Empire State of Mindfulness: Returning to New York City

The ever constant beauty of New York City

at the Central Park reservoir

The last time I set foot in New York I had sat on the hard wood floor of my stripped apartment and waved goodbye to my life there as if that process was as simple as packing up my furniture and bags into cardboard boxes and waving goodbye to them. After a last lunch with friends on a freezing cold sunny January day in 2014 my life as a New York resident ended and my life in London with Mat resumed full time.

Sean at Dublin airport helping me get from plane to plane despite feet, back, stomach etc. problems. If you meet him in the future, you've met a celebrity. The guy literally knows everyone in the place.

Perhaps you might understand then, especially if you read my earlier post, that I was very nervous about returning to a place that had given me so many mixed memories of bitter-sweetness. I loved (I love) New York that I didn’t know what would happen when I returned there for a great friend’s wedding. I’m not supposed to predict the future (meaning thinking about all the things that are coming up and considering each possible outcomes that could occur). It’s actually a thinking trap or a false perception that doing that – thinking about all the “maybes” and “mights” of future events makes me less worried or stressed about them. It actually makes it a lot worse.

This can be a pretty accurate picture of the concentration of my thoughts, 

and there's little room for mindfulness (or any activity) when this happens

Now sometimes I find this useful – at work it can help me to stay on the board with the list of to-dos (and to create things that aren’t on that list but might be valuable to add to it!). With moderation so that I don’t burn out I have found this to be a career enhancing skill to possess – that ability to switch my brain into overdrive mode so that I am not only thinking about the current to do list, but the non-existent to do list, plus the overall strategic approach to the pieces of work I’m leading. However, this time I am trying to take a chill pill and stop wondering what if, and just live a bit more in the moment.

When Harry Met Sally...a classic and a depiction of depression in New York because of lost love. (Plus a happy ending.)

"...when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." Harry Burns

The minute we arrived off the plane things were already so different. I wasn’t waiting in my apartment for a text from Mat saying he’d just got off the plane and was on his way; I was sitting beside him and he was holding my hand as we landed and looking out onto JFK. We held hands in the taxi and laughed about the traffic. (Okay, so we didn’t laugh about the traffic, we laughed about the fact that the traffic still sucked and wasn’t it annoying and he was still holding my hand when we arrived at the hotel.)

Back in NYC, the city that never sleeps. Luckily these days, for me, I do.

I guess a wedding-themed trip is always going to have a focus on romance, and I welled up like a true cliché when the beautiful bride walked down the aisle to meet her groom Phil, a friend from university. It reminded me how wonderful my life with Mat is and how lucky I am to have him – again and again. New York is very different returning as a visitor hand in hand with my husband and knowing that we’ll leave together. I am a big believer that we are all able to help to make ourselves better by working hard to put into practice the tools we’ve learned to combat those horrid thinking traps that seem to plague me in numbers akin to the number of cockroaches in this stunning and sordid city. But sometimes, it has to be said that I recognise that making an actual change in my life can make a huge difference to how I feel.

Getting hitched in the city. Perfect wedding and reminder of my own

amazing good fortune to have my wonderful husband.

When I returned home to the UK I let go of all the stresses that came with trying to have a functioning marriage on two continents, along with paying two sets of bills every month, paying for two properties and trying to live on whatever was left over. (Thank you, Subway, I am thankful for your $5 footlongs, though despite what you said the calorie count was the fact that I gained 10lbs living in the US for two years doesn’t inspire me with confidence. Sorry Jared Fogle.) The loneliness and stresses had really got to me and the physical process of releasing that, while sad, was also liberating and relaxing. Of course, then I started a new job and new challenges started, but it was great to let go of my double life.

A Picasso at MoMA. I can easily imagine the woman seeing her different reflection experiencing the challenges of existence, presenting an outward face of calm contrasting with an inward face of unrest.

