Sometimes

Sometimes I want to sell up and move to an apartment in central Rome.

I will drink strong coffees that are made and served with gusto.

I’ll wander the historical parts of the city, feeling no compulsion to pay entry fees to the Colosseum but knowing that I could if I wanted to. Sometimes I would linger, other times I’d move on.

No agenda.

On oppressively hot days I’d spontaneously buy gelati, licking it slowly as we wander. I’d probably buy pistachio flavour but happy to try others on a whim.

We – because I’d naturally be with my beautiful companion – would select outdoor seating at a shady café around lunchtime. There would be red, green, and white colors adorning the façade of the ristorante. We wouldn’t agonize over which pizza to order because they would all be gastronomic joys, punching out flavors new to us, oils slowly coating our hands while we fold the warm slices, one after the other.

I would drink an icy beer, perhaps two if I’m feeling particularly loose. It would be Italian beer, Peroni or something similar, and we would only buy the tall bottles. We would not waste time with small glasses.

We’d then stand, pay, tip a modest amount, and stagger off into the bright haze feeling slightly damaged but content.

Other days we would leave the built-up area of the city and cruise around in the hills surrounding Rome. We will be driving a small rental car, probably a Fiat 500. We’d wander through lush verdant vegetation in Etruscan ruins, so commonplace that there are no other tourists and no fees to pay. We would inexplicably end up in Sutri, a town that we have not heard of, a town of ancient ruins, notably an ampitheatre and caves used as tombs.

It will, of course, be a hot day. We slug down some crystal-clear water, letting it roll down our shirt fronts, as we wander off the beaten track into bushland. The orange clay is slippery after rain and the scent of mud reminds us of what we have been missing in our safe sterile lives. A lean-to we stumble across, almost entirely hidden in the lush greenery, makes us both shudder. There is an air of evil here. Somebody is watching us, perhaps …

We feign nonchalance and quickly stride away, hairs prickling on the backs of our necks.

Before heading back to our modest apartment, we pause in a small village where all the buildings are constructed of clean stone. There are window boxes and huge terracotta pots everywhere, overflowing with vivid red geraniums and roses. The scent of hot roses assails us. Even the rotting scent of roses past their best is welcome.

It reminds us that we are alive, a precious thing surely.

An easy thing to forget in our ‘regular’ 21st century lives back in Australia.

A life of comfort, to be sure, but so often sterile and driven by deadlines and logic.

These houses are shuttered, the shutters painted in bright primary colors or chocolate browns. The shutters are closed. It is siesta time. It feels as if only mad Australians are wandering in the heat of the day.

A striped ginger cat sprawling across some stone stairs eyes us suspiciously but lazily.

We arrive back at our apartment and park the Fiat 500 in a side alley, bumper almost touching the car in front.

We now know that nobody cares how we park.

We are soon making love, then dozing on the large bed. It is late afternoon, and the sun still shines, but without the intensity which it earlier had. The muted sounds of the city below creep up to us on our 4th floor – shouts, horns, laughter.

We doze.

And doze some more.

Sometimes this is what I think that I would really like to do.

Sometimes.