A dramatisation in four parts

Tube stops: Trastevere (over-land), Piramede and what would have been Flaminio...

Now that I'm not so bamboozled by the quick-fire sing-song of the Italian language, I've had a chance to look out of my window into the inner courtyard of our tower-block, and open my ears to inflammatory conversations at noon and late at night and listen to the walls reverberating with arguments, rhetoric and a right old telling off. This isn't just the land of opera but the land of the soap opera.

I was pulled away from streaming my millionth episode of Ugly Betty a while ago by S & M's invitation to a lofty peak and the chance to sample what is quickly becoming my favourite meal: aperitivo (or "ape" as Pi calls it.) No, I'm not relying on liquid lunches to get me through the heat of the day, I just enjoy the (endless) buffet that comes included with the tipple. And no better place to get stuck in than at the Gambero Rosso headquarters near Trastevere, the home of classic gourmet food, freshly featured on one of the most watched foodie tv shows in the country. The decor was tv studio gun-metal scaffolding and display cabinets, with mini-escalators ascending into the heavens.
Perched on a open terrace overlooking the chinks of light and abstract outline of the capital at night, Prosecco in hand, we soaked up the silence. Only when we had drunk our fourth glass did the conversation turn to controversial debate: Dan Brown and the secrets of the supposed bloodline of Jesus. Once or twice, I casually turned round to check that I hadn't insulted a nearby emissary of the Vatican, catching instead the proprietorio having a sneaky fag in the shadows of the veranda.

As I get back to my cubby-hole that night and tried to drift off to sleep listening to the sound of "stupid laugh girl"(not real name) and her frantic babbling next door, I wondered which sex was the more dramatic in Rome. Out to dinner again with S & M, this time in Frascati (broadening my horizons), what caught my eye in between a fantastic fish-stew and incredible dolci was the "Desperate Waitress" from Via Wisteria. Full fish lips, a scoop-billed nose, simultaneously serving food and spilling salsa all over her couture: a botox belladonna. Not once did she bat a heavily made-up eyelid, when a sudden crowd of amorous teenagers flooded the single room eaterie, keen for a quick bite at 9pm between necking. Score one for womankind.

Earlier, whilst sharing a spectacular view of the tumbling vine-yard laden hills of Frascati from a nearby cafe table, we witnessed the silent spectacle, and the subsequent settling of a parking fine or whatever penalty *might* have been issued by the authorities. I say might because although the smartly suited traffic wardens (think designer utility belts) realised that there had been a transgression, some men arrived, shook hands, and a small, intricate dance took place and nothing further happened. So maybe men, too, could keep a lid on it when they had to.

I thought back to my previous week's escapades with El and Donna. Feeling courageous, I suggested we meet for a drink and something to eat at Gusto, starting with a walk down from Piazza di Popolo. This was Centro Storico and a change of two tube lines for me - for El and D, a short stroll. Somewhat stupidly, however, I reckoned without the planned transport strike and a line of men physically barring my way onto Linea A-B on the tube.

An hour and a half later, involving a Spanish couple having a birthday weekend in Rome as fellow passengers, a rotund, jolly hotel manager and a relatively short taxi journey, I arrived to meet El and D in Friends bar, desperate for a cocktail to start the evening. D was on fine form: as a real-life opera diva, she has a bit of a reputation for not wanting to put the cork in the bottle of exuberance - short, impromptu performances have been known to occur at little notice, in the most crowded of places. One look from El and as we braced ourselves for a version of "Queen of the Night" (not the Whitney, pre-coke era pop classic), I realised that opera is the purest celebration of drama, of over the top, un-British, hot-headed, wild forest-fire emotion. So what if Donna was about to regale the thirty-something bar-huggers with Mozart, at least it would be art. And it would be friggin' sensational.

Finally, finding myself having a heart to heart with El over pints in Campo di Fiori, we witnessed a European version of the Friday night binge phenomenon that London has perfected so well (thanks, in no small part, to yours truly ;), and being a little hammered ourselves, we managed to get perfectly Lost amongst the winding cobbled streets and sprawling crowds of spirits-fueled ragazze. Survivors of Oceanic flight 815, amongst the fashionistas returning from a night-cap. Glorious.

The U.N.usual way we just get along

Tube stops: Tiburtina, Piramide & a car-ride to Trastevere

It's like Matthau and Lemmon, but without the cliche: P and I are officially the only ones left in the apartment. Big M and little M have migrated back to their homes outside of Rome and now, the apartment is filled with strange warblings from P's selection of fine Italian pop. And here, I was thinking Eurovision finished last week.

I'd say we're two peas in a pod but within a matter of minutes, our dinner-time conversation (now sat around the yellow linoleum covered table in our small but tidy affair of a kitchen) stretched from the right way to cook pasta (not with pasta in the bowl before the water; salt only added when the water is boiling) to religion and politics. P is a forthright, right-wing conservative, ex-military enthusiast of all things architectural. I am a liberal, left-wing, language and art enthusiast and of the British persuasion for excusing myself every so often. But we were breaking new international-relations ground here: once I definately admitted to P that I would eat my pasta cold the next day, despite coating it in pesto, I earnt some begrudged form of respect. I'm sure I won't, however, be invited to "Casa P" in the near future, for fear my heathen ways will drive me to bite the head off a live chicken and gargle with chocolate mousse :)

This form of foreign relations reminded me of the other night: meeting up with M, a friend of a friend in Rome who was taking pity on a stranded and Friday-night-starved-Brit by inviting him out on the Roma scene. We met in Testaccio at restaurant/club Angelica (no, not a haunt for pouty, stick-like starlets), whose roof-terrace played host to a fantastic set that would put some London bars to shame. M introduced me to two lively Iranian guys, the Twiddledum and Twiddledee of the Middle East. Glancing around the street-lamp splashed grove, it was hard to tell the Mediterranean genotype from the Mexican, Middle Eastern or Mesopotamian. I'm genuinely inspired by the efforts people can go to to "up sticks" and move over borderlines, pick up a new nationality and add it to their own fiercely held identity. Those borderlines are blurring, but not enough it seems: the two Iranians are on the look out for a european visa, so guys, if you're after a man who can make you perfect "Persian" Polow, drop me a line!

And to a crowd that seemed a little closer to home: the Hoxton Heroes! Roman legend Pi and her boyfriend pulled up outside Casa Lemmon & Matthau a few days ago, to whisk yours truly away for a cheeky "ape" (aperitivo) in the trendy Rome quarter of Trastevere. Meeting Pi's motley crew, I was straining my ears to pick up words I knew within the Italian that bubbled backwards and forwards across the stuffy night air. Some words I could understand, but Pi kindly played the interpretor and provider of key "good-luck" slang, involving whales and wolves. After filling up on the most amazing ravioli known to mankind ("Bracchio" restuarant), I was could find no words, for a different reason this time! Finally a tour through the 80's Raybans, pork-pie hats, skinny jeans and pavement-side acid jazz of Via del Pigneto, Rome's own Shoreditch, where the language was "trend", but the style "universal".

As I type, P has just invited me to tomorrow's military parade and flyover for the national holiday here. We need to get up at 7:30 it seems. Where's a peace-keeper, when I need one?