It was my last dash, last hurrah, last cheap Ryanair flight and last time leaving my apartment at some ungodly hour to be teleported to a foreign land.
I would like to take this moment to thank you for your outstanding weather, June. Seriously, I appreciate it.
It was around thirty degrees when I arrived at Ciampino airport and hopped on a shuttle bus to Termini station. I found my way to Via Cavour, leading to the Colosseum, with the help of a friendly Roman who only very gently asked me to join him for a coffee, graciously sending my on my way when I refused. What happened to the slimy, aggressive men here I'd heard so much about?
I had my first gelato, a mango and cherry combo, at Flor before heading into the Colosseum. It melted within five seconds and covered my hand and my phone in gooey ice cream but it was oh so worth it.
There is nothing comparable to standing inside a building built nearly two thousand years ago, walking within its walls and staring up at where the azure sky met the crumbling, yet somehow amazingly preserved, ruins.
I spent hours lugging my backpack around under the thirty-plus degree sun, exploring the never ending ruins of Palatine Hill and the Roman Forum.
After locating a meal of pasta and some strange egg-based mffin-shaped savoury cake, I made my way to the Trevi fountain. After getting lost once and hiking up innumerable hills beneath the relentless sun, I found that the iconic monument had been dried up and closed off by thick metal gates. Disappointment!
The situation repeated itself as I found the Spanish Steps. These were the one monument my dad told me I had to visit, as he had spent his youthful travels through rome with his buddies and a bottle of wine on the wide staircase overlooking Piazza di Spagna. The steps were beautiful against the now sinking sun, but the church at the top was covered in scaffolding.
I was staying at Plus Camping Roma, a little camping village in Aurelia. It's about a 20 minute drive from the Vatican and yet as I exited the metro station, I felt as if I was in a Parisian suburb. Unable to locate my bus stop despite the directions given by the campsite's website, I asked two doctors having a smoke outside their clinic. They asked the two women waiting at the bus stop, who consulted their iPhones. I was shocked by the locals' willingness to help me, and when I expressed my surprised gratitude, they responded with an enthusiastic "This is Italia!!!" I told them that I come from Paris and this would never happen there, and they agreed with a solemn shake of their heads. They managed to find my bus stop, walked me there, and asked a bus driver if he knew where the campsite was. He assured us that yes, we needed to grab the 247 to Aurelia, and they walked with me to the bus with this number. There, they told the bus driver that I was trying to get to the campsite and made sure I knew which stop to get off at. There was much gratitude and enthusiastic ciaos exchanged as I pulled away from the station. I will never forget these women.
My campsite was better than expected, after waiting in a half hour line to check in. It was complete with a restaurant, a general store, laundry, and washroom/shower building. I was staying in the tent village (there were also RV parks, individual campsites, bungalows, and chalets.) My tent was a permanent yurt-like canvas structure, and I was pleasantly surprised to find it even had electrical outlets and beds complete with a comfy quilt, soft pillow, and clean linen.
My british room mates were very friendly, and I took a long shower before drifting off to sleep after the exhaustion of the day, before heading to the Vatican the next morning.
Love always,
Coral
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