Not only did he live to tell the tale, but he found it relaxing. (Note to self: hone those straight-razor skills!)
T is for Trastevere. Our home for the week was a funky, charming, colorful former working-class neighborhood known for its eclectic shops and boisterous nightlife. I hit the Airbnb lottery with our booking: It was spacious, its air conditioning worked furiously to keep the heat wave at bay and (the upside of the top floor of a five-story walkup) we had a big rooftop patio all to ourselves. We also had everything we might possibly need within a few blocks: supermarkets and open-air fruit markets, cafés and restaurants, gelato, clothing stores (ok not a necessity but I got a great dress on deep discount), a meat and cheese shop whose owners claim to sell the best porchetta sandwich in Rome. We bought one and are inclined to believe them.
Part of our sprawling roof deck.
Local flavor in the Piazza di San Cosimato.
U is for underground. Our favorite (non eating-related) activity in Rome was a visit to the Palazzo Valentini. Here, underneath a grand government building, are the remarkably well-preserved ruins of two lavish Domus Romane (Roman homes) from medieval and ancient times, built one on top of the other and covered up for centuries by newer palaces. They’ve been turned into an underground experience where you see the remains of thermal baths, frescoes, mosaics and more from your perch on a glass floor. Multimedia light shows bring the ruins to life, revealing how these mansions — owned by Imperial Rome's most powerful families— would have looked in their day.
V is for Villa Borghese. We rode bikes through this enormous park. It was a good time.
W is for worst burger ever. After nearly a month in Italy, the inevitable happened: the kids asked for a burger. It was a hot day, we’d pushed lunch very late and we were in a somewhat desolate area when Lulu spotted a restaurant with the words ‘Burger Gourmet’ in huge writing on the window. The host told us, “You don’t like it, you don’t pay.” It was the first time we’d heard that one on this trip, and it felt like an omen. Fast forward an hour: My ‘arugula and parmesan salad’ contained neither arugula nor parmesan (though it did have corn, iceberg lettuce and other delicacies). Max’s pizza was cold. Lulu’s burger was sad: the detritus of old lettuce was stuck to the bottom of the patty — we’d ordered it plain, so I assume they’d taken an old burger and scraped the veggies off. Maybe worst of all, our waiter informed her as he delivered this grayish matter that they were completely (gasp!) out of ketchup. I took the host up on his offer and refused to pay for my salad. Lulu was mortified by the whole experience, and begged us to pay for her burger, which she’d dutifully nibbled on. We all learned a lesson. Trust your gut. Don’t believe everything you read — there was no “gourmet” in that burger. And when in Rome … dine accordingly.
X is for 10. The number, in Roman numeral form, of fingers Lulu had painted at a nail salon near our apartment. (It’s a stretch but come on … X is tough!)
After she chose sparkly red and gold, the manicurist told her these were Rome’s signature colors.
Y is for yup, yet another playground.
Z is for zonked. After a week in Rome we were ready to sleep on the flight to Stockholm.
