By Lisa T. Bergren

Our arrival into Rome is less than auspicious. Everything takes longer than expected or proves impossible; the rental car, the Friday night traffic, the phone with international access, the directions to the inn, the GPS.  By the time we roll up in front of Locanda Rosati, we are stressed, bickering and exhausted.

It’s hardly the entry we’ve imagined for our romantic, Italian getaway.

We creep in, knowing that dinner’s well underway or long over, and listen with pangs of loss to the laughter in the next room. No one’s at the front desk…everyone appears to be gathered next door. We peek into the long room, clearly once a cellar, now a gorgeous dining hall, with a massive farm table set for twenty-two.

Giampiero, tall and slope-shouldered, jumps up and hurries over. “My friends, my friends! I about to call the polizia!” We immediately feel recognized, known, welcomed, even if we doubt his sincerity. “You like to see your room? Yes? Yes.” He’s already in motion, leading us up three flights of stairs to an attic haven. “You freshen up, then we get you your dinner.”

“We’re not too late?” I ask weakly, feigning manners. We’re tardy, after all.

“Too late? No, no,” he says, waving at me like he’s slapping my face for the silly suggestion.

We race downstairs, anxious we’re missing the party, and sit down at the end of the table beside our host. He waves to a man in the kitchen and food begins to arrive, with oohs and ahhs from our tablemates—people from California, New York, Norway, Amsterdam, Germany, Sicily. There are families with young children, a gay couple, many others in various stages of matrimony. But their attention’s on us, reliving the courses they’d already enjoyed—first a plate of vinegary deviled eggs, washed down with a generous glass of Locanda Rosati’s own Sangiovese (“My friend, down the road,”
Giampiero says with a shrug, “He makes a decent wine.”)

The second course is what Shannon, across from me, dubs “heaven on a plate,” and the flamboyant, friendly man beside me claims is “to die for.” We quickly agree as we dive into fat tufoli with that uniquely Italian tomato sauce, fresh-from-the-garden, slightly sweet, igniting every taste bud. “Wild boar cheek,” Giampiero explains, waving over the dish like the master magician, before he uncorks another bottle of wine and refills our glasses.

We’re quickly coming to love Giampiero.

The others move on to dessert and grappa, served in a mishmash of small shot glasses. But our eyes are on what’s next for us, a fantastic fennel, fried golden brown, with a hearty, pork stew in a light, delicious gravy.

Happily satiated, we sit back to learn more of our companions, their travels, our host. Three hours of heady, animated, wine fueled conversation later, we drift outdoors, through an olive grove and to the edge of a cliff, where below us, Orvieto’s cathedral glows.  Now this, we think, hand in hand, is what we imagined.

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo and HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competitition.