Some cities are museums; Rome is a sitcom with ancient set design.
I spent a summer there working from tiny cafés, weaving through Vespas like a video game, and trying (failing) to blend in when ordering coffee.
I left sunburned, sorbetto-fueled, and with a running list of Italian quirks that still make me laugh—in the affectionate, “of course it’s like this” way.
Here are the 9 that pop into my head whenever I hear a scooter horn or smell tomatoes blistering in olive oil.
1) Coffee is a speed run, not a hangout
I love a languid oat latte with a novel and 90 minutes of my life.
Rome loves a 15-second espresso inhaled while standing at the bar, like you’re clocking into deliciousness.
The choreography is precise: “Buongiorno! Un caffè, per favore.”
Thimble arrives. Sugar? Maybe. Sip-sip. Prego. Done.
If you sit, prices magically grow legs. If you order a cappuccino after 11 a.m., at least one nonna nearby will telepathically ask if your stomach is made of concrete.
Once I tried to sit with an espresso and write. The barista slid me a glass of water and said, very kindly, “This is not New York.” I took the hint—and the shot.
2) Lines are theoretical; justice is swift
At museums, bakeries, and bus stops, queues are more vibe than rule.
It’s not chaos — it’s choreography.
You hover, make eye contact, and the staff clock the order of arrival with eerie fairness. The second someone tries to sneak past a grandmother with a tote of chicories, the entire room turns into a Greek chorus.
I’ve seen a butcher point his knife (politely) toward a line-jumper, and the man actually reverse-walked back to his place. In Rome, justice isn’t blind—it just prefers you to stand where everyone knows you belong.
3) The receipt ritual (scontrino) is a tiny religion
You know that little strip of paper you decline everywhere else?
In Rome, the scontrino is a passport.
In some shops and cafés, you pay first at a register, receive your sacred paper, then march it to the counter to exchange it for, say, a cornetto or a cone of fried artichokes sent from heaven.
Once, I forgot to grab mine and tried to claim my espresso.
The barista’s eyebrows: Michelangelo-level. “Scontrino?” she asked. I ran back like it was my thesis defense. The system works, and I will never again underestimate the power of a receipt sliver.
4) Water fountains better than your bottle service
Rome is dotted with nasoni — stout, cast-iron fountains gushing cold, drinkable water like the city is a generous uncle. You cover the spout with your finger and, whoosh, a perfect arc into your mouth.
Tourists watch locals do it like it’s a magic trick, then try it and baptize their shirts. I once saw a man fill six bottles, a dog drink politely, and a toddler baptize a baguette—same fountain, two minutes.
Meanwhile, restaurants hesitate at tap water; order acqua naturale or frizzante and enjoy the pageantry. Rome: stingy with chairs at coffee bars, generous with water in the street.
5) Dinner is a time zone; August is witness protection
At 7:00 p.m., your stomach says “pasta.” Rome says “aperitivo.”
You nibble olives and potato chips, drink something spritzy, and wait until 8:30–9:30 to be a person who eats dinner. The payoff is twinkly piazzas and the kind of pasta that makes you write texts you’ll regret.
Then Ferragosto arrives in mid-August and the city collectively vanishes to the sea.
Your favorite trattoria? Closed. The tailor? Gone. The entire street? Quiet as a church on a Tuesday.
I love the audacity: an ancient city that invented “BRB, beach.”
6) Produce scale purgatory (the lesson I learned thrice)
At supermarkets, you bag your fruit and veg, then weigh and sticker them yourself before checkout.
The third time I forgot, I wheeled my basket to the cashier, built entirely of un-stickered peaches, and watched her smile the smile of someone who has seen my type before. She held up a peach like Hamlet with Yorick’s skull, pointed toward the scale, and everything inside me became a small apology.
The good news: I can now operate any produce scale in Europe with my eyes closed, and I’ve never loved a peach more.
7) Scooters: chaos in theory, ballet in practice
The first week, I treated Rome’s streets like a live-action obstacle course and assumed I’d perish by Vespa. Then I realized it’s a polite ballet where everyone assumes you’ll move like you mean it.
Crosswalks help, hand gestures help more, eye contact helps most. I once saw a man steer a scooter with one hand, hold a pizza box level with the other, and nod thanks to a bus driver who gave him a lane.
Reader, he did not drop the pizza. The scooters buzz, the cars squeeze, the pedestrians glide.
Somehow, everyone arrives.
8) Bread is for sauce real estate, not butter
As a lifelong bread-with-butter enthusiast, I had to recalibrate: the pane lives to escort sauce into your face. That last bit of tomato and oil on the plate?
Enter scarpetta — the ritual of wiping it clean with bread like a tiny, civilized squeegee. Ask for butter and you’ll get a look that says, “Do you also microwave gelato?”
Bread comes to the table plain, sometimes a cover charge (coperto) tags along, and honestly, I respect the hustle. Butter stays in Northern Europe; olive oil and residual glory rule here.
9) Gelato has rules—and the pistachio test never lies
Rome taught me to judge a gelateria by color and shape. Neon mounds piled high? Tourist bait.
Modest tubs with muted tones—pistachio like wet moss, banana like linen, strawberry like blush?
Get in line. Sorbetti saved my plant-based heart all summer: dark chocolate that felt illegal, melon that tasted like cold sunshine.
My favorite vendor asked if I wanted panna (cream) every time, and every time I said no — he nodded like we were co-conspirators in a moral tale. I still dream about a grapefruit sorbet that tasted like a kiss from an enemy in a novel.
Final thoughts
What I love most is how these quirks add up to a thesis: Rome expects you to participate. Stand at the bar. Keep your receipt. Learn the produce scale. Walk like you mean it across chaos. Eat late. Vacation shamelessly. Use bread like a paint roller. Pick gelato with your eyes, not your sweet tooth’s neon fantasies.
You don’t watch Rome — you join it. And even months later, somewhere between a street fountain gurgle and the pop of a scooter exhaust, I still laugh—because of course it’s like this.
Of course, the city that mastered ruins also mastered receipts. Of course, a cappuccino is a morning creature and dinner’s a night owl. Of course, the gelato whispers, “choose wisely.”
Consider this your permission slip: when in Rome, lean into the quirks.
You’ll come home with better espresso habits, superior crosswalk confidence, and a permanent soft spot for any city bold enough to schedule dinner like a second sunset.
Dining and Cooking