Just South of Rome Read Free

reception desk was flaking a little here and there. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too expensive after all. There was no-one else in sight and, as I filled in the registration form, wondering vaguely where the Americans were, my eyes strayed around the counter trying to find the tariff list. There it was. The woman had turned away to select a collection of leaflets from the shelves behind her, and I edged down the counter. ‘Suite 400,’ it read. Hell! Then underneath: ‘Double Room 350.’ Damn! It was still fifty euros over the absolute limit I had allowed myself for the odd night of indulgence.
    ‘Tear it up,’ the voice of thrift said to me. ‘Tear up the registration form, grab your passport, say “so sorry, made a mistake” and get the hell out of here.’ But a voice that sounded suspiciously like Roland was telling me ‘Let go! Give in! Abandon yourself!’ Finally, it was neither Roland nor thrift that won. It was the voice of reason that told me I was in no situation to do anything other than give in and that Rome would have to be the cheapest pensione I could find.
    ‘I have here for you some information.’ The woman had turned back and was spreading a number of leaflets out before me. ‘This is a beautiful part of Italy, many pretty towns. Nemi is very famous for its straw berries.’ She gave equal emphasis to the two words, which confused me for a second until I glanced down at the leaflet sporting a big, fat, red strawberry above the name ‘Nemi’.
    ‘But our town of Genzano is the most beautiful,’ she continued without drawing breath, it was obviously her sales pitch. ‘Our town of Genzano is famous for its flowers. You see?’ She picked up the leaflet that read ‘Genzano di Roma’ and, above the name, was a photograph of a street completely blanketed with floral displays of the most intricatedesign. ‘The festival of the flowers,’ she said proudly. ‘So beautiful. The flowers, they cover the main street, from the piazza all the way up the hill to the church. For two days of every year we have the festival. For two days of every year people they come from everywhere to see. You have just missed it.’ She thrust a key at me. ‘Room 22 at the top of the stairs. Welcome to the Hotel Visconti.’ Another efficient smile, a brisk nod, and she picked up a mobile phone and disappeared.
    I looked around the deserted reception area. Had she gone to get a porter? I waited for a few minutes, decided she hadn’t and, when the lift didn’t work, lugged my suitcase up the grand staircase.
    Room 22 didn’t overlook the gardens as I’d hoped – it overlooked the main street. I pushed open the wooden shutters and leaned out as far as I dared. To the left, the road turned a corner and dipped out of sight behind a Shell petrol station. To the right, it stretched a kilometre or so into the town and beyond. Up the hill, at the very far end, I could just see the church, its white steps glinting in the last of the late-afternoon sun. This was the street featured on the front of the leaflet, I realised. This was the street that, for two days a year, was decked in flowers from the piazza to the church. I squinted into the distance. It didn’t look at all the same without the flowers.
    Plenty of time to explore the town tomorrow. I closed the shutters and turned my attention to the room. It was a nice room, painted cream, big and light and airy, with a high ceiling and a large brass bedstead, but it was somewhat characterless compared to the rest of the Hotel Visconti. The ensuite bathroom was adequate, but I certainly would have expected more for 350 a night. There was no shower recess, just a curtain on a circular railing so that one showered on the floor. The whole setup was clean and fairly new-looking, so I gathered that they had recently refurbished the place and done it as cheaply as possible. A pity, really. Were the other rooms as bland as this, I wondered. What aboutthe 400 suite?
    There was a tap