Last year, when my world became small, I craved bigness. In cinematic terms, I fantasised about a blockbuster of a European city break, with dazzling special effects, a big-budget set, a melodramatic script and an improbably glamorous cast. On what felt like the 7000th dreary, identikit day in a row, I promised myself that my first post-lockdown international trip would be Rome.
Rome, to my intense embarrassment as a travel writer, is the one big European city I have never visited, and I had two long years to ponder this bad decision. Sure, Rome is not cheap, with none of the legendary gastronomic bang-for-buck as Naples, for example. Rome is not cool; in fact, Rome was at its coolest 2000 years ago, so a weekend in Rome doesn’t have the…