HOW TO TURN THIRTY IN ROME
If you've been wondering what the best way to turn 30 in Rome is, fear not: you're just a few simple steps away from finding out. I promise the steps are fail-safe, foolproof and as easy as falling off a log:
1. IDENTIFY YOUR SUPPORT TEAM
Note: This means the people who will see you into the new decade. Choose wisely, this is no trifling matter. It should be those who show up quickly in good times and quicker in hard times but also -and more crucially-, they should a part of who you actually are, of the identity you’d be happy and proud to carry with you into your third decade. Yes, your identity, so look around you, the quality of your relationships and the nature of the people you surround yourself with is the quality of your life and, ultimately, a reflection of your own essence, of who you are as a person. Basically, your team should be the epitome of this.
My experience:
I didn't choose the team, it chose itself. We were all attending a wedding in the south of Italy, so going to Rome for a few more days of celebration afterwards seemed like a natural extension of the trip.
Here's who:
D.: I sometimes forget I’m black.
MU: Yeah, I sometimes look at myself in the mirror and I’m like ‘Oh yeah, I’m Asian!'
VICKY: What? I never forget… -but what am I?
D.: [eyes rolling] I never heard a caucasian say that… Vicky, you’re white.
It's a solid, we-will-hold-the-phone-up-to-our-faces-with-a-tireless-hand-for-an-entire-six-hour-video-call team. If you’re not yet thirty and any of the following sounds familiar, you’ve probably already identified your own.
It may sometimes appear as though people come together the way they do by mere luck and chance or coincidence, but that couldn’t be further away from actual truth. In the same way that we sometimes drift away from some people -not necessarily because we don’t love them anymore but because they just stop being part of who we are, of what represents us and of what makes us grow- in the same way, we are drawn to other people. People are brought together (or they are made to grow apart) by a stronger force than that of randomly shifting life circumstances and events. There are often conspiratory energies at work (our own!) weaving the path. So it happens that people meet and they sometimes realise that they bounce off each other - and this trio is a case in point. Whatever it is -a conversation, a night out, a dance around the house or a day trip-, things we do together never result in nothing, because once they are set in motion, the energy ripples out and it goes one, two, three. Some kind of development always happens as a result.
D., Mu and I were each born and bred in different corners of the planet -quite literally- and so come from different backgrounds and ways of going about life. We've come together in Ireland, England and Italy, but we’ve never all lived in the same city at the same time. In the present, each is in a different time zone and for the past three years we've only met in cyberspace. Recalling the details of past weekends of shenanigans and laughing at them continues to be an implicit little ritual we go through every time we talk. The laughter cascades down the. This is an essential point to consider when you're choosing your team, especially if what you laugh at most of the time is yourselves.
(Read on for an extended version of step 1 or jump ahead to step 2.)
D. and I initially shied away from one another when she first moved in (we met as flatmates in Ireland), but we eventually bonded over cups of tea and talks in the lounge, a shared need to find a family away from home, a love of Dublin, nights out together and lengthy walks. D. and Mu met at home in London and bonded over their love of God (they used to attend the same church) and their love of Disney (they sang a song from Mulan a cappella together at a mutual friend's the day they met). I came into the picture three or four years later. Mu and I bonded over our love of food and the contempt we feel for the world when we’re hungry. D. is basically the glue keeping us together. She carries snacks in her bag for when Mu and I go silent, as she knows what this means before we realise ourselves. Also, the foundations of our self-esteem may prove to be less solid than hers, as they sometimes need scaffolding, a time when D. usually comes to the rescue.
Being an animation artist, D. is a very visual person and this, paired with an appallingly bad memory for names, means she'll name people something she can remember by looking at them or evoking a mental picture of them. 'Tea Guy' was a friend of mine she saw for the first time while he was sipping tea and 'Chocolate Guy' was another friend who brought us chocolate to the house once. Mu herself is not called 'Mu'. D. named her after Mulan the day they met. C. (for that's her real name) became 'Mu' to anyone she met through D., like me, I've never called her anything else. I got renamed too, of course. One day D. went down the long isle of a busy fitting room in a shopping centre looking for me and calling out: BIG BUM! big bum! BIG BUM! This evolved into 'Blue Bum' after a particular Halloween when I dressed up as Avatar and covered myself in blue body paint -not that you could see my bum! and I didn't paint it blue, either.
