Disorderly Conduct

Chaos.

This is how I can best describe the roads of Rome as I watched from the footpath. Cars weaved around pedestrians (and each other), drivers regarded road signs more as guidelines than rules, and there was hardly a centre line in sight. In Italy’s capital, hopping on the back of a scooter seemed like flirting with fate and yet, despite the disorder, I wanted to be part of it.

Smaller is better when it comes to vehicles in Italy. Cars appear laughably clunky as they slowly pulse along towards their destinations, but scooters, brimming with vigorous energy, buzz through the streets. These motorini flutter wherever there’s room, straddling rows of traffic, cutting corners at intersections and zooming off at the exact moment the light turns green. It makes sense that famed scooter brand Vespa means ‘wasp’ in Italian — what it lacks in size it makes up for in sting.

It’s iconic, too. Before I even set foot in Rome, I envisioned exploring the city by motorised bike as the quintessential Italian experience. Blame Instagram, blame Roman Holiday, blame any coffee-table book filled with snapshots of Italy. So vividly did I picture myself perched atop a scooter that I could practically feel the leather seat under my legs.

I wasn’t foolish enough to rent my own, and instead hired a driver to chauffeur me around on the height of chic Italian style: a lipstick-red Vespa. Sporting a helmet and clutching the slick metal grab rail, I braced myself for the pure pandemonium of the ancient city’s roadways.

We took off, and instead of mayhem, my surroundings became a breathtaking Italian film unfolding in real time. Nonnas leaned out of windows, smouldering cigarettes in hand, as they scanned the streets with vigilant eyes. Couples chatted casually at the petite, round tables that crowd the exteriors of beloved restaurants. The faded hues of wise, old buildings blurred, dusty peach transitioning to sunny goldenrod and then into drab tan.

My scooter squiggled through the winding alleys of Trastevere, a lively neighbourhood filled with cafes and eateries. It glided past the piazza in one of Rome’s oldest districts, Rione Monti, and the fountain where families and friends gather to socialise at all hours.

And then it turned the corner.

The nearly endless street wavered gently in front of me as if someone had hurriedly drawn it by hand, and the route of awkward cobblestones was flanked by crumbling, faded facades. My eyes were instantly drawn up to the behemoth we were all heading towards: the Colosseum. Laid out in front of it were hundreds of automobiles, bumper-to-bumper, their red brake lights blinking haphazardly.

And as we zipped our way past car after car, chaos never looked so lovely.