mi scuzzi – il conto, per favore…

I have had, I think, too much of Rome. Perhaps the kid in a candy store analogy was more appropriate than I thought – perhaps this is the morning after the binge, when I sit huddled in a corner shaking… convulsing. Praying for the passing.

Which is so very strange to me since I’d normally eat this all in and not feel wretched. I thought I would love the taste of Rome – all that rich, sumptuous history mixed with a hint of Mediterranean charm and a dash of that spicy Italian passion. Cooked over a gentle heat, served with a glass of red wine. Maybe an accordion gently folding in the background. I thought I would shut down the buffet, bust out the Kobayashi Shuffle and just keep going.

But something didn’t sit right.

It’s not all the history and architecture – that I love. It’s the city itself. Rome is dirty. I come back at the end of the day and rub my hands with soap and warm water and watch as the basin turns black – and I wonder whose blood it is that I now wash away. The romantic in me, perhaps – who loves the quaint and quiet villas, the candlelit dinners, the sound – at times – of silence.

New York City on a plate is what it is, and knows it is deliciously filling, and if you don’t like what you ordered then to hell with you, don’t come back. But Rome… Rome tries so hard to sell itself, with so much accordion garnish and “Ciao, Bella!” on the side that after a while you lose your appetite. And then you look around, and realize there are cigarette butts underfoot and the floor is scuffed black with heel-marks, and things creep and crawl in dark corners.

And the chef stands there smiling sardonically, hair-net in his back pocket, picking at his grease-stained nails.