None of this is a joke, nor does she mean it as one because she simply and plainly doesn't get jokes, (nor sarcasm for that matter). She's quirky and sometimes even naïve or impossibly otherworldly in her ways and ideas, which will baffle strangers and amuse friends. One morning at home after a night out she came to me looking genuinely uncomfortable like her shoes were too small and squeezed her toes horribly. She had pulled a guy at the club the night before and now he was texting her and asking her out so she was concerned.
-Vicky, what if he doesn’t remember?
- Remember what?
- That I’m black... Should I remind him?
She’s sometimes oblivious in a sort of harmless and charming way and she may forget your name as soon as the word leaves your mouth, but she'll remember your story. She may occasionally come across as inquisitive, but she draws you in in a way that you'll want to tell her about yourself, because she’s a generous listener. D. is also an accomplished woman, but not one to blow her own trumpet and won't give away much when it comes to herself. She’s a shrewd judge of character, and an astonishingly insightful person for someone who will ride a bicycle absentmindedly down a busy street, daydreaming away and narrowly escaping honking cars and buses whizzing past all around her. She’s an idealist who dreams of eloping in full costume as Bella from Beauty and The Beast but, realistically, she goes through life like she was Rafiki from the Lion King: wise and unapologetic like an old soul, but spirited, playful and loving like a kid.
Mu doesn't float in a cloud as nearly as much as D. does. Funnily enough though, she resembles Mulan in some ways (although she’s Filipino, not Chinese like D. sometimes needs to be reminded): apart from the dark, sleek long hair, the pretty Asian features and the slender figure, she has that characteristic sense of duty to those she loves, and the drive to do what is right -she's a lawyer, incidentally. She's also daring and brave in a way that defies ingrained cultural mandates and expectations -even if not in a roaring kind of way, which means you won’t notice this at first. What you do notice is a warm beaming smile. She purses her lips when something upsets her, but I’ve only seen her do that once in seven years. She’s really easy to talk to (easier to talk to and less guarded than D. at first). She’s a gentle soul and has a caring heart and was apparently the one dragging D. and me to the right platforms for us not to miss our trains to and around Rome, which makes sense because Mu is also a doer. She's really not one to bring excuses to the table. Be it a dare, a trek up the mountain, a late night phone call after a long-ass day at work, or a door-to-door tequila delivery to a neighbouring country, she'll always be up for it (this is why when she says she'll come visit us in Australia I know there's no doubt she will). One time half way through a failed attempt to climb a mountain, she bravely marched past a large mad Irish dog that wouldn't stop growling and barking at us from the side of the road while D. and I cowered in the rearguard, allegedly making her bait to the dog (I wonder if that would make D. and me Mushu and Cri-Kee, Mulan’s useless wingmen?). Possibly not much like Mulan, though, Mu (a.k.a C.) wears her heart on her sleeve. A lovely girl, one might think, given that neither her skin nor her body suggest that she's a day older than 27, although rigorous mother nature says she’s an established member of the 30s club, just like D. and myself.
I won't attempt a self-description. The idea of the self image is always tinged with notions the ego likes to prattle about, and I don’t see any use in a distorted self-portrayal.
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| If you're coming from positano you'll take at least a ferry, a bus and a train before you arrive in Rome. |
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| Wedding vibes. |
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| Birthday night. |
2. GET YOURSELF TO ROME
Note: Be there nice and early. Once the team’s assembled, you need to make sure you get yourself to Rome before the eve of your birthday. You don’t want to be rushing and having to deal with transfers and check-ins and whatnot on the brink of your thirties. Also, if you come from a place that only dabbles with but is not serious about hot weather and you were born around July-August, pack a hand fan.
