Painfully Pricey Puntarelle in Rome

The very expensive Puntarelle (nothing like the original)

My favourite destination when I worked for QANTAS was undoubtedly Roma. It was a seriously “senior” trip and most of the mainly older male flight attendants who managed to get it allocated on their roster on a regular basis had at least 20 years service behind them. As a very junior staff member I would have had no chance, but being an Italian “language” speaker meant that I occasionally got to go there if a regular crew member was sick.

Those trips were heaven for me, even though the Italian passengers were often very difficult; most were frustrated at having to sit still or go without a cigarette for such a long time.

As soon as we reached our hotel at the Sheraton Eur, just a 20 minute bus ride from Fiumicino Airport, I would have a shower and catch the first shuttle into town that dropped us off near Piazza Venezia, (affectionately known as the Wedding Cake) regardless of the fact that I would have worked all night. I was simply much too excited to be in Italy to be able to sleep!

From there I would go to Enzo’s, a local coffee shop for a wonderful and inexpensive coffee and then walk through the Jewish area for a Kosher Pizza (the best in Rome).

As I strolled through Rome’s ancient streets smelling the delicious aromas, hearing animated, gesticulating locals go about their day and stopping for something to eat, people watching and absorbing the sights, sounds, tastes, smells and energy of this amazing place I would pinch myself, incredulous that I was being paid to be here.

Since then, no matter how many times I return to this city, usually just for a day or two, I always find something new to experience. From the time I reach the airport and smell the surprisingly good coffee on offer, to the time I leave again, I feel like I am at home. She is a city that is comfortable in her own skin, sometimes a little uncouth and rude, sometimes elegant, but always energetic, she accommodates her millions of visitors each year with the ease of a mother balancing one child on her lap while attending to the needs of another. I feel I can rest against her ample bosom for a while and never stay long enough to feel like I don’t want to return.

Once, with one of those senior crews I walked to a restaurant near our hotel and had a local delicacy known as Puntarelle. This celery like vegetable is seasonal and only found in Rome. It is freshly picked and sliced and put into icy water where its sweet, fibrous flesh becomes crisp and curls up. Then it is tossed in a bowl and dressed with a delicious fresh liquid paste of olive oil, fresh garlic and anchovies. I remember the taste exactly! Served with a glass of local wine and still warm crusty rustic bread, it is one of my favourite “eating” memories.

     

Usually when I stay in Rome on my own, I find a bed and breakfast or budget hotel in the city centre or around Termini, (the main train station) but this time I stay near the airport as my flight leaves so early in the morning. As I check into the hotel (a cold hotel chain in the airport environs miles from anywhere) I have puntarelle on my mind. Since that original time, I have not managed to eat them again, as they are only available for a couple of months when it’s cold and I have usually been in Rome when it is warm or hot. This time however I am hoping to get lucky and a call to Lo Convento http://www.ristoranteloconvento.com/come

 (somehow I remember the name of the restaurant) confirms their availability. I am so excited that I can almost taste their crisp fresh saltiness.   

I ask at reception about how to get there and public transport is not accessible. I baulk at paying a 50 euro round trip fare which I am quoted but decide it’s a treat I have been craving for so long that it is worth it.

I decide to catch the free airport shuttle to get me a little closer, hoping it will reduce the cost. All the time, my memory of how good those puntarelle tasted overcome any objections to spending such a lot of money.

The bus driver confirms that the taxi should be about 25 euro each way and I decide to stop being stingy and just enjoy the experience. When I get into Maximillan’s taxi at the airport he turns on his meter and we start to chat. He seems bemused that I am so taken by this local dish. It is dark and I can’t work out where I am and the trip is taking longer than I thought.

How much further? I ask. “About 15 minutes” he says, and I feel a bit sick as I see the meter is already at 22 euro. It will be about 40 euro each way! I ask him to stop and there’s a whole conversation and call to the restaurant to confirm it is the right one. It is! A number of options flash through my mind, including turning around and going back and paying about 40 euro just to do that. In the end I go. I eat a very bad bean soup that tastes like baked beans and the puntarelle when it comes is unappetizing and watery, although I do my best to eat it mindfully (and at least it is fresh).

I drink only half of my red wine glass, and leave a small tip for the young waiter who had offered to drive me home after his shift- a kind offer I would have taken up if I didn’t have a 3.30am get up.

I call Maximillian (who I find out has been waiting in the car park somehow sensing a return fare) and he feels sorry for me. He tells me I am a nice (albeit crazy) lady! At least you’ll have a story to tell, I say trying to wring any amount of value out of the experience. (I have already run through a list of things I could have spent the money on that I would not have felt bad about and pretend that I have; an expensive haircut, a present for a friend, a workshop in something interesting, a “good cause” a train trip, a theatre ticket,  accommodation, a musical performance, dancing, a very good restaurant   and then I remind myself that there’s no price too high to pay for a good experience…so as I keep finding out…Everything changes…including the cost of taxis and chefs...That’s just life!  

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It is a hideous wake up call at 3.30am and I am slow getting into the shower. My flight to Cairo via Zurich is at 6.40am.

At the airport, the shops are closed and the few early morning travellers are half asleep and in need of a coffee. I’m standing in the queue waiting for the café express to open at 5.15am. I need a fix, my body having become accustomed in the last few weeks to the unhealthy but delicious Italian habit of a morning cappuccino with a crème brioche. 

Franco is a middle aged Italian businessman, impeccably dressed with a well cut suit and a colourful scarf thrown casually around his neck, who is standing at the counter next to me. He strikes up a conversation and when he finds out that I am travelling for a year he is incredulous and a wistful look crosses his face.

“I am envious” he says. “I travel all the time for work and one day I would love to just disappear, keep travelling, just never come back from a business trip”. He tells me he has recently discovered Merengue and would love to go to South America to dance. “I left my heart in Columbia years ago”, he tells me, and his face has that faraway look again.

We chat for a while and then I say goodbye. He hands me his business card and asks that I stay in touch.

“That’s what I love about travel” he says…”you meet interesting people”

“Thanks”, I say not promising anything. I have a “sliding door” moment, thinking about all the people I have met so far, and how many I won’t actually ever stay in touch with and what would have happened if I did.

                  

landed at Zurich

the Alps are below the clouds