We'd decided to taste La Dolce Vita en route to a congress in Vienna some years ago, but our trip got off to an inauspicious start when we had an extraordinarily complicated Western (spaghetti, naturally) inflicted on us "in-flight" by Alitalia.
By the time the few remaining participants had ridden off into the sunset, leaving the screen littered with bodies, we were already circling Rome airport.
After collecting our baggage and a few million lira, we repaired to the Leonardo da Vinci Hotel (where else?) to tackle some gargantuan sandwiches. Then we ventured out into the holocaust of rush-hour traffic to find man and machine locked in what appeared to be mortal combat.So what does one do about the Eternal City, where one cannot walk anywhere without stumbling over, onto, or under something of historical interest?
Throwing our guidebooks into the Tiber, we simply set off from our hotel in a different direction each morning. After three days, we'd "bagged" everything from the Colosseum to St Peters, fortified at frequent intervals by liberal supplies of pasta and vinho da casa, which invariably proved excellent, even in the humblest trattoria.
"We have come," remarked a Frenchman at the next table one night, "to gulp down culture." Along with thousands of other pilgrims, it seemed easiest simply to become engulped.The scenes in and around St Peters were, to say the least, unedifying. Guided tour trampled on the heels of guided tour, flashes popped and souvenirs changed hands, whilst, in the midst of it all, crumpled priests conducted interminable masses, and confessions were heard in innumerable little wooden boxes.
Any religious feelings one might have been trying to conjure up were completely extinguished in the Sistine Chapel, where literally hundreds of people were gallivanting around in a chaotic atmosphere, the only relationship to a church being some organ music struggling ineffectively to make itself heard above the general cacophony.
On a brighter note, we did witness one splendid Gallic outburst near a pedestrian crossing next to the Colosseum, where a Fiat had had an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation with a dozy Roman.
Driver and pedestrian, surrounded by an enthralled crowd, hurled abuse at one another in a superb display of controlled fury, until at last, exhausted by their own rhetoric, the protagonists peacefully went their separate ways.It was here that we came across a hapless stranger who had become separated from his party, and although we eventually succeeded in pointing him towards the right umbrella, he seemed to be programmed only to function under a guide's instructions. It was an alarming moment, and one wonders how many other lost souls are at large in Europe looking for their tours.
As Mrs Caesar said to Big Julie as he set off for the Coliseum that fateful night, "Don't go, Julie, don't go."
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