Georgia Fewell (G.F.)—and Archibald, her indignant orange tabby—arrived in Rome on August 13th, hauling a tragically overstuffed suitcase and the kind of anticipation only a city that smells like espresso and history can inspire. Slightly nauseous—whether from the generous pourings of a very gracious stewardess or the thrill ride between window and seat courtesy of an overzealous driver—they stepped onto beautiful basalt stones before a yawning pair of wooden doors. Between breathless pauses—and likely one too many repetitions of the only Italian word she knew, “grazie”—her eyes landed on their first stop: the Boutique Centrale Palace Hotel.
The front desk gentleman, in a display of improbable chivalry, insisted on lugging the suitcase up after them. This left him in a deep sweat and Georgia red-faced, repeating “grazie-a” until they were safely ensconced in the room, blissfully cooled by glorious AC and the faint scent of lavender from the linens.
Their quarters were a riot of color: green and yellow walls, bright orange furnishings, a large bed perpendicular to French windows opening onto a rickety balcony that begged for a daring lean. The bathroom—home to a shower with a rather unexpected pension for flooding—was bright with soapstone walls and floor, and had an entry framed by a bright yellow wooden unit that soon became the ultimate lookout for Archibald, who considered treats irrelevant when perched in architecturally sanctioned superiority.
In short: the room was perfect.
Rome, however, was not a city to be conquered by checklists. Fourteen hours stretched between arrival and the next train, and the goal was not tourist triumph but curated chaos: a deliberate dive into experiences that could not be replicated.
So naturally, she started with the Trevi Fountain — an “easy” nine-minute walk down Via del Corso, across Via del Tritone, and down Via Poli. Or it would have been, if the Roman sun weren’t blazing a blistering, frankly absurd thousand degrees. Well, 102°F to be exact.
Because here’s the point: if you’re going to travel, you put yourself where the history is richest. You let the culture soak through your skin. You walk the stones that thousands have walked before, each carrying stories of their own.
Along that walk to the Trevi Fountain, when you finally stand before the crystal blue water spilling from the hooves of seahorses and the soles of Oceanus and Tritons, you are not just sightseeing — you are stepping into a myth. And you notice the quiet shops tucked into the alleys, the ones most tourists would never pause to see: leather ateliers like La Sella or wooden artisan shops such as Bartolucci. These places aren’t selling postcards; they’re selling stories, stitched into belts and carved into whimsical toys meant to be passed through generations. (And yes, you can absolutely ignore the selfie-stick-wielding mobs without a hint of guilt.)
Stepping further into Rome’s trance, you wander down side streets and alleys until you emerge before the emboldened Pantheon, glittering against the crisp blue sky. You linger, just long enough to appreciate the weight of her presence, before being drawn toward the quiet charm tucked into the surrounding lanes: an artisanal gelateria like Giolitti, a tiny boutique selling hand-painted ceramics at Ceramiche di Via Margutta, or a bookshop like Altroquando, where the scent of old pages pulls you in more effectively than any guidebook. Each stop is a story; each alley, a whisper of Rome that the swaths of tourists cannot hear. (And yes, you may roll your eyes at the pizza slice vendors—there’s a reason you didn’t come for the street snacks.)
Then, as you join the masses to witness Rome’s greatest treasure — the Colosseum — you stumble upon an even greater secret, hidden not in the streets but above them: The Vista Rooftop Club. To enter, you present your reservation at a gate tucked within a stone-aged courtyard, then step into a small, red-lined, golden elevator that carries you to the front desk. There, you provide your membership — or become one — and watch with mild awe as the woman behind the desk radios to the top of the roof, summoning a personal escort to guide you to your chosen table. (It proved such a delightful surprise that she couldn’t tell whether her cheeks were pink from the unwavering heat or from sheer astonishment.)
From your perch, the city stretches endlessly beneath you: terracotta rooftops glowing in the afternoon sun, the distant rumble of scooters threading through cobbled streets, the faint aroma of fresh espresso drifting upward from piazzas below. A gentle breeze carries the faintest notes of jasmine from a nearby terrace. This is not sightseeing. This is Rome, curated — a perfect chaos of history, luxury, and absolute exclusivity.
And as the city softened under the deliciously rosy-gold glow of evening, Georgia sampled a small selection of complementary bites — though the whipped ricotta left her quietly nostalgic for her father’s spice-laden cooking. The night closed with a slow wander back to the Boutique Centrale, a panino in hand — stuffed with porchetta, prosciutto, and arugula between two glistening, oil-soaked slices of ciabatta — and a prosecco piccolo for that inevitable, reckless lean into the rickety balcony overlooking Rome below, with a one orange tabby stretching out beside her as he prepared for the real journey to begin: the Travel to Bologna.
G.F.
Curated Chaos 