A Roman holiday… with snow and kids
A LONG, long time ago, in a life far, far away, there was a young couple. Blissful, carefree, and most importantly childfree, they went on a romantic city break to Rome. They spent most of it in a bar, giggling at a sign: “Never mind the Trevi, come for a bevy”, and the rest of it wandering the streets hand in hand.
Fast forward five years. “Mu-um. Are we there yet?”
“No. We’re still at Gatwick.”
“Oh God, the baby has done a nappy. It’s leaking.”
“The seatbelt signs are on.”
“Well, you hold her then.”
“You’ve got her. Keep her.”
“Mu-um. Are we at Rome yet?”
Ah, the city break with children. Whose stupid idea was that then? We set off excited. The husband, the three year old, and the baby. When we landed in Rome, things began to go awry. This was only last weekend, and Rome had experienced its biggest snowfall since the 1950s. If you think London grinds to a halt in a snow flurry, imagine Rome. Roads were closed and cars abandoned. Shoulders were shrugged, and eyes were rolled. Transport was down, taxis were not running and museums were closed.
A three hour transfer from the airport, desperately feeding furious children placatory sweets, was our first taste of Rome in the snow, and it was a microcosm of a weekend mini-breaking with children; moments of gloriousness interspersed by moments of hideousness. They stuck their heads out of the window, tasting the snowflakes and laughing like angels. Then they whined. And whined some more.
We were staying at Rome Cavalieri hotel, a sumptuous place at the top of a high hill overlooking Rome. A high hill coated in ice. Our first attempt and we slid backwards. The consolation was watching the beautiful young Italians whose lives I would otherwise have utterly coveted, standing disconsolately next to their snowed-in scooters. Not so much Dolce Vita going on there.
On arrival the doorman bounded up with a shovel and a top hat. “Welcome to Moscow!” We were congratulated on our safe arrival to the point that I felt a bit intrepid. We beasted that snow! We sat bravely in our Mercedes, battling our way to that five star hotel. Just call me Bear Senior.
It is astonishing what a beautiful hotel room, sleeping children, a glorious view of a snow-blanketed eternal city and a bottle of champagne can do to restore depleted spirits.
The next day, we discovered the perils of mini-breaking with children. They are not really designed for it. Three year olds are not, it emerges, big fans of Renaissance architecture. The joys of wandering through beautiful streets, discovering hidden Piazzas and glorious churches, bypass the young mind entirely.
Our three year old liked the hotel. She liked it that every time she moved, a member of staff cooed and gave her a lollipop. She loved the pool. And room service. She loved, most of all, the turndown service. Every night, just as I was trying to get them to sleep, the door would ring and she would race to open it. “It’s the chocolate lady!”
“Two chocolates for the Bella bambina!”
The Sistine Chapel? Boring. The snow-crusted Coliseum? Bleeugh. A place where bedtime brings a chocolate delivery? Heaven.
We got through the weekend using the age old tradition. Bribery. The snow meant that all of Rome’s outdoor attractions were closed; the Coliseum, the Forum, the Capitoline Hill. No matter. I suspect all will be there next time we come. But as we wandered past the Roman ruins, I imagined Livia frantically promising her beloved Tiberius honey cakes to walk just a little further, or Agrippina dangling bribes in front of fat little Nero. It made me feel better anyway.
The hotel put us on to one great attraction for little ones. 3DRewind, near the Coliseum, is an indoor virtual sightseeing tour round ancient Rome. It’s well done, if a little cheesy, and Lara got to dress up as a Gladiator and pretend to kill me. She liked that.
She also liked building a snowman in the grounds of the Palazzo Barberini, and walking down towards the Spanish Steps having a snowball fight outside the designer stores.
On Saturday night, we got in a babysitter (miraculously, but not cheaply, the hotel provdes them at €30 per hour), and popped upstairs to La Pergola, Rome’s three Michelin star restaurant for dinner. The fripperies are a little daft; does anyone really need a salt sommelier or a water menu? But the food was extraordinary. I was expecting heavy and unctuous fine dining, but we got light and supple plates. Quality ingredients, simply cooked. The fagotelli pasta looked like something you could buy in Waitrose; but biting down brought a burst of liquid flavour, like a firework of cream and eggs and bacon going off in your mouth. A leg of lamb for two came with little adornment. But this was a lamb that had clearly been suckled by angels and petted by cherubim. We even managed to stay awake a little past 11 o’clock, something I haven’t managed for a year or two.
Struggling home after the hideous delays on the return journey, we agreed that a city mini-break with children is reminiscent of the Longfellow poem. When it is good it is very, very good, but when it is bad it is horrid. Just like parenting at home, then.
So we shall skate over the chaotic journey home to a snowbound Gatwick; the 4am pacing with a teething baby who really doesn’t care that her mum’s stomach is sloshing with wine and Michelin-starred food; the meandering that could have been, and the romance that once was. We will concentrate instead on the beauty of Rome in the snow, the glorious food and the unflagging loveliness that Italians lavish on children. We will think of the girls in the pool at the hotel, snow bunching on the glass roof, steam rising from their warm bodies as they giggle and splash. And we will think of them safely asleep, and the two of us awake, wine in hand and all of Rome spread out beyond our window, the dome of St Peter’s in the distance and the lights of the city twinkling just for us.
For more info about Cavalieri kids’ offerings, go to www.romecavalieri.com/kidscorner.php. Nightly rates start at €380 for a Deluxe Room, including breakfast and VAT.