My experience:
The 30th August of 2017 was a summery summer’s day in Rome and the last of my twenties. D., Mu and I had arrived the day before in a train from Naples. Now, as the sun lazily trailed west of the cittá eterna, blazing down bright and strong on the Italian afternoon, we strolled in the direction of the Vatican City in airy sundresses and sandals. The afternoon hours seemed to drag their feet one after the other and it was hot, but not terribly so -not that the heat would have deterred the tourists, who moved around the city and scattered around the sights like a procession in disarray. We were not daunted by the heat either, and walked till we reached the Via Della Conciliazione. As you make your way down this avenue towards the piazza di San Pietro, it becomes clear why the street had to be this wide: it adds momentum to the walk that culminates at the doorstep of the largest church in the world, the Basilica di San Pietro, which also happens to be one of the holiest catholic shrines in existence. The panoramic view of the church becomes more impressive as you get closer and the visual effect is equivalent to a drumroll going: that’s the place where the Pope has held mass every Sunday for the last… well, for a staggering number of years. The first Basilica was built in this site -which is said to be the apostle Peter’s burial place- in the year 330.
We took a few snaps in the piazza -of ourselves, but we seem to have missed the church in a few of the photos. In one of them Mu was caught in motion, spinning round at some speed in the middle of the square with her arms outstretched and her eyes small with laughter and amusement, her dress blown up like a balloon. I recently found these photos and sent them to D., who replied with a question:
Were we drunk at the Vatican?
But we weren’t. At least not yet.
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| The Via della Conciliazione is bordered by many shops and buildings of historical and religious importance, but our trip was rather too light-hearted in spirit for us to take anything too seriously, and we ambled along past them, occasionally stopping in souvenir shops to giggle and snigger at the hot priests calendars on display. |
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| High (on life) at the Vatican. |
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| Fanbearer. It does get hot in Rome. |
Note: The next obvious thing to do as the hour you must depart from the beloved twenties draws near, is to drink to your own health -and to the generosity of strangers.
My experience:
As the afternoon faded into night well after 8 or 9 pm and the heat subsided, we headed in the direction of Trastevere for a post-dinner passeggiata and a much anticipated drink. Trastevere is a charming area in Rome, quite funky and bohemian, dotted with craft beer pubs, artisan shops, trattorias, and narrow cobblestone streets which, at this time of day, were buzzing with young crowds. We picked a bar at random and walked in. The place was dimly lit and sparsely populated in a way that didn’t exactly look promising, but we decided to have the first drink here, as we could always go somewhere else afterwards. We made for the bar, sat on high bar stools and dug our elbows on the counter. it wouldn’t be long until people started pouring in.
The bartender spoke English when he put the cocktail menu in front of us. The girls leafed through it, passed it to me and huddled over to whisper conspiratorially in the bartender’s ear, like I couldn’t see or hear all of it. He listened attentively and then bounced off the bar like a new spring, swivelling around to face the shelves behind him. Next thing, the cocktail shaker was above his head being shaken with deft and quick movements like a pair of maracas. He did everything with much flair like good bartenders often do, turning the simple act of mixing spirits into a show they like to call mixology. Then, he set a coaster in front of me and on top of it he put my birthday cocktail-cake flaming fatly and ready just minutes before midnight. Experienced bartenders often top it all off with a cheeky smile and a flirtatious way of leaning forward against the bar, if they can spare the time, and our bartender could.
The girls paid for the first round. When midnight struck, Happy Birthday dear Vicky was sung and no sooner had we finished our drinks than the bartender lined up four oversized shot glasses in front of us and poured a round of tequila for all four, himself included:
On the house. Happy birthday Vicky. Auguri!
Tequila shots that held double the usual measure kept coming until our sector of the bartop was highly seasoned with salt and lime and plastered with tiny sticky pools of spilled tequila.
At some point, when things were already a bit fuzzy around the edges, I brought up the fact that we were all in our 30s now, because I was a bit freaked out by this turning thirty business, which I thought was completely unnecessary (and also because I used to like teasing D. and Mu by reminding them that I was the youngest by a year). D. just rolled her eyes and imparted some of her drunken wisdom on the subject:
- I love being thirty, it’s like being sophisticated but sexy…
She paused for a split second and then added in an amused undertone:
-And sometimes we make mistakes.
Then she tilted her head back and laughed at her own words, showing a row of pearly white teeth that glowed faintly, suddenly setting off her complexion, the colour of milk chocolate. Mu and I laughed with her. She was sexy and sophisticated indeed. As it happens, that night we were snowed under tequila shots, only the first of which was in honour of the birthday girl (that would be me), all the rest were in D.’s honour. Her admirers got us drunk, but not one stepped forward to say hi, so by the end of a couple of hours we still sat at the bar drinking and chatting and calling our bartender -who was the one delivering the complimentary drinks- by his first name.