New York living can be as high octane as you want to make it and I used to be someone who would just go, go, and keep going forever until at some late point it was time to stop working or partying…and sleep a bit until the next day when it started over and over again. This is truly the opposite of mindfulness. I could let three months go past and hardly notice that it had happened, because I’d never stopped the whole time. Now I am savouring my moments in New York. We have our list of the ‘must dos’ because my husband and I – in spite of all of the difficulties and loneliness - both felt we had some of happiest memories in this crazy, beautiful city.

Running the reservoir. Always a must-do activity for me

On this five day trip I’ve had a rest each day, done at least one activity (e.g. visiting a museum, a landmark, taking a slow walk-run in Central Park), one meal (or maybe two, yep, definitely two) and drinks in one of our favourite places. I've also enjoyed writing postcards home to my friends and family. I used to write them every time I went away and I've missed not sending those missives of friendship and love from wherever I go to keep in touch on paper, rather than via our internet-focused existences.

Keeping on running. A glorious day for a run (/ walk!) in Central Park

Taking a slower approach to New York is very new for me, but I have been mindful of each experience. I’ve breathed more slowly (believe me, if this doesn’t sound like much, then it really is for me. 

Savouring the hot dogs at Schnippers. Oh yes...

...and savouring the art (the SHOE art) at MoMA (all by Andy Warhol)

I am Miss Hyperactivity…or at least I used to be), I’ve looked around and noticed what’s around me this time, tried to taste (tried a good few times to taste) the pasta, the burgers and the cocktails. I’ve made myself sit down and write this today while Mat goes shopping and relaxed. (Although, dear reader, I am just a little apprehensive at the prospect of his return from this mission given that he and I, partners and compatible in so many ways, are polar opposites in this regard, so I need to practise some deep breathing in case he shows up totally freaked out!) 

A night under the stars and bright lights of Manhattan.

All dressed up and telling myself to be confident in myself.

I’ve also tried to become a bit more body confident (which is another perpetual struggle, especially after all the weight-gaining meds, to wear my clothes with confidence and feel beautiful no matter how many size double (or triple) zero sharp New York women are wandering around, which used to bother me so.

The newly re-opened and beautifully refurbished Tavern on the Green. 

Here's the terrace on a stunning evening.

I have realised that I have spent so much time on previous holidays trying to race through everything and trying hard to have a good time that I made it almost impossible to have one. I’ve answered that question that everyone always asks you on your first day back at work (you know, “How was your holiday?”) with a lie. Nearly. Every. Single. Time. So you’ll see some holiday snaps throughout this post, some of the art I saw, some of the places I returned to and looked at with my new, clear and calmer and more content eyes. And if I’m stressed out tomorrow, well, at least I wasn’t today – or today so far. And that’s good enough for me. Till next time. x

Take Good Care. Being Cared For and Caring for Myself.

Caring in practice. A friendly hug is a wonderful thing

(Image copyright Jessica Florence)

I’m off on my travels again, this time to New York for a wedding and then after a brief stopover at home, on to Poland. As I’ve mentioned before in this blog, much of what I am trying to apply against my type is to be able to recognise when I need care and take whatever steps are necessary to provide it.

Find out more and pledge to contribute to caring in your own neighbourhood, here

This week is Carers' Week, so I've been thinking a lot about this topic. I'd like to honour all of my carers, the mental health professionals. Without all of these people and my beloved husband, family and friends I might not be here today to write this. I'm grateful to all who have taught new things about how to recognise negative thought patterns and how to try to apply these skills to troublesome times where all my unhelpful skills at over thinking, rumination and comparisonitis come into play with a fervour which could win awards. The fact is, we can't survive unless we care for each other.

However, for this blog, I would like to focus on two people – one I value above all others: my husband, and one I value much less and should probably attempt to value more: myself.

I’ve nearly been with my husband for ten years, and plan to post more about the fantastic ten years we have spent together. As with all relationships, we do of course have the occasional argument, about whether he should really be touching the kitchen knives given his propensity to cut himself badly by scarcely grazing the blade, or whether it’s really necessary to buy another book to add to our currently building-foundations-endangering collection…(No.)

Mat and me. Just two hamsters taking care of each other. In pots.

