Bart Och - Travel Journalist
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I woke up early though it must have been past midnight by the time I fell asleep. A bunch of house parties in the neighbourhood reminded me of the time I lived on the high street in Romford, a small town just outside of London. Weekends there were always loudly intoxicated and, for the most part, sleepless. I didn’t care for it at first because I would often be working till late and then, after the shift, go to one of those pubs. And it doesn’t bother me here in Rome either. I am usually quite exhausted from all the walking because we simply don’t use public transport; the nearest metro station is about the same distance as the city centre. Then, it would be a shame to commute beneath the cobbled streets and miss all the beautiful monuments in between each more recognisable landmark: opulent churches and bustling plazas with active fountains where people chow down on their fast-thawing gelatos and thin-crust pizzas and sip Aperol on ice served in old fashioned glassware. Envious and hopeful that “an ice cream a day keeps the doctor away” (is it only appropriate to say so in Italy?!), I fervently partake.

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