Aperol spritz

This morning facebook told me that a year ago today I made my first reservation for my October 2015 trip to Rome: I’d bought tickets to see the ballet Gisèle at Rome’s Opera. It was in Rome that I was introduced to aperol spritz, and now I’m obsessed with Aperol.

A trip to Rome was an impulsive decision I’d made in July. I set up price alerts for flights and a few days later I was notified that there was a $770 return flight to Rome in October for a 10-day trip span (my ideal duration!). I mulled it over during the day and, that night, at 10pm, booked the flight. “I don’t know anything about Rome, but I have no doubt there’ll be plenty for me to see and do.”

It was my first trip by myself – not traveling for work, not meeting friends when I got there, not knowing anyone over there.

It was my first Saturday night in Rome and I decided I’d go out for dinner by myself. I figured I would try the restaurant that ladies on my Vatican tour had recommended, which they went to as part of a culinary tour.

When I got there it was packed and I was told it would be a 45 minute wait. I was starving so I went to get gelato at my now habitual gelato place, as I waited. I picked fruit flavours because they’d be more appropriate as an aperitif: kaki, cherry, banana.

I went back to the restaurant 40 minutes later and enquired about the status of my table.

“Well, you can have a table if you’re willing to share it”, I was told by the guy I assumed to be the owner.

“Yes that’s fine.” When in Rome!

I was seated at a small table for two sandwiched between the kitchen/dessert fridge and a table of four. Mr Owner jokingly drew a line across the paper on the table to indicate our designated spots. Shortly thereafter, a guy was escorted to my table.

“Is it ok that I sit here?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“Yes, yes.” I said, smiling.

We were given menus and water.

“I’m Sarah.”

“I’m Ricardo. Where are you from?”

“Canada, you?”

“Cádiz, Spain.”

“I’ve been to Cádiz! I dance flamenco.” Cue his surprised face.

Conversation flowed after that. Ricardo was a pilot and he’d just flown in that day and was flying back the following morning.

Ricardo had ordered wine and then offered me some.

There I was, in Rome, on a Saturday night on an impromptu blind date with a Spanish pilot. The people at the table next to us, who were from a city near where I live, were clearly listening and highly amused by the scene.

We chatted through all of dinner. He told me I should try aperol spritz, a typical Italian aperitivo drink.

“Are you getting dessert?”

“I don’t know… are you?” I asked. I had told him about my pre-dinner gelato.

“I was considering it.”

“Me too.”

We had dessert.

We paid our bills, got up, and left.

“Bye Canada!” My neighbours said.

“Would you like to go for a drink?” Ricardo asked me, as we stepped outside and I’d assumed it was the end of our date.

We went to a Trastevere bar a few steps away. There, I had my first aperol spritz.