When does buying olives and cheese nearly make you cry?

When you are buying them at the loveliest, sweetest, most delectably delicious salumeria in the most perfect and adorable neighborhood in the greatest, most beautiful city in the world... and when you know you are soon to be leaving that magical neighborhood with that wonderful shop.... (perhaps forever?) No, I'm not leaving Rome. As much as she frustrates me, I don't think I could bear to part with her. But--at least for now--I'm leaving Trastevere.

People always ask me, "What is so great about Trastevere? It's so crowded/chaotic/loud at night/touristy/overpriced/cliché/covered in graffiti... Why do you insist on living there?"

Oh, only for a million and one reasons. But the one I'm thinking of right now is the one and only Antica Caciara. Baskets of the freshest ricotta cheese on the planet sit temptingly in the windows, along with dried meat hanging from the doorway with the worrying tag "Coglioni di Mulo" (mule's testicles). Inside the smell of the cheeses and cured meats could tempt even a vegan. Row upon row of olives, tubs of freshly made pesto and other sauces, barrels filled with bottles of local wine, narrow wedges of parmigiano lined up on the shelves. But all of this isn't the best part.

The best part are the people who work there. If you've ever lived in Rome, you know that the shopkeepers here are not always the friendliest bunch, especially if you are a dreaded foreigner. But the owner and his two charming assistants are the loveliest and most helpful people imaginable. Not even in my home town of Seattle--where customer service is an art form--have I been treated so well. Roberto, the owner, is soft-spoken and patient, carefully explaining how each cheese should be served and stored. At first I thought he was just unusually kind (which he is) but his assistants (one of which I assume to be his wife) are as courteous and friendly as he is. Samples are obligatory and leaving without a chat is unthought of.

As I bought my gaeta olives, I realized that this might be the last time (for a while) that I visit this delightful bottega, the reality of my departure from Trastevere--and all that I will miss about it--came crashing down on me. The winding streets, the cobblestones, the local shops on every corner: the fishmonger who keeps laughably short hours, the green grocer with his overpriced but glorious wild asparagus, the old man who beautifully frames my cheap prints, the two ladies at the laundrette who distinctly disapprove of me, the guy at the wine shop who's always ready with a smile and a "ciao bella!"...this is what I will miss most. Enveloped in the warmth of my adopted community, the graffiti fades into the background and all I see are ivy-covered buildings. My ears tune out the incessant car-alarms and revving of motors and I hear only churchbells. Even the stench of urine is covered by the scent of wisteria and freshly baked bread.

Vicolo del Leopardo, Trastevere [Source]

Trastevere means, "across the Tiber" and it is a neighborhood distinctly separate from the rest of the center of Rome. When you are there you feel it: time slows down a touch, the buildings get shorter and the streets get narrower. Sidewalks don't exist. A knife sharpener pushes a file attached to a bicycle through the streets, shouting up to the windows so the casalinghe can run down with their knives. They say some of the oldest Trasteverini pride themselves on never venturing to the other side of the river. And sometimes I think, well, why would they?

When I told Roberto and his wife that I was leaving Trastevere, they were sad, because they could see I was sad. "Trastevere è un piccolo villaggio dentro una città," said she, my thoughts exactly. "Trastevere brilla..." said he, and it does. On a sunny afternoon, approaching the Ponte Sisto, the bridge's sanpietrini shine as if lit on fire, like a golden brick road leading to the neighborhood I love best in all the world. From the battered fountain to the crooked rooftops, the medieval towers, the umbrella pines, and at last the Fontanone.

An Ode to Trastevere