Click clack vroom… another white Vespa slid its way around the cobbled corner of a backstreet in Rome. A woman with dark hair in a pale dress is sat on the back clutching to the driver.
The driver, dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit, was one of many in a relentless stream of superbly outfitted metropolitan gentleman. Stood in my sweat-drenched t-shirt and withered trainers, they plagued my days in Rome with what I refer to as ‘suit envy’. As I admired the fashionable pair, I noticed row upon row of boutique suit dealers around us, each promoting their own cruel statement of tailoring magnificence.
Rome after 7pm is one of my favourite places to be. Night scythes away the crowds of tourists, and like a giant exhalation, the streets and walkways breathe a sigh of relief. Overhead lamps flicker on to pick out the blues and blacks of a hundred blazers along a parade of endless restaurants. Those in suits who hadn’t yet decided where to eat clapped the solid soles of their leather shoes against the cobbled pavement. To me, the contact sounded as if the stones were applauding the stylish choice of outfit.
At night, Rome becomes a window-shopping experience, knowing that you can’t afford the suit, the menu or the Vespa. Reconciling with this fact, I hope one day to return and experience Rome the stylish way and resolve my suit envy. With that in mind, I sat and watched with my gelato knowing that I didn’t have to worry about dropping ice cream on a newly tailored suit.