My memories of my first encounter with Rome are very hazy. It was back in the early 1970s and I have lingering impressions of a grim pensione, a surprising capricciosa pizza with artichoke and a whole baked egg, and my first taste of an authentic spaghetti carbonara. Of the impressive monuments, not so much. The purpose of that trip, with my then-husband, was to buy a second-hand Maserati (as you do) so our sightseeing, in Rome and later in Modena, was focused on car showrooms. On most of my subsequent trips to Italy over the decades, Rome was a stopover rather than a destination. A place to pick up the hire car, catch the train, or head to the airport on the way home from Umbria or Puglia. So this time, we decided to bracket our Sicily trip with time spent in the Italian capital.

I booked hotels based on their proximity to a restaurant called Hostaria al 31, which I’ve written about here. Jokingly known to us as Al’s, it was the one constant from several fleeting visits to Rome and the menu had never changed. Al’s is located in the Via delle Carrozze, close to the Spanish Steps and, on this trip, our first hotel, Hotel Piazza di Spagna was just around the corner. Unfortunately, the hotel concierge had sad news for us. Al’s, as we knew it, was no longer. A casualty of COVID, the long-term proprietor had decided to sell the business. The food there, we were told, was no longer anything special. The same applied, he said, to most of the many restaurants that had proliferated in the surrounding streets.

And there were, indeed, many. In hindsight, it was probably not the best location for two…ahem…older people who enjoyed a bit of peace and quiet at bedtime. Below our window, a rotating roster of musicians arrived to entertain the restaurant patrons opposite. They ranged from opera singers to drummers to very bad accordion players.  And given that Italians are not averse to going out for dinner at 10 pm, the entertainment could persist well into the night.

There were compensations. As we waited for our room to be ready, our concierge suggested breakfast at a nearby pasticceria where we found good coffee and discovered pistachio cornetti (croissants) and other luscious pastries. Later, at the Grano Frutta e Farina Bakery, in Via della Croce, we over-ordered three varieties of pizza by the slice. Despite the excess, there were no leftovers – other than a generous dollop of olive oil on my lap. That evening, with our first Aperol spritz and a snack of olives and potato chips, we settled into the rhythm of Rome.

It was, perhaps, not the best year to visit as the city is preparing for an event known as the Giubileo (Jubilee) which will take place in 2025. Occurring every 25 years and tracing its history back to 1300, it’s a significant event for the Catholic church and sees the Pope open the “holy doors” in the four papal basilicas in Rome. With an expected influx of pilgrims, the city needs to look its best. As a consequence, many landmarks including the famous fountains of the Piazza Navona, were being spruced up for the occasion and were covered in scaffolding and plastic shrouds.

On Day 2, after a late morning granita while admiring the Piazza Navona’s white-shrouded objects, we sought out the one restaurant recommended by our concierge. The Hostaria Romana, we were assured, still did things properly. We had no reservation but were whisked past the kitchen into a tiny back room where every wall was covered with scribbled names and comments from, it seemed, generations of diners. Reassuringly, we seemed to be the only non-Italians in the place. Starting with tonnarelli cacio e pepe and bucatini all’amatriciana (both excellent) we progressed to osso buco (also excellent) and roast lamb (so dry and tough as to be inedible). It seems even authentic Roman restaurants have their off moments.

With jet lag lingering, we lacked the energy to visit the monuments. “When we come back after Sicily,” we said and, on Day 3, boarded the plane for Palermo.

Two weeks later, we returned to a different hotel and a different district – a part of Rome that was less familiar and much, much quieter than the crowded streets around the Hotel Piazza di Spagna. Known as the Prati district, it was on the opposite side of the Tiber closer to the Vatican City and St Peter’s Basilica. The Hotel Sant’Angelo was, to say the least, quirky. A grand, vaulted entry was adorned with statues, marbled flooring and strangely ornate furniture. Loudly upbeat music assaulted our ears as we made our way to the tiny lift, which Fred immediately dubbed “the tardis”. All the public spaces, including the corridors and the reception area, were similarly adorned with gilt-framed pictures and an odd collection of seating. The fancy trimmings did not extend to our tiny room, which featured water stains on the ceiling and barely space to step around the bed.

