Vicolo del Cedro 12

Here we are sitting in our small living room listening to Mozart and reading the papers on Saturday afternoon. The shutters are open to the street and we can hear cars, pedestrians and a steady stream of Italian, vey little of which I can understand. (But I am trying and have even made myself understood.)

The house is charming and eccentric and just perfect for the two of us. A tiny entrance hall on the first floor and then up a winding staircase to the living room and a separate dining room. There's also a miniscule but fully equipped kitchen in which very little cooking will be done outside of breakfast. Up another flight to our bedroom and then up yet another to the fourth floor for the second bedroom. Halfway up again is a separate small study or sanctuary inside of which are perilously narrow iron stairs to the roof deck overlooking Trastevere.

Our landlords are an interesting mother daughter combination. Annuska is the mother, a translator of Scandinavian literature into Italian. (Think Pippi Longstocking or Ibsen.) Her daughter is Beatrice, an actress and singer as she tells me along with a lot of other random information about her health, her mysterious parentage,her memory loss(!), etc., etc., etc. Serious TMI. We also meet Roberto, their neighbor and sort of jack of all trades handyman who helps schlep our obscenely heavy suitcases up the steep and narrow stairs. Last but not at all least we meet Joseph, the local techie who is trying to install an internet connection but I am so sorry but we must wait for Telecom to come and that will be a week or 10 ten days but who knows this is Italy and what can we do. Which means so much for Skype until further notice. (Joseph, by the way, is a jew from Libya with a sister in Paris and a brother in New Jersey and parents in Israel.)

While Steve sleeps of course mother and daughter take me on a brief tour of the immediate neighborhood which I vaguely remember in my jet lagged state. That night Steve and I find our way to a nearby wine bar where everyone looks like Liz and her friends. Its the Italian version of Happy Hour but instead of greasy eggrolls and meatballs there's a delicious spread of cold antipasti out on the bar. After two glasses of wine we stumble home, happy but overwhelmed, to Vicolo del Cedro 12.