Where's My Credit Card?

Our last night in Rome. We walked through the park, up the Spanish Steps and into our favorite hotel bar, the Hassler Rooftop Restaurant. It was here we had our first cocktails in Rome and it was only fitting we start our last night here, too. Two bellinis, a glass of wine and three Rossinis (strawberry puree instead of peach puree, ala the Bellini) later, we were off in search of a place to eat.

Stumbling down the Spanish Steps and onto the Via del Conditi, we turned right into a little alley and found Trattoria Otello. Sitting at the red-and-white checkered tablecloth tables were old men with bowls of pasta and playing cards in front of them, Italian women speaking their own language to each other and long tables of families sharing enormous bowls of pasta and antipasto dishes. We stood there, in the courtyard of this hidden gem, when a waiter came over and ushered us to a table for two.

On the menu: red wine, tomato salad, prosciutto and mozzarella, spaghetti bolognese and eggplant parmesan. As soon as we ordered my mouth started watering. I reached into my bag to grab my camera and instead grabbed my wallet. MFTM paid for drinks with my credit card at the Spanish Steps bar and put the receipt in my bag. But, where was my credit card?

The look on her semi-drunk face was priceless. "They forgot to give it back to me!" she said.

Off I ran, back down the Via del Conditi, up the Spanish Steps -checking potential peddlers and street vendors wanting me to buy something, passed the kids lounging on the steps with their beers and cigarettes, running over only a couple of tourists to get to the Hassler Rooftop Restaurant. Thankfully this night, I was wearing flats. They had my credit card waiting for me, and a shot of lemoncello to soothe my anxiety.