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.