The world’s second-largest rose garden is blooming in Rome, Italy. Although many travelers may skip it for more historical or religious sites, I recommend the garden, Roseto di Roma Capitale, as a worthwhile attraction. Thus ends my “review” part. I read about it in-flight. The article was in Spanish and English on a plane from France to Italy, and I was drinking Scotch. Talk about feeling international!
Having already seen many Roman attractions like the Vatican City, the Colosseum and Trevi Fountain, I set out for the rose garden. It looked simple enough on the map, near Circo Massimo where the chariots used to race. But when I exited the Metro, I went downhill when I should have gone uphill. After an hour of enjoyable yet aimless wandering, I sat on a shady hill on the edge of ye ol’ race track. I studied my map and soon, a man joined me and started giving me some tips about the city. He was a stylishly-dressed archeology professor, the metrosexual, Mediterranean, Indiana Jones to my lost school-girl in search of roses. When he offered pick up a bottle of Prosecco and show me (via his scooter) a nicer park and the supposed best view of Rome, I marveled at my good fortune.
Thus begins my “what not to do” part.
It could have been worse. He had a spare helmet, a gold star for the otherwise potentially idiotic act of taking a ride with a stranger in a foreign city known for scandalous men and dangerous drivers. The ride was quite short, albeit fast and fun. There were many people around, a few tourists but mostly Italians, so it seemed safe. Sitting underneath the orange trees of Giardino degli Aranci seemed much more dangerous, due to gravity, than sitting beside Italiano Jones. The Prosecco was refreshing, the view was indeed fantastic, and thinking of how I must have looked in my black and white striped sundress and wedge heels clinging to my driver’s trim waist as we veered around on his scooter, I felt like I was having the quintessential single-gal-in-Rome afternoon.
I was actually having the quintessential single-girl-‘bout-to-be-mugged afternoon. I wanted to take a photo to commemorate the perfection of the way my now-bare feet, his cognac leather oxfords and the bottle of Prosecco looked in the grass next to a fallen orange. As soon as I realized how awesome that would look on Instagram, he completely shifted personalities, from a knowledgeable and friendly academic in love with the city’s history to a very aggressive man in love with the idea of meeting me at my hostel later, and he did not want to hear “no.” I rushed to put on my shoes, looking for La Policia and listening for nearby English speakers in case I needed help or refuge.
He grabbed my arm and hissed, “I gave you the perfect day and would have given you the perfect night. You owe me for the Prosecco and the ride.” I should have just mustered the attitude that gives U.S. tourists a bad reputation and told him to shove it. But that’s not really my style. And maybe I had actually hurt his feelings! After all, a man with such striking footwear and impeccably-groomed eyebrows must be in touch with his sensitive side…
I had noticed when I wanted to take a photo that the price tag on the bottle of wine was €14.99, so I pulled out a €10 bill and said I’d split the cost of the wine if he had a few euro in change. He scoffed, “The Prosecco was €80; you owe me €40.” He had now hidden the bottle in his trousers so I couldn’t prove the price, and he grabbed for my bag demanding more cash. He got a €20 bill – honestly, it was a scuffle and such a disconcerting experience that I don’t remember exactly how, but I remember waiting in that populated park for at least an hour until he stopped skulking in the shadows and finally rode away.
I ventured out and followed a trail further up what I now know is Aventine Hill, where there are beautiful churches and even more parks. On my way down, I noticed a scent even sweeter than the orange grove – roses! There it was, the not-so-secret garden upon which my day had originally been based. Italiano Jones hadn’t even pointed it out when we rode nearby earlier. Perhaps he didn’t even realize it was there. Perhaps in his attempt to swindle me, or worse, he didn’t see how he helped me find exactly what I set out for.
Yes, it was a bummer to lose 2-3 days’ worth of food money and to fall for what is certainly a tourist scam. Rather than dwelling on my budget and naiveté, I see the bright side. For just €20, I got a motorcycle ride to two of Rome’s prettiest and lesser-known parks, an incredible overlook, a couple glasses of bubbly, the fragrances of oranges and roses unlike anything I’d ever smelled, and a safety lesson I’ll never forget! I hope that my sharing it now will help other travelers enjoy the wonder of Rome’s Rose Garden this spring, and maybe even another single gal will have a much better “quintessential afternoon” there.
Your voice matters!