I dared not take a shower. One look at the filth streaming over the bathroom floor solidified my conviction. The more time I spent away from this place the better. I gathered up both parts of my Osprey backpack and departed Hostel Costello Maggiore.
I had no idea what to do. I’d promised myself a day of rest, but suddenly I wanted adventure. Good fortune alluded me. I got trapped going the wrong way on the metro while trying to find the Appian way. I was viciously harassed by a petulant scammer on the way to my favourite pizzeria, and on arriving at the pizzeria I found it overrun with Italian school kids.
I took refuge at a pub and ordered a sweet beer called: Slalom Strong. (I assumed it was Italian, but have since learned it’s Scottish). The pub was dark and shabby, rather like the mood I was in.
Eventually the children cleared out and I went in for some pesto pizza, acquiring some small happiness… but not enough. I felt lost, lonely, bored and insecure. I missed Carlos. I still miss him even as I write this. I’m not sure how long I can realistically travel for when I get days like this. Maybe I should have stayed in London and kept my job? How am I ever going to find success, either in work or relationships if I’m traveling about aimlessly, wasting money and feeling sorry for myself? Feeling defeated and miserable, I left the pizzeria and bought a large bag of peanuts from Carrefour express, scoffing the lot. And this ridiculous decision cost me my enjoyment of the expensive dinner I had later on.
I hurried back to Hostel Costello Maggiore for some brief WIFI access. Zhumakhan – the guy from Kazakhstan – was in the entrance way, trying to decide whether he should spend another night in this dump. He seemed like he wanted to talk with me, but I didn’t have time. Shortly after my arrival in Rome, I received an Instagram message from Charis – an old colleague of mine from Waterstones in the U.K. She said I simply must visit a restaurant called Trattoria Vecchia Roma. So tonight I was taking up her advice
The restaurant was easy to get to – thank the gods. I was queuing outside before it even opened. But – though I’ve done it before – dining out solo still intimidates me. I felt embarrassed for no good reason, and this was only exacerbated when a waiter questioned whether I was waiting for anyone after I had already requested a table for 1.
The restaurant was underground and very well kept. Chunky slices of bread in brown paper bags were set on all the tables. ½ a litre of house white wine cost me only 4 euros. For a restaurant like Trattoria Vecchia, this was indeed a bargain. Pouring myself wine from my own personal jug was perhaps the greatest pleasure at Trattoria Vecchia. That is not to say the food was less than excellent. The fettuccini salmon pistachio pesto emanated taste like no salmon pasta dish I’ve had before it. The taste of salmon was one with the fettuccini. It was top notch stuff, and the portion was decent too. The problem was that those peanuts had ruined me. I simply wasn’t hungry. When I think about how carefully I need to budget – how I can’t really afford to go out for another meal in Rome after this – it really is quite tragic that I didn’t go to that place on an empty stomach.
I was rushed out of the restaurant like I all too often am when dining alone. For the first time ever in a restaurant, my starter was taken from me by the waiters before I was able to finish it. They brought my main down and whisked away my starter while I was distracted with my phone. The bastards. I was too flustered and embarrassed to argue with them. They did not add any service charge to my meal and nor did they seem to expect me to pay any. Good thing too because I wouldn’t have paid it. They didn’t even let me finish my ½ litre of wine before pressuring me to pay the bill.
It was telling, that when I stood up to leave, I suddenly began discovering the room around me, the ceiling, the colour of the walls, the nearby tables. There was so much to look at and admire about the cosy place, and yet I had kept my head down this entire time – like I was ashamed to be dining alone. I left the restaurant feeling empty, despite the fact my stomach was full to bursting, and walked back to the accursed Hostel Maggiore which I swore I would not stay in another night.
Zhumakhan was gone when I arrived back. Hopefully to more hospitable accommodation. I’ve booked what I believe will be a much better hostel for the remainder of my time in Rome. I can’t say I like it here in Rome. When I leave this city, I don’t know if I’ll ever return…
