What Made Me Think of Rome?
I can’t quite remember when the thought of Rome first crept in, but I remember exactly where it happened. I was on a flight from Melbourne to Sydney, watching the flat fields of Victoria slip away beneath us. As the plane climbed, I looked out at the rolling hills on the horizon—and, for some reason, I thought of Rome. The Seven Hills. The Eternal City.
I imagined wandering its ancient streets, soaking in art, architecture, and centuries of history. I pictured myself eating pizza and pasta, sipping espresso at little corner bars. I tucked the thought away, saving it for another time.
Since then, I’ve travelled elsewhere. But this time, the thought of Rome wouldn’t be ignored. The Seven Hills were calling. So I left a cold, wet Sydney behind on an early morning flight bound for Italy.
Before leaving, I impulsively booked a three-hour Vespa sidecar tour through the city. I didn’t pause to think whether it was a good idea. Before I’d even paid, I was telling anyone who’d listen: I’m doing this. That’s how excited I was. And the tour didn’t disappoint.
I left my hostel early and wandered through the streets to the meeting point. Of course, I stopped on the way—for a café latte and a tiny pistachio cannoli at a small bar. Maybe it was the warm sun on my back, maybe it was the friendly “prego!” from the smiling waiters, or maybe it was just Rome itself—but that coffee tasted like the best I’d ever had. The cannoli wasn’t bad either.
At the meeting point, a gleaming pistachio-green Vespa with a sidecar rolled up. The driver introduced himself as Roberto. With limited English but great warmth, he asked if I wanted a coffee while we waited. He brought me to a little machine nearby, proudly explaining—in Italian—how it grinds real beans fresh for every cup. A macchiato from the macchina.
Soon, two more Vespas pulled up with four friendly American tourists. Our guide, Manuel, was a passionate Roman with a gift for storytelling—mixing history with humour, facts with folklore, and always a personal touch.
For three hours we zipped through Rome, stopping at iconic landmarks and Manuel’s personal favourites. I couldn’t stop smiling—or waving. I waved at people crossing the road, on the footpath, in passing cars. They all smiled and waved back. A small dog barked; I barked back, grinning. It felt like the entire city was reflecting my joy.
At midday, we reached Piazzale Garibaldi for the daily cannon firing. But it wasn’t the only loud bang. It turned out to be the last day of school, and the streets were full of laughing kids letting off fireworks, dousing each other with shaving cream, and firing water pistols. Once I stopped jumping at every explosion, I couldn’t help but laugh too.
As the tour wound down, Manuel asked where I wanted to be dropped off. I didn’t really want it to end, but he suggested Piazza Navona. I agreed—fairly certain I hadn’t been there during my last visit 20 years ago.
I thanked the delightful Roberto and wandered into the sunlit piazza. I lingered in the heat before sitting down with a cold Peroni and a classic Pizza Margherita.
Ah, Rome. La dolce vita.
The seat of my pants 