At some point the music stopped and I became aware of the sound of chairs being pulled away from tables, glasses being stacked here and there and shuffling feet and murmurs moving towards the door. We were invited to join the bartenders for a knock-off drink at some other bar and we thought this was a good idea, so we stayed behind and watched the bar get gradually empty and the bartenders put the chairs up and close the shutter before we walked to this other bar with them.
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| Birthday cocktail special served in a Tiki mug (one of those tall, thick, Polynesian-themed cups made of ceramic) and topped with a passion fruit cut in half for a candle, which I clearly got rid of too soon. |
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| Italians overdo even shot glasses. They were really oversized. |
4. MAKE A DRUNKEN ESCAPE
Note: because you’ll need to laugh at yourself sometime down the line and memories don't take up space, but most importantly because being thirty is not all about being a responsible adult, you’ll need to follow this step strictly. But don’t worry, given the witnesses will be instantly left behind, they won’t really count.
My experience:
The second bar was behind a heavy wooden door a few steps below the street level and when we walked in we passed into an opaque semi-darkness. It wasn’t an open-plan bar, it was divided into smaller gloomy areas and I remember there being heavy curtains or some kind of drapery hanging from a wall on the main room. The light was dim and reddish, imbuing the place with the perfect ambiance for shady business. Behind the rather small unattended bar top the shelves were lit with neon LED strip lights with the effect that the coloured glass bottles stood out making you think skullduggery was surely served in whiskey tumblers here. Also, we realised everyone in this place was male, which made us even more uneasy.
We must have refused a drink -or something- before edging our way towards the door as casually as we could, wobbly as we were, and slipping away without further notice (we probably weren't as inconspicuous as we imagined at the time). Next thing, we were stampeding down the narrow streets of Trastevere. There was no one about, the streets were thoroughly deserted and our steps reverberated on the walls. We took the first bend away from the bar and kept running. There were patches of light glowing faintly in the moonlight here and there and the street winded darkly and silently past drawn shutters, weathered doors and tall, lightly graffitied walls half covered by straggling Ivy -all very fitting. After a couple of twists and turns we slowed down: there was no sign or sound of nasty predators following us. There was a sigh of relief, a bit of panting and definitely some dismissive giggling as we walked in the direction of the Tiber.
5. DANCE YOUR WAY ACROSS TOWN IN THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORNING
Note: This step is a very simple one, but it will bring you a heightened sense of freedom and joy. However, stick to it at your own risk.
My experience:
By the time we crossed the river in the direct of the downtown area it was already past 2am. I don't recall exactly how we got there -my sense of direction is already quite poor when I'm sober. I do remember us singing and dancing our way closer to our next stop (the thought of the dodgy bar now completely faded from memory). Skipping and spinning along yellowish lamplit avenues we went, fervently flinging our arms into the air to the rhythm of 'We Found Love' which was the anthem of the good times. We may not have been the most graceful bunch to look at, but that's what drunken exhilaration usually looks like. That’s also what clouded judgment looks like, because we’ll agree that walking across a city we barely knew at that time and with little to no awareness of our surroundings was possibly not the most sensible thing to do.
We then left the main street and took some narrower streets only poorly lit by the subdued light from the nearby avenue. They didn't look quite as picturesque as they would have in daylight, which made us sober up a little. The city was truly emptied of its thousands of tourists who were by now safely tucked in in their hotel beds.
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| Oh dear, there's visual evidence. Roaming downtown Rome in the middle of the deserted night. |
6. VISIT THE FONTANA DI TREVI WHEN EVERYONE ELSE IS ASLEEP
Note: Definitely avoid the crowds that throng Rome by day whenever possible, they are extremely annoying. If you want to actually see the Trevi fountain either buy a postcard or go there well after midnight.
