Ciao from Roma. The diarist has made it to the Eternal City and even had time for a quick squint at some of the landmarks before getting down to work. “Piazza Navona?,” asked a colleague. “No, I just had a 12-inch margherita,” came the response.
The Italian capital has always stirred the senses with its intoxicating sights and sounds. As the sun set and I watched the beautiful people amble hand in hand, I was reminded of that old Dean Martin ditty, On an evening in Roma. “Down each avenue, via, street or strada, you can see ‘em disappearing two by two.” It was then that I realised I was looking at a couple of my drouthy colleagues stumbling into a bar.
*Ah, the lap of luxury. The official hotel for the Ryder Cup players this week is the swanky Rome Cavalieri Waldorf Astoria, a place so posh even the toilets deliver a polite cough before they flush.
As for the diarist? Well, I’m in the more modest surrounds of a budget Air BnB apartment in a fairly lively district. The good news, of course, is that great gallons of Vino Rossi abound to help drown out the general racket of the streets below as we cosy in for the night. As Caesar didn’t quite say, “I came, I saw, I conked oot.”
*Arriving at the Marco Simone club, the diarist was swiftly confronted by a colossal edifice. No, not the media centre breakfast but the vast first tee grandstand which rises to the heavens. A couple of my more veteran associates, armed with crampons and Kendal Mint cake, set off yesterday on an ascent towards the mist-shrouded peak of the press viewing platform. All being well, they should reach the summit by the start of the Sunday singles.
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