August 19, 2026 My escapades as a backpacking New Yorker have taken me to some pretty cool places, but nowhere felt as familiar, ancient, vibrant, or as close to home, as Rome.

Close to Home

The eternal city needs no introduction, but if you haven't been, understand this: there's a reason so many New York City landmarks have Latin inscriptions all over them.

I wish I studied Italian growing up, because no matter my heritage, when I reached Roma, I was just another American. Which at first was fine with me, because that's only natural, and I like to mind my own business in a new city anyway, spending my days walking around and my nights writing...or looking for trouble.

Nightfall on the Tiber

On one such evening, looking for trouble, I strolled into Trastevere, a pretty hopping district south of the Coliseum right off the Tiber. Narrow cobbled streets, ivy covered brick, little tables for two set out for couples to eye each other across icy aperitivos.

I haven't been to France yet, so I'm not going to sit here and say that Rome is the certified city of love, but there's no question Cupid was in the air that night.

A slight melancholy settled over me, cruising that neighborhood, dressed to the nines, completely unable to communicate with any of the local people passing by. It's not that they don't speak English, it's just that they don't want to, and why should they?

Usually, I find the whole solo traveler keeping to themselves bit quite peaceful, but that night, I felt a little lonesome.

Maybe it's because I associate Italian food with family, or because I felt drawn to the locals through shared lineage (even knowing there's no close connection) but I was aching for a friend, and that's a bit rich, coming from someone who left behind everything and everyone they ever knew to see the world on their own.

The Art of the Walk-In

Be that as it may, strolling down an alley, up an avenue, sipping a $2 ready to drink can of Tanqueray gin and tonic from a Tabaccheria, I was building up quite the appetite. Some say there's no bad meals in Rome, but that doesn't mean there isn't a scale, and I for one believe I know how to pick a great spot.

My number one rule for walking in - no reservations - to a restaurant is that if it looks too new, too shiny, or too neon, it's not it (unless I'm in Tokyo, then all bets are off). Number two, if I see a line, I turn the other way. I don't care what Instagram trend is working people over, I'm not waiting in line on the street for a carbonara, ok? That rules out just about every new spot in New York City right now, by the way, which makes me nauseous.

East Meadow Meets Roma

I'm walking and enjoying my cocktail, minding my business, when around the corner I overhear some English being spoken on the patio of a bustling little trattoria, doors thrown wide to let the soft night air into a dining room with frescoes on the wall and classic white table cloths. A little bar in one corner, tasty plates everywhere you turned. There was no reason not to sit down.

The two women on the patio who'd been speaking my language were American ex-pats all too happy to share a bit of airtime with a table for one from the states, so we chopped it up a bit as I took a table beside them.

"You're from New York?"

"Born and raised."

"You gotta meet Ricky,"

As if summoned, the guy running this joint; mid-forties, clean shave, dark hair, slides up to the table with a pen, a notepad, and an attitude.

I order in Italian - bufala salad, saltimbocca, glass of house red (touch of class).

Ricky smirks at me.

"Where you from, bro?"

His accent was unmistakable - real New York.

I told him where I call home.

"No shit," he said. "I'm from East Meadow, came back here to help run the place twenty years ago. Never went back."

The Late-Night Table

Turns out he grew up a few minutes away from my aunt and uncle on Long Island, which meant that long after the other customers had paid and Trastevere quieted, me, Ricky, and three of his buddies, a Russian, a Serb, and another Italian, were chewing the fat in a mix of English and Italian over enough digestivo to put Don Corleone on sabbatical.

As the amaro flowed, the cigarettes burned, and time stood still, we laughed and commiserated about the way things were, how they were going, and, how they had been. Every conversation circulated through New York and Rome - the eternal city and the big apple. It felt almost as if one couldn't exist without the other, and for Ricky, hanging out with me was like introducing a long-lost cousin to the rest of his pals.

Alle Fratte di Trastevere

That's the thing about being a native New Yorker. No matter where you go, you're a citizen of the world. Until that night, I never really understood what that meant. Now, I cherish that memory of dinner at Alle Fratte di Trastevere.

If you ever get the chance, tell my buddy Ricky that a writer from New York sent you there. The food's the real deal. Made from scratch. No influencer required.

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