When we began to go out many years ago it was clear to me that this was a relationship unlike any other in my previous experience. We agreed since the start of principles of sharing bills and building a partnership. We both earned a similar amount when we started to see one another and wanted to build a relationship based on equality in sharing the restaurant bills, the cinema tickets, and over time, our living space from rented accommodation to our first bought house.

True love. Except Mat didn't have to wear the hat.

Probably for the best, he would have sat on it or something.

And even in our wedding (under sufferance!) my poor love forced himself through about a billion conversations with me about how our perfect day would truly be ours. He isn’t interested in clothes or shopping of any kind so to become involved in things such as wedding planning or even buying a new pair of jeans could not be farther from his interest level. A good book (or even a mediocre one), a nice cup of tea and a lovely piece of fudge would be his preference over any shopping-related activity.

I suppose our romance was something of a whirlwind after the initial total non-start (to be explained at length in another post to celebrate our 10 years together). We moved in together after 6 months and have been firmly by one another’s side ever since.

(Don't worry, I'm the one holding the flower in case 

Mat drops it and the poor butterfly gets hurt!)

At the beginning of our relationship I had just signed up to a tough intensive teaching and leadership programme which caused me a lot of stress, fatigue and money worries, as well as all of the amazing things that I experienced while working with some of the most brilliant students and excellent teachers and leaders. After only three months of dating, I was at the GP broken with tiredness and physical as well as mental symptoms across the board, such was my extreme struggle to keep going and maintain my job, do it well, maintain my (new, London) personal life and fit in some time now and again to live my new life in London.

Mat didn’t initially seem to understand (fully, at least) that I needed to take medication to continue to be able to function, work. He said he didn’t really agree with taking medication for depression, and initially had a hard time accepting it as something that required anything more than (every depressive’s least favourite phrase) “Pulling yourself together”. It was a real struggle at the time. I myself never wanted to be on medication for my depression. I preferred to not pollute my body with medication that had no guarantee of working, was still in the process of being developed. I also hated the fact that every single one did (and still does) give me ridiculous side effects that mean I take more pills to cope with them just to be able to keep taking the depression medicine. Ridiculous!

All that, and the fact that we were in the first stages of being together, where we hadn’t known with the wisdom of hindsight, but only in the first flush of true love – that he wouldn’t leave me realising that I was a difficult case…someone with difficult, heavy, unwieldy emotional baggage connected to (at times) acute mental illness. I think it would be fair to say that Mat didn’t understand depression the way that I did, because he had never experienced it to such a long degree, with so many bursts of down periods and my inability to get myself out of bed, take an interest in seeing museums or going on walks. I am so lucky that neither of us gave up on one another. I (as insecure as I was) knew how much I loved him and wanted to keep him at all costs; but the other part of me wanted to be honest In our relationship, and I knew that It was ever going to work out between us than I needed to be honest about an illness which I expected (and have been proved right) never really goes away forever, at least not in the last two decades.

Here we are, ten years (just a few days short) and counting. My lovely Mat has now had nearly ten years of experience living with me in my highs my lows, my delights and despairs, and my sloughs of despond. Many, many, sloughs of despond. (Which you would think would be attractive and interesting given the onomatopoeia of this phrase. It’s not. At all.) Because he understands depression and anxiety – at least from my point of view – he accepts that depression is a multi-faceted and complex illness; it doesn’t mean I can't get through a full week of work, see friends, run, walk, socialise (a bit, only at the moment but still…). He can make me laugh seconds after I’ve been in tears, and I can go and have a perfectly nice afternoon only to come home and need to retire because the whole social activity or the very act of going out has left me feeling totally defeated and exhausted.

So how does it work for us? I cannot express here in a single post how much Mat does for me. He makes every effort, in every area of our lives, to try to make my (at times) unbearable life worth carrying on. He loves doing things for me, and – I guess – that when he doesn’t love doing them, when he is actually wishing I could just be better or that this whole, boring and difficult stage of our lives could be over and I could be content, reading, writing, painting…shopping even…But he does carry on. He tells me here’s there and always will be.

Well all right then. I think I can make that work.

