If I'm to willing to leave Paris for the weekend to eat and look at art, chances are I'm going to Italy.
Taking a flight on Easyjet is easier than getting on and off a bus. You can book your ticket six months in advance and change the date and/or the city for 30 euros. As the woman at the makeup counter famously said to my mother: Can you afford not to?
We got off the plane and into a taxi bound for the Largo Argentina. Our hotel, Pensione Barrett was on the second floor of a large residential building not far from the Piazza Navona. It is, alas, by Roman standards, a bargain at 130 euros a night. The welcome was lovely; the husband speaks English, his wife speaks French. They gave us a list of local restaurants (no commission, they assured me) and a book of photographs showing various sites in Rome after the 1870 unification and today. The rooms were spotless and well equipped, though the décor might be described as late ritz-o-rama; they blew the budget on molding and terracotta angels. Our room had a view over the large (noisy) square, filled with the Roman ruins. As Gwendal was leaning out the window on Saturday morning he noticed an unusual number of cats lolling between the ancient columns. Turns out, the square and its ruins are an official cat sanctuary. There's even an international adoption program.
I am now an art historian who has been to Rome twice without visiting the Vatican. I'm holding out for no line. Apparently, you can organize a private after-hours visit for only 2,500 euros. Some people would spend it on a handbag. I'd like to lay on the floor of the Sistine Chapel without being trampled by the hordes. Do I have 30 friends?
So what did we do while we were not going to the Vatican? Well, we ate ice-cream. San Crispino's gelato is widely touted as the best in Rome.
It was fig and plum season during our visit, so my cup was filled with two contrasting pinks, a deeper shade for the plum and a pale speckled hue for the fig.
I'm a lover of markets. In every city I visit I try to get up early one morning (Saturday is best) and see where the locals buy their tomatoes -- in this case, the up-and-coming district of Testaccio. Italian markets, like the delis and bakeries, are much less pretentious then their French counterparts. There's very little stagecraft. They're happy to have you scoop one of 15 varieties of tomatoes -- big as softballs, small as marbles, green, yellow, red, ridged globes and delicate teardrops -- out of a cardboard box. A few streets over from the main market (Piazza Testaccio) we found more upscale affair, a small slow-food market. There were vendors selling truffles and organic olive oil. The bottles were prettier, the prices higher.
Some people are obsessed with monuments when they travel, I'm obsessed with lunch. I don't get much past breakfast before I start mapping out an appropriate path toward my restaurant of choice. Italy can be stressful this way. If you're not seated by 1:30pm (2pm is really pushing it), you may not eat. We walked by Felice a Testaccio at 12:15 to see if they had a table. The place was completely deserted. They took our name, and told us to come back in 15 minutes. As they seated us in the still empty room, we noticed 'reserved' signs on almost every table. Primi piatti were sublime -- homemade egg noodles with olive oil, black pepper and freshly grated pecorino romano cheese, mixed at the table. The waiter had a finely honed technique, turning the bowl in 45 degree rotations as he worked, his face as serious as a maestro marking a staccato rhythm. I had spinach ravioli, served piping hot with a chilled sauce of fresh mint, ricotta, and a touch of tomato. The secondi were equally toothsome -- Gwendal had the rosemary roast lamb, a house specialty; I had sautéed baby octopus with peas. Dessert was a single tiramisu with two spoons, the mascarpone tinted yellow with fresh egg yolk. By the time we left, every table was filled with boisterous families, waiters mixing pasta with clockwork precision. The bill, with a bottle of wine, came to 80 euros.
I did try to fit in a bit of art on Sunday between the 12pm and 1pm Mass. Two of Caravaggio's greatest works, The Martyrdom of St Peter and The Conversion of St Paul are in the church of Santa Maria del Popolo (Piazza del Popolo 12). Tourists waited patiently in the back while the congregation received communion. As the worshippers were filing in for the next service, I made my way to a darkened chapel on the left of the main alter. The small coin operated light switch seems to have been disconnected. Carravaggio is famous for his theatrical lighting, so I could just make out the torso of St Paul as he fell under the hoof of a placid workhorse.
We missed lunch, so the only solution was back to San Crispino for gelato -- this time Armagnac and Ginger.