Roman Crazy Read Online Free PDF

reproductions of its art and travel guides for reference couldn’t have prepared me for the full Roman immersive experience. What was that line from Good Will Hunting ? I bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. I was the Will Hunting of Rome. There wasn’t a textbook available that could put into words what this city looked like to virgin eyes.
    The brilliant late-afternoon sun chased the rooftops glistening and gleaming over steam pipes and clay tiles. The city even had its own sound. You could almost hear the history with everystep on the road, every scoop of gelato, each slap of the pizza, and every buona sera shouted from the stoops. Daisy pointed, I gaped. An explanation of what I was gawking at always came seconds before she had to practically push up my chin to stop a pigeon from roosting inside my mouth.
    We sat for a much-needed rest on the edge of a fountain. I leaned back, soaking up the last of the setting sun when Daisy said she’d be right back.
    Sitting beside me, she held out a bag of arancini. “Something to hold us over until dinner.”
    â€œThese are ridiculously good,” I moaned, biting into it with gusto. The melted mozzarella at the center was incredible.
    â€œYou’re in for a treat, then, because this is just street food. This place we’re headed, Avery, you’ll want to marry the gnocchi. Melt in your mouth and sinful. No, no, get the arrabiata, spicy and delectable. Wait! I know, get the fresh pesto. The garlic sings in your mouth!” she rambled excitedly.
    I warmed at this version of her. Even though back home Daisy came from a well-to-do family, had a top-notch education, and grew up in the same wealthy, Waspy lifestyle that Daniel and I did, things weren’t that easy for her. She never quite fit in with the crowd we ran with. She was a tomboy in a sea of debutantes.
    Always the first to challenge authority, especially the mothers like Bitsy who looked down their noses at an intelligent, driven, and God forbid, opinionated young woman, she rankled people with her independence.
    Here, European Daisy was carefree, ebullient, and so full of life it was shining out of her. Anything that may have held her back at home was fostered here, not smothered. This life suited her perfectly. She embraced the culture fully and without a care in the world. She ciao d and come stai d to everyone we passed.
    â€œAnd the zuppa? Dio mio .”
    â€œWhat does that mean, dio mio ?”
    She shrugged, waving to another shop owner. “Something like oh my goodness . I don’t know, really. Everyone says it differently, too. And don’t get me started on all the different dialects; the dialects alone are a completely different language.”
    The area of the Rome where she lived, I was discovering, was a living and breathing organism.
    â€œIt’s not as touristy as, say, right up by the Vatican or the other hugely popular landmarks. Trastevere,” she said perfectly and excitedly, “is a younger crowd. Working class, amazing nightlife, but very chill. It’s like this little secret corner of the city that’s fiery and magnetic.”
    â€œIs that why you picked this neighborhood to live?”
    Nodding, she pointed to an alley coming up. “The firm helped me scout places before I moved here from Boston. This was the first place I looked at and I didn’t bother checking the rest. I fell in love with my little corner.”
    â€œI can see why.” It suited her with the bursts of color and energy.
    We walked down a small alley that felt like we’d entered a postcard. Bicycles leaned against the roughened lemon-colored buildings. Lines of clothes were draped between them, dripping fat water droplets around us. Tables topped with white umbrellas were filling up. Singles, couples, families—everyone taking seats and greeting each other.
    Daisy chirped nonstop. “The pistachio gelato here?