Trattoria der Pallaro (that's what it says)

If you've ever been to a restaurant with me, you'll know I'm about as decisive in my menu choices as this picture is in focus. You also might recall me casually asking you what you were ordering, then whining, "Oh, that's what I was going to get" (I wasn't), and then ordering it before you. I don't know what it is, but I'm really not good at ordering food.

So you can imagine my relief at the news that this trattoria in Rome didn't have a menu. They didn't ask what we wanted, they didn't even tell us what we were going to get, they just brought out course after course until we were full. It was a family-run place, and the food was uncomplicated and delicious: lots of olives, parma ham, lentils, tomatoes with olive oil and rock salt, home-made potato chips, pasta, nectarines, custard tart - this list would go on if I could remember.

Why can't all restaurants be like this? I can't remember a meal I had out that involved so little anxiety.

Rome: Part 1

Rome: an excellent city, made more excellent by the fact that many Italians had left town on holiday, and made less excellent by the fact that it was as hot as the bright side of the moon outside. I mean it was hot. Shelley and I slept in a dorm room (fools!) with no air-conditioning, and eight other heat-generating bodies. Why so stupid?

On the second night I awoke (for the sixth time) to find that I had literally run out of dry places to sleep. I mean it was all wet (yes with sweat), and not in a refreshing way. When I returned to my bed at around 2PM the following day it was still wet. Rome needs to learn how to evaporate, I mean that was just silly.

Still, the insane heat was off-set by excellent gelato, and the refreshingly cold mountain-water fountains dotted around the city. That water was goood. And free. Thank you mountains.


Anyway, on the first day we found our way to the Colosseum, and bought tickets to go inside with a long-winded tour guide. The tickets were a few euros extra, but this way you got to skip the 100 metre line to get in. Crafty.

Soon after entering the Colosseum you come across this:


It was apparently engraved there after the fall of Rome by pimps and/or their prostitutes, to communicate to patrons that this was "where it's at". Sadly, both Gerrod and I missed the whole picture, and (as evidenced by Gerrod's photo) only saw a pair of breasts ... which I thought was quite ambiguous - could have been a 'W' for all we knew.


Anyway, now we know.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

While in Rome we paid a visit to the Spanish Steps, that place where beautiful people go to be seen. Such was the vibe of the place that Gerrod tried to coax the three of us into some supermodel poses while we walked down the steps. Kristy and I quietly declined; Shelley was just waiting for someone to suggest it.