My experience:
It was 3am by the time we reached the fountain. We had decided we were going to go see it by night, because during the day people swarm there incessantly like unproductive bees and it’s not a pretty sight. Even to get to the edge of the Fontana you have to nudge your way down the marble stairs which become packed tight. The humming and gabbling is loud and it rises to the sky just like it would from the stands at a football match - it'd be a feast for Coronavirus eyes these days! But not for ours. Teeming touristic sights are not my thing and I certainly didn't want to spend my birthday giving the evil eye to strangers in the hope they’d move away from the frame of my picture with the rearing sea-horses, the tritons and the middle-aged Greek God Oceanus.
Apparently, if you toss a coin in, you’ll have a safe return trip to Rome. The fountain collects €3000 every day, which is given to charity. As I recall it, we saved our change that night, shame on us. I may be wrong, though. All I remember is sitting down to rest our legs after the walk, having a good laugh and taking a lot of photos on the tourist-free marble steps. Again, we may have missed the fountain in a few of the snaps.
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| This is probably the best photo we took with the fountain. |
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| Marble steps. Ranting? Heaven knows... |
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Note: Don't bother picking up the phone when your long-distance (what you'd like to call) relationship calls from the antipodes on this day. He's a good guy and generally means well but he's also all over the place from his neck up and right now he’s in the mood to argue. Not on your Roman birthday, girl.
My experience:
I woke up earlish on the 31st of August to a decorated hotel room. Multi-coloured pennant string flags were pinned to the side walls and overhung my head. Coloured balloons were scattered in the room and at my feet. As I stirred and turned on my back I was greeted by a loud Happy birthday Vicky!! and saw that on one of the empty beds there lay three multi-coloured tutus, three flower garlands (also multicoloured), three oversized pairs of plastic sunglasses and a silver, plastic tiara. Of course. I knew for a fact D. would have dressed up as Gandalf the Grey if she had been given the chance, but it was way too hot for the cloak and hat. Tutus would do, they were light and airy, plus they were more festive and colourful.
We went down for breakfast and then up again to dress up. I tried to lose the beaded headpiece before leaving the room, but the girls would not have any of my nonsense and said it was absolutely essential that I wear it. So we took our three decades out for a celebratory stroll around downtown Rome and up a hill in our stiff little tutus, like it was the obvious thing to do on your thirtieth birthday.
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| The tiara was digging into my scalp. |
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| The tutus had been packed in London. |
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| Blowing bubbles on top of one of Rome's seven Hills. The bubbles were a souvenir from the wedding. The bride didn't want any rice on her and so we blew bubbles at her instead. |
Here are a couple of extra steps you can throw in while you're at it:
9. VISIT A QUAINT LITTLE ITALIAN CITY
Note: Florence is an attractive idea once you're in Rome, but when you only have four days the time frame is tight and Firenze is a good 3-hour train ride away, so it's best to settle for something closer like Orvieto, which is only an hour away. It's efinitely not the Tuscan capital, but it does have some of the charm of an Italian town and the meandering streets.
My experience (in photos):
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| D. and Mu at their best. |
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| It could have been Tuscany. |
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| The view from this hill could have been a Tuscan landscape, but again, I don't think we took any photos pointing that way. |
Note: You may huff and puff all you want, but the Italian hotel receptionist will still put on his best poker face, offer a feeble and definite 'sorry about that', absolutely not offer any compensation whatsoever and generally remain impervious to the displeasure in your tone and even to the swollen bumps on your arm -courtesy of their very own cimici. Finally, he'll win hands down as you give up and eventually check out to walk off the way you came. The bug bites will make it home with you and will be an itchy nuisance for a few days but once the marks disappear, all you'll remember from the trip will be the sound of your own laughter, the tequila shots and the wish you made at the fountain in the middle of your birthday night: may I turn 30 more often.
My experience:
It went really well, actually. The receptionist couldn’t have cared less about customer satisfaction rates, Trip Advisor reviews or the state of the rooms in the hotel he was helping to run -and this was not one of my cheap hostels, D. and Mu don’t go to hostels. D., (as the good English woman that she is) was appalled by the way the receptionist ignored us, but I wasn’t surprised. To me, this final incident was part of the Italian experience, you can’t really leave Italy without a token of ‘Italianness’
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A final word: all roads lead to your 30s and also to Rome (as the saying goes), you might as well meet them there. Enjoy the trip and happy birthday!
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| Ci vediamo! |
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