Alarm at quarter past ten. We had set the phone for eight, I swear. The idea was to be up and running at dawn to experience these 48 ore a Roma like true urban explorers, but the truth is we simply aren't made for early mornings. Marco tried opening the windows of Condominio Monti Boutique Hotel, hoping the fresh air would revive me, but I just rolled over. The historic townhouse we stayed in is charming, plenty quiet enough, and the mattress was frankly too comfortable to leave at the first ring.
By the time we headed out, the morning had practically slipped away. The air smelled of roasted coffee and exhaust fumes. Rione Monti is wonderful at that hour: artisan workshops were loudly rolling up their metal shutters, and the flower-filled alleys were beginning to fill with people sitting at outdoor cafes. Being just a stone's throw from Colosseo e Fori Imperiali, we thought we'd start there. The original plan? Head inside and do the full archaeological tour. The reality? An endless queue wrapping around the amphitheatre, the kind of sight that instantly kills your enthusiasm. We hadn't bought tickets online in advance, breaking every golden rule of sensible travel. Neither of us had the stomach to join the queue. We settled for walking around the outside, watching this colossal mass set against a washed-out blue sky.
Hunger struck much sooner than expected. To avoid the usual delays of surface transport, we'd decided to stick to walking or the metro. We caught line B at the Cavour stop. I'd read plenty of warnings about pickpockets on public transport, so I kept my rucksack clutched to my chest the entire way, eyeing anyone who came within half a metre with deep suspicion. Destination: Testaccio. I had booked Felice a Testaccio on Via Mastro Giorgio several days in advance. If you don't book there, you simply don't eat. The waiter, a grey-haired gentleman with an unreadable expression, brought over two steaming plates of pasta and began tossing the tonnarelli cacio e pepe right at our table. A swift, deft routine. The pecorino cream was thick, savoury, and clinging to the pasta. We finished lunch by ordering their tiramisù in a glass. The bill was hardly on the light side, but it was worth every single cent.
We spent the afternoon in the historic centre, trying to walk off the carbs. The Pantheon greeted us with its dome wide open to the sky. We gazed up at the open oculus and visited Raffaello's tomb, then wandered over to Piazza Navona. We ambled along past street artists, admiring Bernini's Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi and the facade of Sant'Agnese in Agone. There was a chap blowing enormous soap bubbles and a crowd of shrieking children trying to pop them.
Then came the tactical blunder of our itinerario a Roma: the Fontana di Trevi. Everyone tells you to go early in the morning or late at night to avoid the madness. We ended up there right in the middle of the afternoon. Honestly? Completely pointless stress. A crowd packed together inhumanly tight, elbows in ribs, people frozen in poses for photo after photo. I could barely catch a glimpse of the baroque fountain through the sea of heads. An American tourist nearly hit me in the face tossing his coin without looking behind him. The work itself is magnificent, of course, but I couldn't bear standing there getting my feet trodden on any longer. We left after less than ten minutes.
To recover from the crush, we headed towards Piazza di Spagna e Scalinata di Trinità dei Monti. We had a look at the Fontana della Barcaccia and started up the steps. Our legs were visibly beginning to give out. We pushed on until we reached Terrazza del Pincio e Villa Borghese just in time for sunset. That thoroughly saved the afternoon. The Pincio viewpoint offers a sweeping, open vista across Piazza del Popolo, with the sky turning a dusky, bruised violet. A lad was strumming a guitar on the grass. We sank down onto a low stone wall, without uttering a word.
The next day was an exact repeat. Alarm ignored. Luckily, we had pre-booked our tickets online for Musei Vaticani e Cappella Sistina for mid-morning. That meant braving the infamous 64 bus. I bought my €1.50 ticket from an automatic machine that took coins only and spat out a two-euro coin three times before finally deciding to keep it. The bus was ridiculously packed. Here too, hands stayed firmly clamped over trouser pockets. We got into the museums literally sprinting through the corridors to make up for lost time. Michelangelo's frescoes leave you speechless, though the relentless stream of visitors inside forces you into a slow, shuffling pace.
From there, we moved on to Basilica di San Pietro. Admission is free, but the queue for security under Bernini's colonnade was no joke. Beating sun, hot paving, and a solid forty-five minutes on our feet waiting for our turn. Once inside, the sheer scale of the church clears your mind completely. We paused before Michelangelo's Pietà and then wandered, gazing up at the dizzying height of the ceilings.
In the late afternoon, we stepped back outside and strolled over to Castel Sant'Angelo e Ponte Sant'Angelo. Hadrian's mausoleum turned papal fortress stands right over the Tevere. In the fading light, the statues of the angels along the bridge looked immense. The river below us flowed flat and brown.
Our final evening was spent in Rione Trastevere. A maze of medieval cobbled lanes and tiny piazzas where it was tough to squeeze through. Passing in front of the Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere, we were accosted by at least three different waiters trying to lure us inside, thrusting laminated menus with photos of the food in our faces. We'd read the advice to steer clear of that sort of spectacle to find genuine Roman cooking, so we kept walking with a shake of the head.
We had set our sights on the osteria Tonnarello on Via della Paglia. No bookings taken here, so we joined the queue on the pavement. Twenty minutes waiting, spent watching the waiters dart in and out with loaded trays. Inside was noisy, warm, and welcoming. We shared crisp carciofi alla giudia and tucked into Roman pasta dishes served straight from scratched little copper pans. Exhausted, Marco dropped his fork on the floor. The waiter swapped it instantly, telling him in a thick local accent that next time he'd charge us a two-euro fine for the bother. We wrapped up with their tiramisù made with Gentilini biscuits, scraping the bottom of the jar clean with our spoons.