More famous Roman sights today: the forum, the Colosseum, the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, the Vittoriana – or, more precisely, the bloody great wedding cake looking thing.

More importantly, we sat about with our gelato (yes, more gelato), while Kylz instructed me in careful detail on self-preservation amidst Italian traffic. Lesson one: just wave vaguely to indicate ‘Yes, I see you, and I’m going to cross directly in your path while you lean on the horn, shout obscenities and nudge my kneecaps with your bumper.’
Laws are clearly seen more as ’suggestions’ here; on the highways there are actual lanes and ‘unofficial lanes’. Where in Australia cars are valued as prize possessions, in Italy they are viewed purely as a mode of getting you where you want to be, and the state that your car arrives in matters not.

The trick to merging in Italy is said to be to pull out in front of a metrosexual with entirely too much hair gel in a particularly expensive Ferarri, because he will care about unsightly dents, whereas your average bozo in a battered mini will not mind rebounding off you in the slightest.

Touch parking is all the rage, and is haphazard at best. Kylz tells me she once saw a parked car being ticketed, and wandered over to see what the offence was (or rather, which of the many offences committed was deemed ‘most’ offensive.) According to her translation, the ticket read something along the lines of ‘Please perhaps maybe if it would be at all possible do you think maybe , I mean would you mind, if you could possibly park a little teensy eensy bit more neatly next time. Please. From your friendly neighbourhood parking officer.’