He emails me, tweets me, messages me pretty much every day while we’re both working, or if I’m at hospital appointments, to ask how I’m doing and send me things that cheers me up. When I can’t get out of bed he comes to see me, to kiss me and hug me and tell me, as I rest in bed shutting the rest of the world out, that there will be a better day to come and that I should accept that there are bad days, but they are not all bad.

In my darkest periods over my last few months I’ve stayed in bed many, many times all day. I’ve got up, showered, dressed and eaten, but just barely, from bed. I’ve cried after he has come home because I’ve been lonely and sick of myself. I’ve cried during social functions and we’ve had to beat a retreat or try to let Mat hold my hand and help me get through it. He notices. He holds my hand and looks at me without talking. He has told me again and again that he loves me and even though I find it hard to believe myself to be worthy of love quite often he persists. He seems to think I’m work it. And I am so grateful for this love which seems boundless.

I still quite believe it but I work on telling myself what he tells me, and get a little bit closer to believing in it, and recognising how amazing our life together is – despite the challenges I bring with my depression. He cooks, cleans the kitchen when I can’t, brings me flowers, buys me glasses of Prosecco and mini burgers or hot dogs because I adore them. HE truly is the most wonderful person in the word, and the fact that I spend every single day unsure of how I will feel is a massive burden on him to cope with all my mood changes, free-flowing tears without warning. (Especially in restaurants lately. Yes, I've become a restaurant crier.) And repetition of how bloody hopeless the whole thing is, and how I can’t go on (or don’t want to) and more.

Beware friends. I now do this ALL THE TIME. 

Don't say I didn't warn you when I start blubbing over the bruschetta.

Now in return I do things for Mat – because we are still very much a partnership. I’ll buy takeaway for us and take us out regularly to say thank you to him; I’ll paint and write him little cards, give him the sugary treats I know he loves (M&S ginger men and any kind of hand-made fudge are particular favourites), And I tell him that I love him but I would understand if he would leave. And he stays. It’s a miracle to me that he does.

The second topic I wanted to cover here is caring for myself (or self-care as we in the mental health area often call it). When it comes to this my ability to provide appropriate self-care for myself, for someone who has unrelenting high standards I’d say I perform pretty awfully in this respect. The fact is, that we are all responsible (as far as we can) for looking after ourselves and making sure that we can exist and survive adequately, and – if we’re lucky – happily.  

"Who me? I need to care about myself too? I totally forgot about that."

The fundamentals of what I should be doing for my self-care are to keep myself fed, clothed, clean and get enough sleep to function. Largely I manage to do these things, simple as they may appear. On terrible days I will often (now, as I become more self-accepting) call an achievement something like getting up, showering, washing and drying my hair. Those small acts on terrible days where I am drained, tearful, and devoid of hope might exhaust me, so the right thing to do for myself at that point might go to bed and rest some more – distract myself from my wretched thoughts with sleep, reading, watching Netflix box sets (particular ones…probably another post to come about what I can and can’t watch at these times).

Eat and sleep as well as you can. 

I find drinking fresh juices helps to reduce my anxieties.

If I can do it I care for myself by creating a nice space to be in – fresh bedclothes, fresh air, walks, cleaning the house (which is good exercise and good for the process of seeing things become clean and tidy when I long for order from my disordered, hectic and unrelenting mind.

There are other more complicated steps I know I have to keep practising (in both senses of the word) to take care of myself. I’ve learned (and continued to learn) to be more honest about my health on a day to day basis both with my husband, whose care and love I cherish above all else, with my work colleagues, with my mental health support professionals, and to a degree (using the assertiveness techniques I’ve learned) with everyone I meet.

For me, working towards self-care is not trying to make everyone like me (which I usually do). Not trying to make it my role to be the heart and soul of the party, exhausting myself (and probably everyone else) in the process so that everyone ‘has a good time) and I’ve clearly made an effort to be a good party attendee. It’s also about not telling myself off every second, well, second about something I’ve done that’s not been right in the past – like the time I shouted at Mat when I shouldn’t have, or the time I drank too much wine and fell asleep on the sofa at a guest’s house, drunk. If an elephant never forgets then I sure hope that particular species of pachyderm doesn’t have a propensity for depression, because my memory is never as razor sharp in its accuracy when I’m remember and flagellating myself for past wrongs. If there were awards for self-loathing and self-reproach, I feel sure I’d be a contender for the top spot.

