When in Rome..

We spent the weekend in Rome, working at a party which was held in the Cinecitta Film studios, formerly the haunt of Fellini  and other renowned Italian film makers, still known as one of the most famous film studios in Europe. The event was held on the set of the HBO TV series Rome and looked every bit as authentic as the real thing, with villas and courtyards, just like ancient Rome, until you leant on a pillar and realised it was made of fibreglass. 

I am certain that Fellini would have never ventured anywhere near the hotel we had the misfortune to stay in. It’s highly possible that  at one time it was indeed a bustling family run establishment,  full of crew propping up the bar , seeing as it was literally around the corner from the studio. Unfortunately the only reason I could see for staying there this weekend was that it was there, though that also feels a little flimsy. As soon as the automatic doors opened,  you could smell the despair, mingled with cleaning fluid and cheap air freshner, the reception bar sticky and slightly chipped, the brash walnut veneer inside the lift smeared and greasy.

The bedrooms were similar to a waiting room in a funeral parlour,  and they had taken the  term ” mood lighting”to a new level by having the lampshades on upside down to enhance the general air of gloom. Then again, there are benefits to not being able to see too clearly at certain moments in life.  

Each room had three beds, probably because they were mostly broken and nobody could be bothered to lug them down the stairs to the skip, so by a process of elimination the chances were that one out of the three might be better than sleeping on the marble floor. The beds at least had sheets ( that smelt of stale tobacco, always a winner in my book) and one thin mean blanket.I am certain that either something had died under my bed,  or a travelling salesman had left in a hurry, leaving behind a large over ripe piece of cheese,  as something wasn’t right in the olfactory department. I was able to rectify this a bit by spraying  copious amounts of Jo Malone on to my scarf and wrapping it round my head which though effective,  didnt make for a good nights sleep as it felt a little like sleep by strangulation. 

Instead of towels,  they had provided what can only be described as tablecloths, possibly relics from when the hotel had a dining room. You can only applaud their dedication to re-cycling.  The bathrooms could I suppose be referred to as ” en suite” but that was more because they were actually in the next room,  rather than that any of the appliances actually  worked. Yes, we had hot water and the option to have hot water coming out of a shower, but unfortunately the fixed shower head was just not playing ball,  so that despite gymnastic attempts, the water ran down the back wall rather than over your body. 

Breakfast took things to a new level of culinary prowess. Previously we had eaten dinner in the restaurant next door, which to be fair and despite having the atmosphere of a neighbourhood housing office,  served delicious pizza, fresh pasta and great salads. However this did not extend to breakfast. This was plonked on to a tray and shoved through a serving hatch at us by dishevelled cook in a greasy shirt. This included a frightening assortment of pink meat, a curling sweaty sliver of processed cheese, one stale slice of bread, a day old pastry,  and a packet of radio active coloured fruit jam. All washed down with some foamy soapy coffee from a machine that had lost the will to live. 

The benefit of this  situation meant that, keen to escape, we were up very early and caught the tube into central Rome. There we joined the throngs of tourists at the Trevi fountain (astonishingly bonkers and must drive the neighbours mad ), saw breathtaking churches,the air thick with incense, street lights, carvings, shrines and tiny balconies, hidden courtyard gardens with  fountains and lemon trees visible through doorways, cloud like trees and tall thin poplars. We wandered up and down the cobbled streets, stopping for Espressos and piping hot toasted spinach and cheese sandwiches. 

It was a tiny glimpse, and  I plan  to return. To see the Vatican and the Colloseum, the track where they used to race their horses, the Medici villas, the markets and to walk along the river. The back street bits away from the crowds that you only find because you happen to walk down them. It felt very Italian with shouting and gesticulating, Vestas jostling amongst tiny Fiats, monks with shopping bags, and policemen in grey uniforms and jodhpurs, the smell of roasting chestnuts on every corner. 

Italy. Europe. A place I feel part of. And a place that I think we should stay part of. 

Arrivederci