Get Thee to a Nunnery: Letters from Italy, Part I

In the lower level dining rooms at lunch and dinner, the place comes vividly alive. The nuns become waitresses, zig-zagging among the wooden tables, dishing out pasta and stews from big steaming bowls, handing out pitchers of wine and baskets of apples and tangerines for desert. The food, prepared by Chef/Sister Rafaella is great—flavorful and hearty like the best of Rome’s simple trattorias.

I reserve ahead to take all my meals here, blending in with the mostly Italian guests—an enthusiastic group of fifth graders on a class trip from Liguria, a judge from Milan who checks in a couple times a month when she has business in Rome. We all bask in the sisters’ maternal attention and their pride in their dining room, that’s also frequented by locals. “Cardinal Ratzinger ate here twice before he became Pope!” Sister Cecilia tells me.

Casa Di Santa Francesca Romana
There’s not a nun in sight at this guesthouse on a quiet pedestrian street in Trastevere, one of my favorite old Roman neighborhoods. The fashionable young signora at reception tells me it’s an Istituto per Spirituali Esercizi—a training place for priests. Somber paintings of Popes and cardinals fill the shiny marble-floored salons and hallways, giving the place a holy vibe, and again the simplicity brings on a calm sensation.

The building was a 14th-century palazzo, where Francesca Buzza moved in as a twelve-year-old bride. She dedicated her life to charitable deeds, caring for the sick, and performing miracles, becoming so beloved by the locals she was named “Romana.” She died here and in 1608 was canonized as the co-patron saint of Rome.

My room has a three-star look, spacious with modern furnishings and a white-tiled bathroom with shower. The best feature is a big shuttered window that opens to a view of a neighbor’s rooftop garden—lemon trees, palms, and bougainvillea hanging above a narrow cobblestone street.

Since there’s no curfew I can hang out late with friends at La Fraschetta, one of my favorite nearby restaurants. Tipsy from wine and housemade amaro, I stumble in after midnight, avoiding the gaze from the lobby portrait of Pope John Paul as I wait for an elevator.