I spent the total of a year living in Italy before I made it to Rome. I had never thought too much about going until I was given a strange and rather exciting incentive.
It’s not that I didn’t want to go… it’s just that after years of living in the overtly commercial New York City, I was basking in the otherness of the magical, fairytale-esque Florence. And until I experienced it for myself, I had thought of Rome as just another metropolis.
Historical, sure. Preeminent in the world of art and architecture, of course. But culturally captivating? I wasn’t so sure. Romantic? Almost certainly not.
I was quickly proven wrong. (No big surprise there.) The food was fantastic and unique, the city itself was dripping in magnificent antiquity and the energy it emitted was palpable. Vibrating at a frequency that transcended the excitement of the tourists was the unequivocal love that the residents of Rome had for their fair city. It’s what gives it life. It’s what makes it more than a museum.
However, the context of my trip to Rome is what shades it such pretty color in my mind. A spontaneous weekend getaway with a beautiful boy will do that to a place.
While for everyone else it is home to the Sistine Chapel, the Colosseum and Trevi Fountain, for me it’s the backdrop for a lovely little love story. Long talks and slow kisses, late mornings and later evenings. He liked my eyes and the easy way I laugh. I liked his smile and his quick mind. He called us “best friends and lovers for a weekend.” And then he flew back to France and I took a train back to my own beloved city.
I thought my fairytale was living in Florence… turns out, it was waiting in Rome all along.
