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A Roman Holiday

A Roman Holiday






“Ceri, you did say ‘Grande’,” we reminded her when Marco the server at our Roman al fresco restaurant brought her out not a glass, not a pint, but an all-mighty vat of Sprite. She was equally shocked when we got our bill and her multi-litre drink cost over six Euros. But then, Ceri should not be surprised. She doesn’t do anything in size “small”. Her dinner-long flirtation session with Marco the Server was even in size “grandioso”. You see, Marco the Italian Server was also Marco the Ginger-Headed (cap that) Italian Server, and as we all know, that was more than our dear Ceri could resist. What was she supposed to do? NOT flirt with him? The three of us married-with-children-but-missing-nightlife-action-ladies left at the table took great joy at the firework display taking place right in front of us between Ginger Scottish Ceri and Ginger Italian Marco. 

Of the many male cab drivers, cycle lenders, armed military guards, and servers the GW would charm on our trip, Marco was her earliest and greatest conquest. This is not a qualitative measure, but quantitative: he left his number on her napkin . . . to meet him at a specified club later, to boot. Rather counterintuitively—despite her adorably nascent Italian protests—he still made her pay for the “grande” Sprite. Needless to say, she never showed up for what would have been her first Italian rendezvous. Hung-over on too much lemon and lime fizz, I expect. Or too loyal to her poor, ignored wallflower gal pals. She got to spend her evening doing model poses on the Spanish Steps with us instead.


Five days in Roma and Siena with one’s girlfriends is a treat in itself, but include in that mix someone who shuns the concept of inhibition and you have holiday crème brulee. Our first few hours together in Italy alone involved: a mosh dance in our room (see below), thanks to constant Ceri-provided background music; a Ceri-motivated . . . shall we say . . . “relationships” chat over Italian ice cream (literally across the street from the bastion of celibacy His Holiness the Pope’s chambers, I delightfully add); a Ceri-induced Italian lesson from our cab driver; and a Ceri-negotiated “back route” alley-way tour of Rome by said enchanted cab driver. Although these alleys were meant for bikes, Fernando the cabbie was having too much fun making we four ladies wince and yelp at all the near-misses. 


We didn’t just see some sights. Thanks to the GW’s insistence, we saw sights (Pantheon, Colosseum, Trevi Fountain, etc.) all dressed in matching virginal white sundresses. Of course. Maybe took inspiration from all the nuns. Ceri did make us photo-op with some. And with some Swiss Guards. And with guys in cheesy Roman Gladiator costumes who prey on people EXACTLY LIKE US! And with about a dozen heavily armoured soldiers. I think a few still send Ceri Christmas cards. She also suggested that we choose a “theme walk” (we opted for ballerina/model/cowboy) to take us across one of Rome’s busiest intersections. You know. The one by the Colosseum. Gratuitous video footage below.

What was it that Rome’s most famous Roman said?

“Veni, vidi, vici”?

When Ceri comes to Rome, she sees an opportunity, and she conquers it. And we were delighted to conquer it with her, gladiators and all.

If the GW lets me, maybe another time I can tell you what happened in Siena. Fake strip poker anyone?

Katie, for the Ginger Warrior, over and out.



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  1. I love those girls!

  2. Oh, what fun!!! I think I shall suggest just such a fabulous trip to any and all gal pals I know!! That’s for letting me life vicariously for a moment!! XOXO

    • “Thanks for letting me live vicariously”, is what that last line was supposed to say. :)

  3. Ceri, that waiter looks like Garry!!!

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