‘Rome is full of tourists’ thought the Scribe as he emerged from the Metro, and to all appearances he was right, crowds bustled around the Piazza dodging cars, scooters and locals alike.
He followed the flow towards the Fontana di Trevi, doing the “tourist bit” just for a short while.
Using his height, he caught a couple of shots of the fountain over the heads of the crowds who vied for a position at the edge of the water.
Time for a drink.
Making a rapid exit from the tiny square he took the path of least resistance, or at least the one with the fewest tourists. It did not take long for the backpacks and selfie sticks to disappear and be replaced by shoulder bags and umbrellas.
As he made his way up the street a sign hiding behind the folded material of a weather worn table umbrella caught his eye.
On a greying blackboard someone had tried to freshen up the lettering and now the bright white chalk proclaimed “The Public House”.
Just inside the double doors with their flaking paint the entrance to the bar stood open, loud Italian voices spilled out onto the pavement as he took the steps up into the dull interior.