“Stop looking at the map, they’ll think we’re tourists.”

I dropped my suitcase and stared at him. Our trip to Rome had been hastily planned and the last thing we needed was to get lost en-route to the Vatican. And besides, between my frankly impeccable ‘mi scusi’ and a leather satchel thrown over my shoulder, I couldn’t see how we could be taken for anything but bona-fide Italians. “I just don’t want to be done over by some tourist trap. We want to experience the real deal, not some ‘synthetic paradise’.” My companion’s concerns were justified. Since we’d arrived, all we’d seen were scores of Americans, coaxed by the allure of cheap pizza and patterned table cloth. I glanced round at stands offering ‘Orthentik Gelato’ and surprisingly reasonable ‘Italian made shirts’. We were here to live like locals, not simply stagger around the sights, staring and posing for photographs.

“There was a sense of defeat; I wasn’t connecting with the Eternal City, walking her street, absorbing the culture, like that Telegraph article said I would”

Our arrival in St Peter’s Square eased my concerns for a while, taking rest by a plinth as we scanned round the colonnades. I took out my camera. This was the Rome I was looking for: great marble columns rising from the ground, holding aloft the saints of the Roman church. They stood to attention, all draped in togas as the sun filtered around onto the square. My eyes continued downwards and fell upon the hordes of tour groups shuffling around the area. Their presence dampened the grandeur of the square somewhat and I wasn’t at all impressed with the tour guides, who were all thrusting various items on poles to herd their flock. They’d spoiled the tranquillity and ‘religious undertones’ I was so promised in my Lonely Planet, and so, frowning, we got up and slowly walked back to the street.

There was a sense of defeat; I wasn’t connecting with the Eternal City, walking her street, absorbing the culture, like that Telegraph article said I would. Just then, a young boy sitting against the wall further on caught my eye: his accordion resting lightly in his hands as he sung aloud. I moved closer, at last, hoping to find some solace in the gentle refrain of his folk tune. Harry edged up behind as his wailing became clearer: “Deeeeespaacitoo, il y a de le deespaceeetooo.” This was the final straw. We marched on to the Trevi Fountain.

Thoughts of La Dolce Vita, renaissance grandeur and tragic ancient myths now flooded my mind as we tore down the narrow alleys of the city, aided by a map provided by the kind receptionist lady. Images of the artisans and philosophers who had roamed these streets floated around my head – I would be like Tom Ripley in that film I’d watched a while back: sipping espresso, listening to the street music and admiring the beauty of the streets before me. I checked back at the map and turned into the square.

TOOOOOT! “Geet doun from der plees!” TOOOOT! My hands clamped over my ears. TOOOT! Another policeman was doing it further down. I squinted as I tried to make out the fountain behind the swarm of tourists posing for photos. I clambered down the stairs for a closer look. TOOOT! This was the fountain alright. Angels and horses falling over one other in a frozen fury, all whilst the water and marble melted together over the jagged edges of the basins. This was the grandeur of Rome, the icon of Italy, so I couldn’t understand why everyone was facing away from it. Lines of faces fanned the site, posing while they were captured in the frame of the fountain. It seemed to me that everyone cared more to remember their time at the site than to ever really experience it. I wanted to take it in, I could stay for.. TOOOOT! Releasing my hands from the bannister, I jumped down and scampered up to get a photo with Harry. At least I tried.

Trips to the Colosseum and Spanish Steps occupied our next few days, the melody of Despacito following us as we toured. I was depending on the promise of an authentic evening out in Rome, secured through the expert knowledge of Harry’s mate from Uni, who, it emerged, grew up in the city.

“Okay,” we planned as we walked, “I want somewhere with music.”

“But not too loud”

“Not too loud, obviously. The guide says this is where the locals go.”

“Only if it’s not overpriced. I’m willing to pay so long as we’re – I mean not getting the wool pulled over our eyes.”

“Well yes, I agr...”

We’d arrived in the square. Restaurants and bars spilling onto the street covered the perimeter. Young teens were climbing and hanging off the statue that stood in the centre, while a roundish man swayed to each table, offering roses for the couples. We surveyed the site, conducting a quick assessment of the options available. We were in a quandary: We agreed to stay away from the tackier looking joints, but the smaller, more vibrant bars we’d hoped to go to unfortunately didn’t have English menus. My dreams seemed scuppered. At that very moment, we were sprung upon by a young guy with designer stubble offering us seats at his bar, which had more than 50 types of beer – “de most in aall ov Roma”. A flood of relief came over us. We took a seat and inspected the list – I settled with the Italian IPA. We made a toast with the couple behind us – visiting from Newcastle: “To tourists”. Well. If you can’t beat em, join em