Every day I just care for myself as best as I can, and some days I’m better at it than others. Mat helps me – every day - and I am so lucky to have him in my life in the first place, on top of which he is the most loving and giving soul to this mixed up, messy woman. And I want to care for myself because I’m working towards feeling like I deserve it – because I know I would always tell a friend or loved one that they were. You are worth caring about. You are worth caring for. You are special and even if it’s hard to see it, you have a place in this world. I will try to read this post again so I can remind myself that what I would tell others probably applies to me to. Till next time, please all take CARE. x

Roma = Amor. Something for Everyone: Shoes, Sights, Sounds, Spectators.

A couple of weeks after Rome and I'm still wondering where my waistline has gone, despite putting in a few more runs, walks and #fullerforlonger meals (thanks Marks and Spencer, but as I'm sure you know, fuller for longer does not equal fettucine a la Roma). I'm determined to get it back before I fly out to my next destinations New York and Poland, where I know for sure there'll be some more good food and drink on my menu...(I cannot resist.)

Colosseum and Forum...A View within a View

Luckily the magic of everything that makes up Rome lasts as long as the nail polish I applied on day one, and after a swift re-coat the other day I'm still imagining the eternal city in all of its glory. Graffiti, street signs, what seems like normal houses and streets to the people of Rome and will never, ever seem normal or commonplace to me. Everything I saw was worth photographing, affirmed by the two hundred or so pictures I managed to snap in just three and a half days.

Graffiti and street signs. It's art to me. So it's art.

We all grow older day by day, and those days seem to flash by past faster and faster so that the years seem to catch up with me, piling on top of one another and cramming what used to be full memories into snatches here and there. I for one am approaching a significant birthday milestone (or a mid-milestone, if you will) so more and more aware of my increasing grey hairs and diminishing grey cells. In the meantime I am delighted with the immortal beauty of Rome, particularly when the British weather really delivers on a rainy day (like yesterday) and I ask myself whether I really paid my decorator enough to plug my beautiful original wooden windows with filler and weather-resistant paint. (No. I'm sure I didn't.) What's more, writing this blog (I hope) will mean that unless the all powerful force of Google somehow ceases to exist, then I'll still be able to access these posts in my age to remind myself on (a laptop? That's like, so 2011!) of the places I visited in the times I did.

Totally gratuitous shot of Santa Maria Maggiore...

just because I was crossing the street and there it was

Never can one be more aware of time than when visiting the Colosseum. I first saw it face to face with only air separating us, rather than internet, in 1995, when it was closed for renovations, as was the forum. Now it's open for visitors and we were fortunate enough to get tickets to visit. They only let 3000 people within its confines at a time - I don't know whether because of health and safety or because someone somewhere has done the sums and figured out that it would take so many years for all those feet to damage the brick remains of brutality and beauty - but 3000 it is, nowhere near the original numbers of blood-thirsty masses for panem et circenses.

Look carefully to see the Ionic, Doric and Corinthian columns

I shall now say the following only once: "Fortunately, I had the trappings of a broken back so couldn't stand in line"; I say this because I told a very nice security guard this in Google Translate Italian and he let the three of us in immediately, without having to give up or try to stick it out in a 45 minute+ queue. (I would never have made it - grazie mille! Plus it turns out I actually said completely the wrong thing. But I got us in anyhow. We who are about to be tourists, salute you.)

Rome with a Queue. A BIG queue.

Apparently it was possible to get all those thousands of people in and out of those 80 original entrances in minutes. It was difficult to imagine the original experience, even with the reconstructed 'floor' in sandy-coloured wood at one side of the stadium. In its current state, far easier to peer and crane necks to all those many cells beneath the stadium 'floor' to where the sacrificial lambs of Rome were held before slaughter at the emperors' pleasure.

