Gelati Mafia

Maybe it was inevitable that we would love Rome. I mean it is the city of endless love is it not?

Wow look at me, I’ve only been travelling for 3 days and the two Londoners we met on friday night have already imparted their sentence structure with me! If I were at home, there is no way I would say ‘is it not’.

So this is what it means to travel eh? Getting cultured, even with cultures whose city you are not visiting. Because we are definitely not in London, and we are not chilling in the corners of Sydney’s northern beaches or even at a sorority dorm in Oregon state. We are in Rome. But even in Rome, I’m learning so much about these other places, the lives that are led there, and most importantly, how the corners of the world like to party.

We were convinced our first night would end with the bottle of Merlot, a drink chosen not merely for the ‘acquired’ taste it lent us, but more so, for its affordability divided by four. An €8 portion of Italian gold preceded the night that would see us watch the midnight stars twinkle on the sidewalk, endless nagging of the DJ to play Iggy Azalea one more time, and multiple attempts to have a twerk off with two American girls who had obviously practiced far more than us.

As the sun rose, we definitely didn’t, and I’m sure breakfast, lunch and the snacks in between merged into one big pancake at the downstairs bar of our hostel, just the remedy and antidote for a day of getting parched in the Colosseum, being devastated at the ‘under construction’ state of the Trevi Fountain, eating our body weight in Gelati samples, and aimlessly wandering through the cobbled streets which were so perfectly representative of the Rome I have imagined in my dreams.

Pasta was essential, and Gelati was absolutely vital before we headed back to the hostel and greeted by our new pals, – from about 4 minutes earlier – gallantly adorned with trays of jäger bombs and mojitos. Soon the bar top was our dance floor and instead of watching the stars, we were racing through the streets, singing Beyoncé lyrics to policemen and bringing in the next day with dawn chats on the balcony of a room that was certainly not ours.

Confessions of love by beautiful Italian boys, the most amazing salad you have ever had, leashed dogs wandering the aisles of H&M, more Vespas than you can count, merging our mattresses so we can imitate an ‘at home’ slumber party, lattes that cannot be “skinny”, and deeming it acceptable to walk around speaking to ourselves in our best, elongated and dramatic Italian pronunciation of every word. This is Rome. This is love.

Glad-iators, Colosseum.

Now to flirt with the Greek Gods.