Rome’s Dirty Secret

I look back to my time in Rome with nostalgia. Of the four cities I love, it swaps in and out of the top spot with the changing of my mood. Because I live here, and ours is a love affair of daily interaction, New York does not get a rank. I love Paris, because she is like an old friend that you haven’t visited as much as you should, but when you catch up, it is exactly where you left off. She is elegant and romantic, but she is always third. London is a sister city to New York. It’s an older, more architecturally interesting city, but the energy is the same. Sometimes I long for London as much as I do New York when I’m away. But Rome — Rome is Rome. A bit grittier, a bit more coarse and earthy, Rome is about the senses. It’s the quick shot of espresso served properly and in a proper vessel; as fast as Starbuck’s, but imbued with centuries of tradition. It’s walking across the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the morning sun turning Bernini’s alabaster sculptures bright white against the cerulean sky. It’s the cheers erupting through windows as AS Roma defeats rival A.C. Milan. And it’s the pleasure of a cocktail and snacks with friends in Piazza Navona followed later by crossing the river for a late dinner in Trastevere that champions the current season’s ingredients. The city is the embodiment of passion.