The left showing the platform recreated; the right the pit of the contenders

I've seen Gladiator, with all its many floors (I mean, "Roma, victor", really?!) and could not assimilate the remains of the Colosseum's amazingly complex, sturdy structure (even in ruins) with all those thousands of people. Plus, I can't believe the footage didn't include somebody, just somebody, complaining about the depth of the stairs to even get in. This wasn't Quidditch at Hogwarts; this was real life, and those steps were and still are steep.

Harry Potter confirms: "You're right, you can bet those 

spectators didn't try to climb any stairs to watch Quidditch."

We thought so, Hazzer.

So, when in Rome, you can't escape the tourists milling around the villas, columns, marble, piazzas and everything else. It's unlikely that you'd ever find any of these places deserted, because Rome is a true European city (unlike London) and things really do seem to keep happening twenty-four-seven. I couldn't escape them, as you can see from my photographs, but in the end, you either put up or move out, and I wasn't going anywhere else. (Plus, of course, I was one of them. Until I'm the tourist equivalent of David Attenborough this blog's never going to feature places that seem to be completely uninhabited, save the 15-20 production and transport crew accompanying me behind the lens....)

Colosseum and "Cheese!": your unavoidable collection of tourists.

Although I consider myself in part to be someone who has lived in New York and therefore possesses a little piece of that city for myself and in my life, I still hang on to my right to love the touristy joints (or what pass for them in my book). I hope I don't lose my outsider lens of any city I visit, although I fear I've lost it of London. In Rome, everything was special and unique, every terracotta shade of building, every style of iron grid over windows, every square. I loved seeing the stunningly preserved Ara Pacis and Caravaggio between gelati, but I also loved the ready-to-rent streetside scooters, the graffiti and yes, the washing hanging out of the windows, the nuns and the light-up popes. Everything is extraordinary.

Scooters-to-go: Knocking Boris Bikes right out of the water.

On the way to Trastevere

Old mosaics for new at the tube station by the Piazza del Poppolo

So no advice on what to see, if that's what you're looking for. I guess I think everything's worth it - which is a little unhelpful! The only thing I'd advise to the more discerning tourist (apart from telling the selfie sellers where to stick it) is not to dine in the main squares of the key attractions. The prices are sky high and the quality rock bottom. Use Trip Advisor advisedly, but really, just try and explore a little left field. My personal recommendation for guide books that are good for food is to select the Time Out guides, but second to that, perhaps choose reviews in the original language (if you can read them) or at least those which use better grammar - or bother to try! Although, for gelati, I consider myself lucky to have found (for starters, because it took two goes) San Crispino, plus Valentino which was great when we couldn't find Crispino (its sign is tiny!). (Okay, don't say I never give you anything. Here are Trip Advisor's best gelati recommendations...)

Pantheon.

Still, I had to see the glories of Rome one more time, ten years after my first visit, so I had to see the wedding cake, the Pantheon, forum (which is a real forum in the sense of amalgamating the styles and structures across different imperial eras, despite the attempts of emperors to tidy things up), and of course - again the Colosseum.

The Fantastic Forum

And final advice: buy some shoes. I brought six pairs out with me, and returned with nine. In retrospect I'm glad I took some with me; and my bank manager's also quite delighted.

My shoes + two pairs by Carlo Cecchini Shoes.

Leather that feels as soft as silk

I see when I read through this blog that it is a mishmash of experiences, the ancient and the new, the colourful modern and statuesque ruins, but I suppose that's how Rome was. A few slices of history, a sprinkling of the new and a hefty serving of gelato. Bellisima Roma...in every way. x

La Dolce Vita...When in Rome, Let's Roam...

La Dolce Vita...

When you’re all grown up in your thirties, and I say that with a profound sense of irony, for anyone out there who might miss it (i.e. who doesn't know that I’m a sarky mare) it can be hard to get together with beloved friends from one’s younger and more vulnerable years. My particular group of great friends, the ones you meet in your first term but do not wish to give up in the second, but in fact are the ones that you keep for life, see each other with bittersweet rarity these days, with all of us living either in different parts of the country or – at various times – abroad.

