We wanted a spontaneous vacation, and hadn’t bothered with international data plans, learning Italian, or figuring out Roman public transportation. It turned out English was spoken at all tourist sites, which made us feel like lazy travelers. But I had read about a special neighborhood, bohemian, romantic, “authentic”. Propelled by my eloquent descriptions, one sweltering July evening our family of four walked across Rome and into the neighborhood of Trastevere. Being that half of our family was composed of tiny children, we made it as far as the Piazza di Santa Maria - a cozy nest woven from narrow, colorful alleys. This part of Rome was built by the outsiders - sailors, fishermen, freed slaves, persecuted Christians and Jews. Trastevere was counter-cultural - at various times hosting secret Christian churches, marauding arsonists, Communists, gangsters. It is ancient facades and cheap souvenir shops that we see now. The long arm of commercial tourism has reached here too, and plastic Colosseum magnets beckon to be pocketed for only two euros. We are supporting the economy with our bellies, so pasta is sticking to our children’s hair and faces, creamy strips lie rejected on the cobblestones around our table. As shadows creep up the piazza walls the space fills with other tourist adventurers - families, students, couples. A magician clown holds court by the fountain, and the laughter that bounces off the hot walls is something else that he juggles, another layer of magic. The Via della Paglia is warm, tangerine, and beckons us, just off the Piazza. The evening is going well so we give in to our curiosity, confident that we’ll meet the Tiber around a few pastel corners and follow it back to our apartment. Spiky potted palms and velvety petunias brush against us, the ornate balconies drip with greenery. Music undulates louder and quieter around every corner. We are enchanted. Rome’s streets beguile until they betray: micro turns, languid bends, unexpected corners. The music and laughter fade away. We are wandering dark, empty streets cradling sleepy children. My tired feet feel every pavement crack - the cobblestones have also ended. There is no river. The squat pastel houses have grown into multi-story apartment buildings. Trastevere towers over us, dark and imposing, insisting that we return to the tourist attractions where we belong. We keep going, and within a few blocks Trastevere opens up again: we pass children giggling over cones of gelato, young people watching a film screening on a patch of grass, women in headscarves. The streets are cooler now. Real Trasteverians - the bohemians, immigrants, and students - are enjoying their evening. We notice the buses have stopped running. We cross streets, switch sleeping children, pass dark apartment buildings and enter black alleys, switch children again. Silent. The Aurelian Wall hugs Trastevere to itself, firmly escorting us down the Viale delle Mura Aurelie. High above us there is music and laughter bathed in lights. There is a chill in the air. I am tense - is it safe here? Are there gangsters and arsonists around the corner? In the darkness under the wall there is a crowd of sullen men on the sidewalk. They cradle beer bottles, watching us with glazed eyes. As we get closer their numbers seem to grow. My stomach clenches - if there is a good place to murder tourists, it is here, sandwiched between a five story high wall and some shrubbery. But at that moment my husband makes eye contact with the leader and delivers a firm, confident nod. The crowd nods back, silently acknowledging the sleeping children, our tired faces, and the ranks part. We have earned the right to pass on, unmolested. I realize we are back on our familiar Via di Porta Cavalleggeri, a wide road that borders the Vatican. A light beckons from the top of Saint Peter’s cathedral as if to say, all is well, all is safe. We stumble along, fumbling for the iron gate’s latch. It groans in welcome. The children are sticky and dusty in their beds, pasta still in their hair. We sit for a while, dazed, slowly realizing we had experienced the real Trastevere we had searched for, and that we’d do it all over again.