Walked toward the Spanish steps for shopping
We ended up around that building we had seen from Palatine Hill
It was a hot day- if I came again, I would bring a little wooden fan to cool down with
All the musicians
All the hawkers
Shopping
Miserable McDonalds, packed, hot
Then H&M
Ate at a pasta place for lunch
Then gelato
Then metro home
Man sitting at the steps
Well dressed, slumped over and resting his eyes. At his feet was an empty pasta bowl and next to it a box of cards with Mary on them.
As I watched him, I wondered what his story was. What was he doing, did he do this every day? Did he make a living doing this? Is he financially stable?
Everyone has a story, just like all these hawkers. Whatever they came from, they would rather be on the streets of Rome selling selfie-sticks, roses, and bracelets. People look right through them. In that sense, I would think the No;s would be better than the stares that look right through you.
Anyway, I digress.
From there, we returned to our apartment where I took a fabulous almost-two-hour nappy-nap, and I woke up just in time for dinner. We returned to Al Tettarello Hostaria, where we were greeted by Ivory, the same young woman who welcomed us the day before. I stuffed myself full of foccacia bread, more pasta and then T and I split a cheesecake and cappuccino at the end. At the end, we said our goodbyes, and Ivory said, “See you next time,” and T replied, “Maybe in a couple years,” and she said, “Maybe with a baby then?” Her smile was so sweet, I couldn’t tell what prompted her to say that. I was happy for a second, since T and I are trying to have a baby that maybe it was a good omen. But then insecurity crept in, and I thought maybe she said that because she thought I was pregnant. I was upset with myself for letting a good natured comment make me sad.
Breakfast
Breakfast
Walked toward the Spanish steps for shopping
We ended up around that building we had seen from Palatine Hill
All the musicians
All the hawkers
Then H&M
Ate at a pasta place for lunch
Then gelato
Then metro home
Man sitting at the steps
Well dressed, slumped over and resting his eyes. At his feet was an empty pasta bowl and next to it a box of cards with Mary on them.
As I watched him, I wondered what his story was. What was he doing, did he do this every day? Did he make a living doing this? Is he financially stable?
Everyone has a story, just like all these hawkers. Whatever they came from, they would rather be on the streets of Rome selling selfie-sticks, roses, and bracelets. People look right through them. In that sense, I would think the No;s would be better than the stares that look right through you.
