Excitement in Rome from back of a Vespa
Scooter tours provide access to views unavailable to most and the adrenalin rush of weaving through Roman traffic
ROME—Sitting on the back of the Vespa, I watch the dark green sedan inch closer and closer.
We’re stopped at a traffic light, and the car’s Italian driver, chatting busily on his cellphone, isn’t paying attention. Just as his vehicle drifts across the lane and threatens to knock into us, the driver of my scooter slams her palm down on the hood. Startled, the man snaps back to reality and hits the brakes.
The light changes, and our Vespa hurtles forward, leaving the chaotic knot of Roman traffic in the dust. Ciao, amici! Italians’ love affair with the Vespa has been going on since 1946.
The manufacturer Piaggio introduced the scooter. Vespa is Italian for wasp. When Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck buzzed through the Italian capital in the 1953 film Roman Holiday, the scooter’s popularity shot ahead.
On a recent trip with my husband and in-laws, we arranged a professional Vespa tour of the Eternal City. On a humid spring afternoon, Annie Ojile, an American expat who’s the brains behind the Vespa tour company Scooteroma, and her fellow Vesparazzi pick us up outside our rented apartment. Annie hands us helmets and directs us to climb on behind our guides. I mount up behind Annie on her cherry-red Vespa. No dark, romantic Gregory Peck type for me this time. But Annie knows her way around Rome, and that’s what counts. The morning rain has cleared. As we file out of the cobblestone alley, my husband asks his driver whether the damp road will be a problem. I’m glad I didn’t hear the response: “It’s like putting ice skates on a Vespa,” the driver apparently said. We’ve scheduled our tour for a Sunday, when the traffic in Rome is a smidgen calmer than normal, but Annie and the other guides are still cautious as we zigzag through a confusing array of streets. We make our way toward the Palazzo Venezia, the monument to a united Italy’s first king, Victor Emmanuel II. We stop at the tribute that locals like to disparage, calling it “the wedding cake,” and Annie gives us some broad strokes of the city’s history and points out detail, such as the balcony above the piazza from which Mussolini gave many of his speeches. The clouds have cleared and the sun is shining as we wind around behind the monument and up a short paved hill. Over the buzz of the scooters, Annie and I chat about our respective moves abroad, adjusting to a slower pace of life, and our Italian heritage. We stop at a park over- looking Circus Maximus, the ancient chariot-racing stadium that Annie calls the “NASCAR of its day.” Annie is engaging and funny and, as a driver, aware, without being tortoise-like. It puts me at ease. As we meander over to Aventine Hill, a posh residential district dotted with gardens, I let go of the centre seat strap and snap pictures of my family riding behind their guides. They smile, wave and flash two thumbs up. We scoot past a bus and a smattering of cars jockeying for the limited parking spots and pull right up to the walled entrance of Giardino degli Aranci, or the Garden of Oranges. Hopping off our scooters, we stroll under a canopy of Roman pines and take in citrus-perfumed air and sweeping views of Rome. Back on our scooters, we zip just a few blocks over to the Piazza of the Knights of Malta. Far from the grand piazzas of downtown, this concrete square is unremarkable, save for a few tourists clustered outside a marble arch with a large wooden door. We join the group and look through the keyhole, where we see the dome of St. Peter’s in the distance. We drive along the outside of the thick, ancient city wall that rises more than 10 metres above the modern road and park outside the main gate of the Via Appia. Wandering down the road, our guide points out the wheel markings of chariots that once travelled from Rome to the Adriatic Coast along this route. We dash back toward downtown, waving and tooting our horns at fellow scooter riders, and weave through Testaccio, once a workingclass neighbourhood, now a trendy spot, where we pop into a café for a thimble-sized espresso and biscotti. Revived, we make our way toward the Great Synagogue of Rome. For the first time, we’re travelling along busy, multi-lane roads, and the kamikaze driving makes me glad that I’m not behind the handlebars.
Finally, we pull into the Jewish ghetto and park near the synagogue.
I catch my breath while we watch elaborately dressed wedding guests lingering outdoors. The bride arrives, and we take in the flurry of satin, sequins and tulle. When the streets are quiet again, we talk about the walled ghetto that was demolished when Italy was unified and the impressive synagogue with the square dome meant to distinguish it from the city’s Christian churches.
In a single-file scooter line, we twist and turn past terra-cotta-coloured buildings up a tree-lined hill. I inhale wafts of sweet honeysuckle between occasional whiffs of the exhaust from the mid-1950s scooter my husband is riding ahead of us. (Scooteroma uses both new and vintage Vespas on its tours.) We ascend Gianciolo, a hill west of the Tiber and just above the Vatican. I dismount and take in a view of Rome’s skyline that, according to Annie, few tourists see because this spot isn’t easy to get to.
Back in the thick of the city, we bump along cobbled alleyways — equally picture-perfect and pinballesque as I bounce on my seat. We run a final gauntlet, swerving to avoid pedestrians, including a group of nuns who’ve spilled off the sidewalk while waiting in line for gelato.
At a cafe-lined street not far from the Piazza Navona, we say farewell to our drivers, who zip off. Ciao, amici! Scooteroma. Offers several guided Vespa tours, including the popular half-day motorino tour for about $195. 612-216-2460 or 011-39-338822-7671. scooteroma.com. The Washington Post