OK, it’s not really MY home. But it’s always assumed when I come to Rome that I stay at the home of Marco, my gay husband. That way, everyone knows where to find me.
Before I give you the 25-cent tour, let me tell you a bit about Marco. He is from Bologna, and he was the first person I ever met in Rome, back in 2001. He ran the Internet place I worked out of when I was a moofer for a NY ad agency. He is kind, patient and generous. He cooks masterpieces in his tinsy kitchen. He likes collecting little things that have good design – a package of colored pencils, a clock, an ashtray. He loves his mom. He destroys me in Burraco, our favorite card game. He reminds me when it’s time for us to watch Amici and X-Factor, our favorite shows. And he lets me watch Will & Grace in English.
Here’s his little nest, where I come for cacio e pepe, hugs and tranquility.
The entrance. That wall is an aquaduct. I know.
The view looking up from his front door.
Hot peppers for cooking are in the mud room.
The living room. Marco is always on the long part of the sofa, and I am on the regular part. When we play cards, I am on the sofa and he slides the ottoman over.
He makes espresso in the morning, and then leaves me some for my latte macchiato.
His terrace, which is where we eat in the summer.
The view from the terrace. Leo and Vincenzo live off to the right; this part is tended to by their neighbors. There are wild roses, cacti, apricot trees, olive trees, orange trees and about a hundred other random things growing there. It’s guarded by two dogs that bark a lot, but shut up when we slam open the shutters and glare at them.
Oops! I almost forgot – here’s Marco!