Andiamo, Andiamo

Here we go again—eating too much, drinking too much and having way more fun than supposedly senior citizens should be allowed.

Our 3 days in Rome are a blur except, of course, for the 3 wonderful meals we had each night at favorite restaurants. First, Da Poeta in Trastevere, our old neighborhood, for perfect thin crust pizza forno al legno. Then, fresh fish at the always crowded Le Mani in Pasta, another Trastevere culinary landmark and, finally, Roscioli or as Steve calls it “the deli”—Famous should only look and taste so good!—for an incredible bottle of Brunello di Montipulciano and a seleczione of proscuitti and salami and fromaggio.

Now we are in Naples. The city is wild—chaotic as one guide book aptly states—noisy and full of people who look they come from central casting for an Italian movie in the 50’s. Chubby bambini running around the piazzas; ragazzi in jeans and tee shirts—the boys with lots of hair gel and the girls with tons of make up (I don’t believe you are allowed in public without dark black eyeliner and several coats of mascara.)--flirting and fooling around; stout little nonnas clutching each other and their shopping bags are all crowding the narrow streets and somehow avoiding getting killed by the scores of motorbikes zooming by in every direction. (Crossing the street here is an exercise in wishful thinking. You walk across slowly but steadily trusting that the drivers racing along the street will see you and not hit you. So far it’s worked.)

Admittedly, the city is filthy—graffiti everywhere, trash bins overflowing and every building seems to be in some stage of decay with weeds growing out of cornices and paint peeling off the walls. Despite the noise and the chaos, Steve and I feel perfectly comfortable and safe. It is like walking through a blown up version of South Philly with everyone gesticulating wildly and talking loudly.

Last night for dinner we walked around the corner from our hotel to Osteria da Carmela. Carmela turned out to be an tiny but energetic woman around my age dressed like a punk rocker in a low cut summer dress accessorized with black tights and motorcycle boots. Her bright red hair was as short as Steve’s except for a single long pig tail that reached down to the middle of her back. It was just Carmela and one other cook in the tiny kitchen but they whipped out an incredible meal—pasta with fresh porcini mushrooms (in season now!!) and cuttlefish, fried anchovies, Steve’s fave, and sautéed tiny clams (so sweet) served on a bed of chopped croutons perfect for sopping up the delicious sauce. The restaurant was full of regulars; we were the only strangers but afterwards we went back to the kitchen to thank Carmela for our meal.