Centurion on his cell...

There is some sense of rightness, then, that in order to reunite we would need to do so on foreign soil, where all of our ‘otherness’ lives, our different jobs and partners and paths are momentarily put on pause while we hold our beautiful reunion together in a place unknown to all of us which sets us, once more, on terra firma of our long lost university days, when everything was before us.

And so to Rome, which wasn't built in a day, but where our marble and stone friendships survived in all of their original glory and rose to their former obelisks and mighty friezes as if we had never started to lay foundations elsewhere, as if this, the original project of our friendship, was all that there was.

Roma Roof Terrace

At university we had wanted beauty and love and learning, so there was really no better place (especially considering half of our party were Classicists anyhow), and there was also tennis and the promise of a Matisse exhibition as well as the eternal gelati and food in general to lure us. We stayed in the leafy and peaceful Parioli neighbourhood at a magnificent place found on airbnb which catered for 5 people, perhaps an unusual number for most, but perfect for our purposes. Here we looked out from a great height onto the unused gardens of the Polish embassy and ate slices of prosciutto di Parma on the roof terrace each morning (and possibly afternoon and evening, such is my obsession with that particular food stuff…)

Gelatissimi

I had packed with some ridiculousness, nodding at the style I so wanted to exude in line with the holy grail of fashion streets – la via Condotti – six pairs of shoes and four pairs of sunglasses, one per day. I planned my outfits to allow me to - comfortably (my feet (no I’m afraid I must mention my feet and my back, even though their decrepitude does not suit the style of a blog about Rome…) – explore the known and the unknown piazzi of the city and its treasures whilst styled in my most beautiful dresses and outfits.

Gardens of the Villa Borghese...Can you picture the nymphs at play?

We had a few shared quests: to eat ice cream every day, to eat well every day, to see Caravaggios and Berninis between this eating, and wander through the squares and streets together absorbing the sound of church bells and bicycles and melodious Italian voices (broken only by the equally eternal street salesman with their “Selfie!” shtick).

Security after the Selfie-Stick-Sellers

I joined the party post tennis, post sunburn from the tennis when there was no shade of any kind, but pre-Matisse Arabesques exhibition and a visit to the fundamentals of Rome: the Colosseum and forum area. With only four days I knew there would be some effort needed physically to attain more flavours of the city than simply a couple of (large) scoops of gelati, but nonetheless, barring my near decision to nix the whole trip in favour of a few hours more of precious sleep at 4am last Thursday when my alarm went off, I was delighted and determined to do.

Panzanella on the terrace. Perfect lunch.

I arrived in time for lunch on the terrace of our apartment, which was in a modern-ish building (comparatively; I think Augustus probably would have loved to have built marble elevators but even he couldn't make that work…) but with views of other mansion blocks (and I really do mean ‘blocks’) in the area. Jasmine and massive Amaryllises, as well as an actual Roman vine gently sat in stately fashion beside us and above us as we indulged in panzanella, prosciutto (of course) and pink wine.

Ah beautiful (not cruel) amaryllis

(I should say that I’m not planning to write much about my friends here, except to say that they are wonderful, because that part of my life is not just private (and of course they are not blogging so I respect their right to privacy) but even though I've made some attempt to tell you about our friendship I don’t think I could convey here how it works with all of our differences and ever make you understand how magical and potent a mixture of all the right aspects of a delightful long-standing bond ours is. Plus you’d never get all the private jokes, though some of those may make it into here, and if you’re not laughing, well, then, I was right, wasn't I?)

Dinner of steak and rocket...and parmesan savings. Delicious!

