Rome. Late summer. The crowds aren’t easing, nor is the sun, and it’s about to sear a hole in my relationship. Hot, hangry and hungover – a diabolical combination – we’re our own kind of ancient ruins, skulking aimlessly in what feels like a black hole: an area nowhere near any of the 50-odd places I’ve saved on Google Maps for our four-day stay.
A bakery appears. Then a panini bar. Then a trattoria. Then another. We don’t stop. Instead I feverishly research them online for any signs of superiority. None were pre-approved on my months-long mission to compile the ultimate Rome hitlist, cross-referencing recommendations from friends with what I had found online.
