Maggie’s emails are the most in-depth, but I end up writing the least to her. She tells me about work and the problems her sister is having with taking care of their grandma. She wants my advice and wants to know what I’m doing and how I’m feeling, how I’m really feeling, and the more she wants to hear from me the more I want to pull away. Maybe it’s easier to write to Jen and Cristina because they stick to more surface topics. Maggie mows over surface topics with a dump truck. She remembers everything and wants to talk deeply about it and all I want to do is forget.
As for my novel, writing is going...okay. I have three weeks left before my deadline and I’d like to say I’m making significant progress but that would be a gross exaggeration. I’m tooting along little by little, but the ending just isn’t coming to me. Everything feels uninspired and lackluster and I don’t know how to fix it.
On the plus side, my Instagram game is absolute fire. My balconies make for killer backdrops and I buy antique trinkets and fresh flowers from a nearby market for staging. I even took a thirty-minute train ride outside of Rome to Tivoli so I could visit Villa d’Este, a 16th-century villa that’s open to the public. It has show-stopping gardens and fairy-tale-caliber fountains and thank goodness I brought three books with me that day. I shot each of them in locations more idyllic than the next and my posts have been blowing up.
Sightseeing is a welcome distraction and the highlight of my days. With my handy-dandy Italian Metro card, I pick a destination almost every afternoon and hop on the Metro after lunch. So far, I’ve been to the Coliseum, the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain twice.
I can’t get enough of that freaking fountain. I could sit there and stare at it for hours. The best is seeing it at night, all lit up with the smell of the running, splashing water flowing through the air. It’s swoon-worthy—that’s the only term that captures it.
I’m contemplating where I’ll visit today as I sit on my favorite bench near the back of my apartment complex’s cobblestoned courtyard. I may or may not be eating pizza marinara for breakfast—which is cheese-less pizza—but that’s beside the point.
The city is fully awake with the early morning commute dying down as tourists take to the sidewalks, ready to dive into the best of what Rome has to offer. I blend easily into the background as the courtyard becomes more populated and I have to say, I like going unnoticed—being alone. That is, until I find that I’m no longer alone.
The figure now standing two feet in front of me is tall and imposing, blocking out the sun that was just keeping me perfectly warm. I squint as I look up and it takes a moment for me to see anything other than a silhouette.
Once my eyes adjust, I find that my sunlight stealer is a man. His auburn hair contrasts sharply with his fair skin and I can’t quite make out the color of his eyes. He seems to be in his midthirties, but his dark denim jeans and navy polo shirt give nothing away in the age department. I continue to look at him as he glances down at me.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but are you eating pizza?” He has a British accent, which would explain his paleness. He looks at his watch and I’m unable to answer since my mouth is still filled with the aforementioned pizza. “You do know that it is only a quarter past nine in the morning?” His voice sounds aged. Maybe he’s older than I thought.
As it happens, I’m not particularly in the talking mood, especially not with complete strangers who insult my pizza, so I look around the courtyard to start plotting my escape. “Mi dispiace,” I then say in my best Italian accent. “Non parlo inglese.”
He gives me the once-over. “You don’t speak any English?” I continue to look at him with a puzzled expression. “Right. Mi scusi,” he amends.
I scour my head for a proper response and come up with, “Va bene.”
My Italian must be passable because the stranger gives me a hasty nod farewell. With his stiff posture and his hands pinned behind his back, it comes out looking more like a bow as he straightens up and walks past me, reminding me of a character from a Regency novel. Maybe my next romantic hero will be a dashing but snooty redhead. I mull the thought over as I take another bite of my apparently inappropriate breakfast.
My meal is disrupted once again a couple of minutes later when I’m approached by two older women wearing wide-brimmed straw hats and fanny packs. They may as well have American flags wrapped around their shoulders. I immediately love them.
One of the ladies steps right up to me. “Hello, dear. Do you speak English?”
“I do,” I say with a smile. “Can I help you with something?”
“Oh, wonderful! Yes, can you tell us where the closest Metro stop is?”
She thrusts a street map of Rome into my hands and I’m able to find our location easily enough.
“Okay, we’re here, so if you go a few blocks this way and then make another right, you’ll find the Cipro station.” I trail my index finger along her route to give an additional visual.
She beams at me in gratitude. “Wonderful! Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. Have fun.”
The ladies are off to the races and I have to grin as I watch them rush away. I remember the excitement I felt on my first day in Rome. It must be nice to
