arch in Rome tastes like artichokes. I order one at the start of every meal — carciofo alla romana, slowly braised in olive oil and mint — and never regret it. They arrive with a particular tautness and sweetness that belongs to the season. Setting one down on the table, over the days, becomes its own ritual.
Rome’s monuments glow differently while the city still sleeps
Most mornings, before sunrise, we strap on our helmets and ride the Vespa into the cold. Rome’s monuments glow differently while the city still sleeps — the Colosseum at dawn is another building entirely. Rome in that hour belongs to almost no one. The light comes in low and raking, the kind that makes travertine glow and turns every cobblestone into something worth looking at. Max, my photographer husband, shoots fast — he knows the light won’t last long. Campo de’ Fiori, before the market wakes, belongs to delivery drivers, old men cradling espressos, and the occasional runner. By nine, the spell begins to fray; by ten, it has vanished altogether.
For these days in Rome, I lean on a dear friend’s advice — born and raised here, neighbourhood instincts no algorithm touches. She gives us the city’s actual rhythm: the bars Romans go to, markets that never appear on tourist maps, piazzas that feel like living rooms because they are. We eat brilliantly every day. More details are on my Substack, We Go Anyway.
We deliberately change hotels three times. Portrait Roma on Via Condotti: apartment-style suites, an exceptional rooftop, and the most attentive staff of the trip. Bulgari Hotel Roma, a converted 19th-century palazzo near the Spanish Steps, with a garden courtyard that feels almost suspiciously calm for the centro storico. We stay longer than planned simply to sit in it.
Then, JK Place Roma. It sits in a narrow street behind the Pantheon and gives almost nothing away from the outside. You push open the door, and it takes a moment to adjust — not to the light, but to the register. Low-lit lounges, lacquered bookshelves, a small courtyard where late afternoon light arrives slowly and stays. It’s the work of Michele Bonan, the Florentine architect whose approach is consistent across everything he touches: restraint, domestic logic, nothing competing with the building underneath. The building is a historic Roman palazzo, its bones in the ceiling heights, the way light moves through the place throughout the day. The result is a hotel that feels like a private home.
Nothing in this city is neat. Little runs on time. The noise and the history and the traffic press in from every direction, and there are moments — usually around midday, in the tourist centre — where it tips toward overwhelming. And then we find a table, order an artichoke, and it rights itself.
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