We spent the day becoming acquainted with our little neighborhood. Found a true Italian cappuccino café, a store that sold only its own handmade pasta, and another that specialized in bread. Visited the local farmer’s market which also featured a butcher and a fishmonger. It was all as quaint and charming as the guidebooks suggest.
Late in the afternoon Patrick and Veronique, our long time friends from France, arrived as did Andy, Kevin’s roommate from college. The six of us chattered in a variety of languages with Kevin, who spoke them all, being interpreter extraordinaire. It just went to show that a good joke is funny the second and third time around.
After a get-acquainted time in our flat, we ventured forth for dinner. My overriding sense of the day was that we were settling in, all of us present, eager to make our time together special. Some of us had long-time connections; Kevin and I for instance had known Patrick and Vero twenty-five years. He and Andy had been close for almost twenty.
So the banter went back and forth, Italian and French and English, yesterday’s memories and today’s in the making. Dinner was a polyglot. But eventually we bade goodnight to each other and headed to various flats, sleepy and contented. Perhaps that is Rome’s ultimate appeal: you feel welcomed and nurtured even when the locals don’t speak English and it’s pouring rain and you’re tired of cobblestones. You’re still in the Eternal City.
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