The idealism faded, of course, into something worn and occasionally jaded, but more appropriate. The delight remained bright and constant, though, as did the routine, which was fortified when work and reality seeped its way back into my life—bar, bakery, market, fishmonger, butcher, my kitchen, bar again—fixed points around which everything else rotated. I had never enjoyed living anywhere as much as my wedge-shaped quarter with its fierce sense of community and rich but commonplace history. I should note that Testaccio, and its shops, bars, and most certainly the market itself, is a far cry from any rustic, whimsical, or Mediterranean idyll you might imagine, for although charming and charismatic, it is straightforward, traditional, ordinary. It is also an area tangibly struggling with change and the age-old story of gentrification, of which I was the surest sign: rising rents pushing out the traditional parts of the community and replacing them with a new crop of people with deeper pockets. My guilt wasn’t going to change anything, but my loyalty to the local shops might. So I was loyal, and embraced la vita del quartiere (the life of the quarter) wholeheartedly.

In December 2005, in much the same way that I’d fallen into life in Rome (that is, reluctantly and unexpectedly), I fell in love with Vincenzo, a Sicilian who’d been living in Rome for 25 years. I began writing my blog in September 2008, when I’d been in Testaccio for three and a half years, and Vincenzo and I were still living next to the market, directly above a bakery called Passi and across the courtyard from the boisterous trattoria Il Bucatino. I was teaching full-time by now, mostly English to children through theater and music. The rest of the time I spent cooking, eating, and writing. I’d always enjoyed them, but these three things really came together—collided, if you like—in this small kitchen in this distinct part of Rome. I was plainly happier than I’d been in a long time.