ROME WITH A 15 YEAR-OLD GLAMOUR-PUSS
Rome with a 15 Year-Old Glamour-Puss - Luxury Travel Magazine
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Rome with a 15 Year-Old Glamour-Puss | |||||
| By: Jennifer Stevenson, Issue 36 – Spring 2008 | |||||
| (Rome, Italy) | |||||
| WHAT COULD BE WORSE THAN VENICE WITH AN ART-RESISTANT 13-YEAR-OLD, OR PARIS WITH A SHOPPING-MAD 14-YEAR-OLD? IT COULD BE ROME WITH A BOY-CRAZY 15-YEAR-OLD WHO’S DETERMINED TO SCORE BAD-GIRL SHOES AND A CUTE ITALIAN BOY FOR HER BIRTHDAY. | |||||
| In our ongoing mother-daughter exploration of the cultural capitals of Europe (so many cities, so little shopping time) I wasn’t hugely looking forward to Rome. I assumed bag-snatchers, insane traffic and a Trevi fountain as enticing as Piccadilly Circus. But from our first late-night taxi whirl past the floodlit marble extravaganza of the Vittorio Emanuele Monument, we were completely hooked. Rome is so engagingly compact. A gentle amble from our hotel in Trastevere across the nearest bridge, and we were in the Centro Storico. A half-hour stroll in spring sunshine along the deserted riverside walk by the Tiber and we were at the Vatican. Wander down the steps from the Campidoglio to get your bearings, and good lord, the Colosseum is right there at the end of the Fori Imperiali. For five days Harriet and I walked, shopped, walked some more. We overdosed on painting and sculpture, tripped over fragments of ancient columns stacked up at the roadside, snickered at the dressed-up gladiators outside the Colosseum (not Russell Crowe look-a-likes). We taste-tested handmade gelati the length and breadth of the old city, were shocked to discover that the Pope does not have a balcony (big window, no balcony), and were thrilled to find that the Sistine Chapel was every bit as amazing as the build-up. A 14-going-on-15 year-old can have an astonishing and generous capacity for art. (Though Harriet had rather less enthusiasm for the disjointed remains of ancient Rome scattered around the Forum. Maybe they’re more of a boy thing.) So long as each day has a roughly equal mix, we don’t come to grief. Thankfully, Italian shops stay open well into the evening, for after we’ve had a chance to rest gallery-weary legs. We each get to choose what we see, which makes it somewhat dependent on who’s done their guidebook research and who’s been reading Hello! magazine. The Capitoline Museums were great. The statue of Marcus Aurelius on horseback – truly impressive. Loved the giant fragments of sculpture, Big Foot and Big Pointing Hand (don’t-miss photo opportunities). The Vatican Museum was so fabulous we went twice. The Raphael tapestries were as much of a wow as Nero’s grandiose marble bath on legs. (You could fit 12 people in it. And he did.) We had agreed we’d treat ourselves to an English-speaking tour guide and it was a top idea: someone has to make the selection for you from this palace of riches. And it was great to get a knowledgeable briefing on the Sistine Chapel before we went inside (queue-jumping the unaccompanied proletariat). Harriet was very strict about enforcing the no-talking rule in a place of worship. The catacombs at San Sebastiano were my choice – no actual skeletons, but spookily atmospheric tunnels. (I do love a religious relic, and the church of San Sebastiano boasts a fragment of one of The Actual Arrows that pin-cushioned the martyr.) Riding a motorised ‘riccio’ bike-for-two in the park of the Villa Borghese was Harriet’s idea. All I’ll say is watch out going sideways down a grassy slope: the canopy makes it a mite top-heavy. There was plenty of shopping, but the teenager’s budget was best spent in the markets, and in little boutiques in the backstreets around Via Monserrato. We did cruise the Via Condotti, pretending to choose sunglasses at Gucci, and selecting the sandals we would buy if we could at Prada. It was a buzzy, designer carrier-bag-toting passeggiata. Fabulously and fortunately, Rome’s streets put paid to the idea of truly ridiculous stilettos. It soon became clear that Italian men are used as essential props for their girlfriends teetering over the cobbles. Hanging onto your mother’s arm is not quite boy-magnet behaviour. And the cocktail bar Harriet earmarked in the guidebook for her birthday celebration had closed down. Thank god. Scoring a Prada knock-off handbag from a charmingly flirty Algerian at the Trastevere night market seemed to be ample compensation. As for boys: we didn’t get bottom-pinched (or at least I didn’t), but my daughter claims she scored a double-eyebrow-raise on the Ponte Sant’ Angelo. The cutest guys we encountered were the gay couple that asked us to take their photo outside the Colosseum. Oh, and the priests featured in the arty black-and white calendar we bought from a souvenir shop just round the corner from Saint Peter’s. A sexy seminarian for each month, with bonus historical notes on the Vatican. My favourite is smouldering Padre Aprile. We bought up their entire stock. | |||||
| Mother-daughter tourist tips | |||||
| I used to book hotels close to the sights, but we now know that we prefer to have a range of good restaurants within walking distance in the evening. The restaurant district of Trastevere suited us perfectly: lots of life, but not too rowdy. Late February was a gorgeous time to visit: early Spring, not busy, jackets on a couple of days, otherwise pashminas and gelati. For example, only two hours’ wait for an entry slot at the Villa Borghese. (In peak tourist season it’s best to book entry in advance via www.rome-museum.com). We’ve learnt by experience that it can be utterly exhausting following the audio guide from a-z past every picture in a gallery. We definitely get the audio guides for sights like the Colosseum (for a bit of gossipy fun). You always need a form of identity for audio guide hire in Rome, but I wasn’t keen to carry my passport. They were all happy to hold a credit card instead. Our tour guide at the Vatican was Anthony: informative and witty, via Susan Federico at Sfederico13@aol.com (25 euros for adults, 20 euros for students, plus admission charges). We adored our Inside Out PopOut map book (A$6.95), with two nifty maps of the city, plus fold-out compass (which we actually used). Much neater than unwieldy tourist maps. | |||||
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