I’ll briefly skip to the would-be addendum of this tale and get it out of the way – and I will stress it was no fault of the hotel whatsoever. We did, dear reader, end up getting towed. Yep, towed. Nothing like an unadvertised marathon to clear the streets…
But, anyway, the wheels did not come off our 72-hour escape, so this is my first tip to you and I cannot stress it enough: sack off the wheels, do Rome on foot.
For our Roman Holiday, we – in blissful ignorance – hurtled our way towards the Eternal City from our home in nearby Abruzzo in our beloved Panda, banging out the best of Radio Kiss Kiss playing Italy’s excellent emerging pop-music hits (check it out, it’s having a major moment, I promise).
Mr Smith and I were a little early for check-in but the hotel had kindly already told us that so I had made a reservation at Sora Margherita, a long-time wish-list trattoria.
Luckily for those staying at Rhinoceros, it is a mere 10-minute walk along the Tiber before you have to duck into the most quintessential of Roman piazzas and gravitate towards its yellow awnings.
If you are given the option, eat inside because this place has the most authentic of Roman interiors and fayre. Fried artichoke (carciofo alla giudia) was recommended, as was the classic fettuccine cacio e pepe and pasta e fagioli. All were obediently ordered and promptly devoured with some very moreish vino bianco a casa.
Hearts and bellies full, we wandered back along the river to the hotel on the most beautifully sun-kissed evening. The water is mere moments away from the hotel and situated in arguably one of its most magical converges where you can witness locals taking a picnic on the banks and take an uninterrupted moment for an Insta shot – or infinitely better, put your phone away to enjoy some reflection and contemplation.
Back at the car park (T-48-hours to The Tow, obvs), we fetched our things and checked in.
First off, Rhinoceros Roma is not your usual hotel. If you imagine being walked into the Tate Modern and given your own studio apartment on the first floor, that more or less describes it.
Founded by heiress to the Fendi fashion dynasty, Alda Fendi, it overlooks the Arco di Giano, said to be the entrance to bankers who worked in the Forum Boarium, which has been sensitively preserved and which our room had a stellar view of.
If overlooking a structure from the mid-4th century isn’t impressive enough, inside we marvelled at the work from a current design legend, architect Jean Nouvel who was employed to design the interiors of each room. His signature stainless steel looms large in the details here, installed around the original stone walls with the gratefully preserved hexagonal white-and-red tilling underfoot.
His sensitive attention to detail is mirrored in every inch of our suite. As Mr Smith inspected the intersecting wall between state-of-the-art bathroom (that would connect to our Spotify account to serenade us in the shower as we bathed in Diptyque products), I had a nose around the kitchenette with its full ready-mixed cocktail bar (a martini, an old fashioned, a negroni and a Manhattan).
Anyone who has stayed in a very good apartment-hotel situation before will know what I mean when I say that this place made me think that I could actually live in 62 square metres for the rest of my life, such was its clever design.
‘Who needs loads of stuff?’ I thought to myself, imagining how happily we could live here Marie Kondo-style with our two cats.
(Nota bene: It turns out, that someone else had the same idea, and so relocated for a year and brought their dog. A note here that this is a pet-friendly hotel, which is to say when you’ve taken a holiday to escape your cat waking you up at 4am every day, it isn’t the most relaxing noise to have a dog howling at you through the night. We are as much dog- as cat-lovers, and so as sympathetic as we were to a pooch left solo in a strange place, we multo appreciated that the hotel management ensured it was taken out for a walk to settle its nerves.)
Morning arose, and fresh from a super comfy sleep and a happy-house shower, we hit the road. At the risk of sounding like the transport police, if Rome isn’t good for a car, then being a walking tourist ain’t kind on the knees.
So, second tip: unless you’re being chauffeured around the city (and to be honest, that would be a crying shame) scrap those sexy stringy Italian sandals you might have bought for the occasion (no grip; like walking on butter) and even be wary of the unforgiving suspension of sensible-chic Birkenstocks.
Bring your best recycled rubber trainers by your fave eco-fashion brand and you’ll be as kind to your pectineus muscle as you are to the planet.
That way, you can make it all the way to Villa Borghese on foot, a majesty of botany and tranquillity which sheds a whole new perspective on the bustle of Rome. Or traverse to Villa Medici Museum. I reckon you could even make a hop across the river to the Vatican if you wanted.
The latter already ticked off on a previous trip, we dropped back down to the centro storico as Mr Smith indulged a more basic tourist bucket-list item of mine derived from my love for The Talented Mr Ripley and resigned himself to an expensive coffee in a fictional coffee spot beneath the Spanish Steps. It could have been 1958 (if you ignored all us tourists).
For more of the original experiences we enjoyed, try Chakra Café in Trastevere – just around the corner from the more famous and bustling Bar Calisto (forever packed with nowhere to sit) which is just divine for a low-key aperitivo.
Equally as enchanting, if a little more well-known, is Trattoria al Moro, serving spaghetti carbonara since 1929. To walk it off, trace the steps of the sculptor Arnaldo Pomodoro, whose sculptures envelop the city in the most unlikely of spaces. We delighted in all, returning to the rooftop bar of Rhinoceros each evening, where the views are some of the very best in the city.
On our final night, fresh from a feast of more artichokes and homemade lasagne at Ristorante le Campana (the oldest restaurant in Rome, and another must-stop), we started to wander home – before flagging a taxi to the soundtrack of more jubilant radio beats to which we shared a singalong with our driver, Antonio.
It was the perfect end to our 72-hour Roman holiday – even if we had no idea at that point our means of leaving had been…disappeared.
So would we go back? In a heartbeat. I think I sort of decided to give this place five stars after less than 12 hours in the place, despite the dog howling and the lack of hot water for the first day of our stay.
Did I forget to mention that? Long story short, local roadworks cut the whole block off for hours longer than expected but, as well as giving me regular apologetic email updates, Simone, the hotel manager, took a night off our stay for the inconvenience.
He even jumped on his phone to help us locate our car at the pound outside town and arrange a taxi for us to collect it without a hitch when on departure we realised we had no means to actually, um, depart.
But that’s what you want from a hotel, isn’t it? Somewhere that is rare as well as real, and deals with things in the way you want them to – come howling pets, come water issues, come parking violations, come what may.
It’s easy to take it for granted when everything goes without a hitch in a truly beautiful place like this, but when the going gets tough in a home-away-from-home, it’s how things are handled and the people who look after you that you appreciate the most. This place nailed it.
Just remember, like a rhinoceros, visit on foot.
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When she’s not roving and reporting on fashion around the world, former Vogue staffer, and contributor to The Guardian, The Observer, and Wallpaper*, Scarlett Conlon, can be found exploring the hidden corners of Italy, where she’s now based.