Europe Sans Fromage Part IV: Rome

Actually, it's sin formaggio in Italian. Whatever possessed me to ship off to the holy Roman Empire in the hottest month of the year I will never quite understand, but I think it had something to do with a lack reasoning and an excess of romanticism. Upon my sweaty arrival in the city, after a tedious Ryan Air "adventure", I found that not only was I there for the hottest month, but I happened to plunk down in Italy during the hottest week of the year. I had just spent nearly a month basking in the temperate climate of my ancestors, and so I promptly began to melt under the unforgiving Roman sun.

I enjoyed myself nonetheless, but the intense heat, coupled with my dwindling funds, really put a damper on all the Italian feasting I had been planning on. While their air conditioning systems could use some improvement, the Romans have perfected the art of the water fountain. The city is scattered with stone fountains providing fresh water to the thirsty masses, one of which was a very dehydrated yours truly. So I spent my days sightseeing and drinking gallons of seemingly heaven- sent, artfully provided water- so much of it that I barely had an appetite. People do not normally go to Italy to lose weight, but by the end of my stay, I felt as if I had spent a week fasting in a giant sauna full of tourists, flamboyant Italians...and lots of wine.

I had to eat something, of course, so I snacked on olives, fruity gelato, and pizza margherita by day and spent my nights drinking delicious and deliciously cheap Italian wine in the typically Australian-filled hostel garden. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that Italian wine is fabulous, but it tastes even more fabulous when you know that it only cost three euros.

I did have one scrumptious, traditional Italian meal while in Rome. Actually, I had it two nights in a row. One of our hosts at the hostel was nice enough to take a group of us travelers to a local restaurant in the surrounding neighborhood, which was far away from all the touristy mediocrity downtown. He ordered for everyone in Italian and, although he knew I was vegetarian, thought I was completely insane when I explained that I wanted a meal without any milk, butter, cheese, or eggs. Still, he managed to order something for me and out came a plate of gnocchi in red sauce, and it was the best I've ever had. The sauce was creamy and spicy, the gnocchi was cooked to perfection- in short, it was damn good. And apparently, if you order me the best gnocchi in town, I'll temporarily fall in love with you- but as I'm no Carrie Bradshaw, that's a story best left for another blog. Suffice it to say, everyone else at the table was jealous of my meal, which is always a triumphant moment for a vegan in a decidedly un-vegan establishment. I was so impressed with this perfect gnocchi, that I had it again the following night instead of checking out an actual vegan restaurant, and yet again, it was outlandishly delicious.

Now whenever I hear that Lady Gaga song where she says "Roma" over and over again, I think of that gnocchi. And then I think about all the other yummy stuff I ate on my wonderful trip, and smile, because I just don't think omnivores have as much fun with food. There is something so satisfying about having your vegan pasta in Italy and eating it too; I don't think pasta with Parmesan would have been the same.