Our Airb&b has no hot water. Coming from a a drought, we are quite used to showering very quickly in cold water. Yet, after a long haul flight and 37 degrees, I crave a hot shower. Our landlord’s mother is here to help. And itranslate. She speaks a bit fast for the app but it helps tremendously. At first we think that the fancy Italian taps are too clever for us. Then I think maybe we are just too water conscious and not letting it run long enough to get warm. Then I am convinced that the buiders next door (who started very early this morning with angle grinders – the story of my life who those who have read my Portuguese blog) have severed a pipe. Eventually we give up, call Mama who calls a plumber to come and help. There is indeed a problem with the gas geyser according to the friendly plumber and itranslate.

I take a stroll to find breakfast goodies. The plumbers are very busy. Eventually just before 12h00 we can leave with knowledge that we have hot water. By this time, my nerves are shattered from taps running and gallons of water going down the drain. Suddenly I wonder where Rome gets all its water from – I am acutely aware of the many water fountains running non-stop. Surely this is not good?

So today we are taking a bus into town, as Victor’s heal is not happy. Another app (moovit) directs us to the bus stop, where we wait for nr. 75. A not so friendly bus driver informs us that he does not sell bus tickets on the bus. WHT? So we jump off, make for the nearest tabac shop and buy tickets. Back to the bus stop – waiting for te next one. It is hot. Very hot… Eventually we get the bus and make our way to the Palantine Hill. The Roman Forum, Colloseum and Palantine Hill make us realise why we had to come back to Rome. It is overwhelmingly fascinating. 756 BC these roads were built. Layer upon layer of history is being exposed to reveal sophisticated life, water cooling systems and political systems that make us in 2017 look the barbarians that we are. The House Livia, and Romulus. Temple upon magnificent temple. On the Palantine Hill we lie in the the shade of Stone Pines, possibly one of my most favourite trees. I fall asleep with the drone of scooters in the distance…

What is it about Rome? Now that we are rested, the history and splendour of the city seeps through the cobblestones. Ice cream shops and hairdressers (I am always astounded at the number of hairdressers and pharmacies), side walk cafes and pet shops. Cathedrals and fountains. Trevi. Crystal clear water gushing over white stone – could it be marble? Sculptures of horses and gods and cherubs blazing in the afternoon sun. And thousands of tourists with selfie sticks. Oh my word. When we were here way back in 2003 the selfie stick was not yet invented. We politely asked strangers to take our picture. Now, the bloody protruding stick with a cellphone attached to its end sticks out into nowhere, poking out eyes and obstructing passage. There is an obsession with this gadget, to catch yet another fake smile in front of yet another tourist attraction. We find a seat at the fountain (made famous in La Dolce Vita before any of the selfie stick wielding fake smile idiots were born) and entertain ourselves with the spectacle of the human species trying to catch themselves in the best possible pose with a selfie stick.  It would have been hillarious if it was not so tragically sad. This narcissistic habit of self portrayal in every possible position and pose is an indictment of how self obsessed we have become. A generation of people who are trapped in their own portrait, not seeing the world around them, not being able to just inhale the beauty without plastering their own grimace over it. 

Eventually we strole away towards the Spanish Steps. And it is here that we encounter the peach. No wait, it is here that I encounter a peach for the first time in my life. A simple street vendor selling his fruits, nothing spectacular. Just a blushing red peach. I bite into a sensual, juicy, sweet sensation that dreams are made of. If ever I had to fantasise about a peach should taste like, this would be it. It conjurs up suggestions of paradise, of the first fruit. Of flavours so strong that one cannot believe mature producing it. A nostalgia of something so real, so fresh, so godly, that I can hardly believe it is happening. I check with Victor – is it just me, or is this possibly the most incredible taste sensation ever related to a peach. I am not alone, thank foodness. It truly is phenomenal. Why is this? Why – in sunny South Africa, with the most wonderful soil and mountain air, can we not produce fruit like this? I think back of the figs in Portugal, and the strawberries in London. I remember biting into a plump purple fig knowing that I have never tasted anything like it in my life. Maybe THAT is what happened in paradise. Maybe they were only used to Woolworths’ tasteless, bland, floury apples. And when they picked this gift from nature…… Well the rest is history. I would also drop everything I have learnt to seek out this fruit. (And remember – I do not particularly like fruit!!). This would convert me. A simple peach. Tomorrow I will have to try a pear. And then an apple. You might never see me again…

In Trastever we land at a sidewalk cafe just as the daily passagio starts – families strolling along the streets enjoying the evening out. Loads of them – three and four generations – strolling along the cobbled streets. Talking (a lot), laughing, just being. We have a “spritzer” and watch the world go by, family after family, Connected. Young and old, all together. This is how it should be. 

Our stroll/struggle up the hundreds of steps back to our apartment is particularly strenuous after two cocktails and a day in the sun. A hot shower and fresh clothes prepares us for our evening meal…..