Less than a block away, the green Tiber flowed solemnly under the Ponte Cavour. We strolled along the bank under spreading plane trees, past souvenir and book stalls to the Castel Sant’Angelo. This hulking edifice began as the Mausoleum of Hadrian in around 135 AD. It has been a fortress, a prison and a residence and its towering form, topped by a sculpture of the angel Gabriel, conceals many, many, many steps. We followed the tourist route. Upwards and upwards, from the dungeons in the depths, through room after lavishly decorated room, to balconies, loggias and, finally, the top platform with spectacular views over the city. There were surprises. Many of the elaborate friezes and frescoes were remarkably profane for a papal residence – naked nymphs cavorting with their clearly excited admirers.  And, in the heart of the castle, an exhibition showcasing the life of Italian film icon, Marcello Mastroianni.

Unlike the tourist hub in the Spagna district, the Prati area’s streets were not lined with pavement tables attended by restaurant touts. But there, we enjoyed possibly the best three meals of our trip. We could have walked to Al’s – after all, it was just across the bridge and a short stroll across the Via del Corso. But we decided to stay local.

We began at La Berninetta, just around the corner from our hotel. Brightly lit and with startling turquoise upholstery on the chairs and banquette seats (evidently the result of a recent renovation) it had bow-tied waiters and paper table mats sporting illustrations of the interior. Our shared entree of fried zucchini flowers left plenty of room for the next course, but Fred struggled with the risotto cacio e pepe. My saltimbocca alla Romana, though, was the perfect plate of pale veal, crisped prosciutto, sage and buttery pan juices. The restaurant appeared to be a local favourite and at around 9.30 an extended family arrived, complete with granny and a couple of toddlers. What time do those children go to bed?

While La Berninetta traced its history back to 1930, the restaurant we visited the following night was even older. The Trattoria della Barchetta has been operating since 1924.  A matronly and rather intimidating lady frowned when we admitted to being walk-ins but ushered us to a table in the establishment’s hidden depths. Instead of turquoise chairs and cartoonish artwork, it was all mellow timber, drapery and white tablecloths. We were welcomed with a glass of prosecco and a miniature pastry, and progressed to eggplant parmigiana, anchovies served properly from the tin, carpaccio and…eeerm…not sure what Fred ate as the only photo we have shows an empty plate smeared with tomato sauce.  At 97 Euros ($157 Australian) including wine, a generous bread basket and sparkling water, it was one of the more expensive meals we had in Italy, but still less than we would have paid at a comparable restaurant in Melbourne.

Which brought us to our last night in Rome (and possibly our last-ever night in Italy). In the same street as our hotel, Pupina was as contemporary as Barchetta was traditional. It was only fitting to opt for carbonara, one of the quintessentially Roman dishes. In this instance, it was paccheri rather than spaghetti – wide tubes of pasta collapsed into an impossibly rich and creamy egg sauce with chunky cubes of guanciale (cured pig’s cheek).

Boarding the flight to Abu Dhabi the next morning, there were some regrets about the things we didn’t do in Rome. We didn’t see the Colosseum or the Forum. We didn’t visit St Peter’s Basilica and we weren’t prepared to wait in the queue in the heat to revisit the interior of the Pantheon. Note to self: it’s worth sacrificing some spontaneity in favour of pre-booking tickets to significant monuments.

Better, perhaps, to focus on the things we did do. Joining the evening passeggiata along the Via del Corso as the bells of the Chiesa Santa Maria dei Miracoli rang out over the Piazza del Popolo. Gaining an insight into the inventive mind of Leonardo da Vinci at an exhibition of machines created to his designs. Climbing the Spanish Steps for a panorama of domes, palaces and city rooftop gardens. Shopping at Uniqlo Rome for a Japanese-branded, Vietnamese-made lightweight jacket for Fred. People watching while we consumed very short coffees and very long drinks.

Will we ever go back?  It depends on our health, budget and energy levels. But at least we have the photographs, along with a couple of hours of as-yet unedited video, to remind us of how it felt to wander and absorb the atmosphere in one of the great cities of the world.