Fresh food is found aplenty in the UK of course, but just as you cannot, really, get croissants that actually taste as if they've been bought straight from the boulangerie, in London, you also find it hard to find prosciutto di Parma that has the remarkable dual features of being ultra-thin but extra-fatty and flavoursome. I’m a complete prosciutto addict at the best of times, but this stuff. It was something else. Worth the plane fare on its own. I had prepared for the trip carefully by packing loose clothing that would accommodate my ever expanding belly during the food fest, and I was glad even after that first lunch to have done so. I even indulged myself with a nap in the afternoon, choosing being awake and dinner with friends over the Galleria Borghese, because I still need to make these choices to ensure that I stay healthy and can last through a holiday.

Tonnarelli. So, so, so good.

I chose dinner locations (not sure why I decided to assume the stress position...) on both nights we ate out together during my visit, by the coincidence of my nap on the first day and because I and my friend Kristian remained alone for the last night. As always I was concerned to choose a good enough location (hello higher standards, nice to see you came with me to Rome) and consulted a few reviews on Trip Advisor, keen to see reviews in Italiano and for the price to suit our not-too-deep-pocket requirements whilst the menu satiated our tightening waist bands.

Beef carpaccio and red radicchio...delicious

At Mamma Mia, near the Galleria Borghese, dinner service begins at 7:30pm and I managed to convey in stunted Italian a request for table for four at 8pm to the charming waitress who decided – though it was clear that to make this request comprised the sum total of my Italian – to be polite and answer me in Italian (grazie mille!). We ate amazing first courses of delicate crepes with tomato sauce, zucchini and other vegetable tempura, presented in tiny ‘chip pan’ like mesh container, and thick, juicy mortadella adorned with balsamic dressing to add the sourness to the meat’s sweet flavour.

Crepes at Mamma Mia...and all I can say is, well, how can I resist you?

The next point is trickier to navigate: are we hungry enough for primi (pasta) AND secondi (meat) or should we divide and conquer? We chose the latter option (and I would recommend that less is more because they really do give you ‘more’) and therefore had the chance to taste some of both: ravioli with bacon and red wine (you had me at ‘bacon’) and tonnarelli with cacia e pepe – cheese and pepper – the Roman thing to eat and rich and fabulous, even though it sounds on paper like I’m describing the Roman equivalent of mac and cheese. Black truffled risotto had me drooling when the menus arrived and did not disappoint and nor did a tiny sliver of the enoteca and lardo salumi (I think that’s how you spell it…apologies if not) which is a moist and tender steak fillet with a very thin slice of fat stretched over the top, giving delectably fatty flavour. Yum.

Spanish steps...a panoramic tourist vista

The next day we ate pizza, Roman style, for lunch, ordering a selection of slices – we nearly didn't manage it all but forced it down like true British school children taught to finish what’s on our plate – and – of course – gelati. Photographs of food can never convey the flavour but, yum, again, and thrice yum.

Pizza Romana...So good I sacrificed my size to it

On the final night we wandered our way to Trastevere, across the Tiber, for a different vibe and type of square – not the massive stately piazzi with their grand churches and anonymous stone palaces but poky, tiny squares where there are bursts of bright flowers, old and new cars crushed into the non-existent parking options, and where you’re more likely to see someone’s washing hanging out of the window than be harassed to take a selfie or buy a wilting rose.

Trastevere - the Brooklyn of Roma?

We ate at Meridionale, another Trip Advisor find, after an almost unsuccessful email exchange where I tried to book dinner for 7 using email and misunderstood the reply – it was a ‘yes’ but we thought it was a ‘no’!

Prosecco chasers. Salute!

When prosecco chasers sent over, we already knew we were onto a winner, but here were our menu choices in this delightful, hidden gem: beef carpaccio with red radicchio and hazlenuts was delectable and huge, salmon carpaccio with tangerines and salad less impressive but juicy; spaghetti de l’nduja (spicy sausage) was spicy indeed and we were grateful for the rich but soothing familiar flavours of tonnarelli con cacia e pepe again…ahhh. No dessert here – far too full – but I can recommend the Poggiomaestro Toscana we drank with our meal, which was rich but not overbearing. A delight.

Andouille sausage pasta...spicy but nice

There must always be more to write about Rome, and there is, but with a full belly and happy heart I will leave it there for now and save the shopping and more for another post. A prossima! X