my roman empire is...
all we ever wanted was to be free. and all we ever wanted was everything.
Good morning my friends. My beautiful, beautiful friends.
Today is our 100th newsletter. Can you believe it? 100 stories. 100 thoughts. 100 feelings. 100 moments. 100 journeys. 100 letters. One hundred. Toronto to Rome. Rome to Toronto. Toronto to Rome again. Rome to Melbourne. Melbourne back to Rome. Rome to Florence. Rome to Liguria. Liguria to Parma. Liguria to Milan. Liguria to Rome again.
It’s always back to Rome again, isn’t it?
It’s 6:15 AM and I’m sitting cozy in my friend’s bed, in one of my favorite areas in Toronto. Propped up with 4 pillows, my stuffed cat, Boots, that I have had since I was 5, lays on top of my chest.
Boots is my comfort. Boots is my home. Jetlag has been running my life lately, and I hope my friend’s husband wakes up soon to make me a coffee.
I started last week in Milan for the day. I visited a friend for lunch. We had osso bucco, polenta, and red wine by the canal. A sunny Saturday afternoon in November.
“When I think of your newsletters, I think of rebirth, I think of healing. Of emotional healing, and surrendering to the journey. And I think of how you use your femininity.”
I write all of this down.
These newsletters. The community it’s created, the community it brings.
Sometimes it feels like me saying - hey. Here is my heart. Do you see me? Do you understand me, too?
-
The Man at the Front is the tiniest bit cold (again), since, I did in fact lie to his face for many months. And, my martinis have this way of becoming an annoyingly honest truth serum.
“I just don’t understand why you care so much about him inviting other girls to the bar.”
“I don’t. I mean. It’s just not fair. He’s mad at me for talking to you, for talking to other guys. And we’re not even hooking up anymore.”
I never wanted him to know about PN. I knew he was going to treat me differently, hide our friendship, or think I was using him to make PN jealous.
He raises his eyebrows.
Anymore.
“Ah.”
–
Last Sunday evening, I arrived back from the Ligurian sea into Roma Termini.
I’m cranky, tired, and going into a hanger-induced spiral.
So, after a shake up call from a friend who reassured me, “Emily. You are FINE” - I decided to take myself to my favorite pizza restaurant for dinner.
This pizza restaurant holds a special space in my heart. It sheltered me in the 45 degree summer heat when my AC was broken and I refused to cook. When my kitchen had a fruit fly infestation and I was consumed with every feeling imaginable in July, I wrote Hard Feelings at one of their rocky wooden tables. When PN wanted to “make peace” after his public spiral, I came here first for my pizza al tonno and a very, very generous pour.
“No dessert. Just coffee.” The waiter, Franco, always remembers. And he’ll bring out tiramisu and limoncello anyway.
“You’ll need it.” He tells me.
I start to laugh. Franco always knows something that I don’t.
After last Sunday night’s dinner (it’s porcini season), I take myself on that tree lined walk up the street. I wave to the Man at the Front. It’s been well over a month since my accidental slip up.
We can let bygones be bygones right?
“So. Anything new?” Apology tours are hard when you still don’t want to admit to the truth.
“I got back together with my ex-girlfriend.”
“Oh! That’s amazing! You were with her for a long time. And it always seemed like you loved her.”
Sensing my genuinity, the Man At The Front’s tone changes.
“Maybe I’m learning from you. And all of your talk about destiny.”
I smile. “I’m happy for you.”
He’s going to make you ask him, isn’t he. A text from my friend reads.
“Your boyfriend isn’t in tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning on going inside, anyway.” A lie.
It starts to rain. I lift my arm over my head.
He’s sheltered underneath the bar’s awning.
I’m not sure if he believes me, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
“Well. You’re more than welcome to stand next to me under here.”
-
I picked one of my favorite old school trattorias to meet my friend for our last Roman lunch of the year.
Antipasti misti, a bottle of house red, and 2 plates of all'amatriciana. The standard. The classic.
“Here’s the thing. I hate being on bad terms with any ex. It’s like this thing. We’ve shared this connection. We both created some sort of meaning.”
It’s not me holding on to the past. Ok, I mean, maybe it is. A tiny bit. I do love a good story, and I am a sucker for nostalgia.
“And my best newsletters…they were always us.”
They were me recounting the best parts of us. The in between stories and words. Even the things I didn’t or couldn’t express to him, or to anyone.
This is where our relationship lived. And maybe this is the plane that our relationship will always live, and where it was always supposed to live.
“Well. You know why he hates you. It’s because he loooves you.”
We both start to start to laugh.
“What an incredible muse.”
-
“When you come back, I’ll have taken over this place.” The Man at the Front tells me.
It’s three of us who now stand underneath the awning of the bar. A light rain falls, the Man at the Front and his friend who has just joined us, pass a cigarette back and forth to each other.
“And then you can hire Emily to write about it.” His friend nods towards me.
“Emily, no offense, but you’d be the last person I’d hire. You know how many problems this girl has started?”
We start to laugh. I can’t even get offended at this point.
“I love the drama.”
“At least you can admit that about yourself.”
I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t been daydreaming about some sort of movie moment finale.
An empty bar. Me in my usual corner spot with a white off-the-shoulder cardigan. My loose waves tucked behind my ears.
I’d look up at him and ask, “But why do you hate me?”
PN wouldn’t respond. He would just stare. With both hands placed firmly on the countertop. The tattooed forearms and furrowed brow.
Arcade Fire’s “My Body is a Cage” would start to play in the background. I’d grab my Fendi off the counter and storm out into the parking lot.
Rain falls, but my Gucci mascara stays in tact. Then, I feel a pull on my wrist. I’d turn around, and we’d be face to face.
“Don’t you get it, Emily!? It’s because I LOVE YOU!!”
-
It’s past midnight. The rain keeps falling, and I’m getting tired.
“When am I seeing you next?” The Man At the Front asks. Surprisingly, it has been one of my favourite nights at the bar. Quiet and unassuming.
The apology tour that never happened. And maybe that wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Maybe January. But I’ll be out of Rome again for a while.”
He’s taken aback. “What?! That’s so far away.”
“I’ll miss you.” I tell him. Which is the truth. This place, this bar, Rome…it always leaves me missing something.
He wraps his arms around me for a long time. I bury my face into his wool coat.
“I’ll be here when you get bored.”
-
There’s always something that we’ll want more of, isn’t there? More time. More time to create a different beginning, more time to linger in the middle. And more time to prepare ourselves for an ending.
The inevitable ending.
But sometimes the endings that we want, aren’t necessarily the endings that we need.
All we ever wanted was to be free.
And all we ever wanted was everything.
The adventures of this spring and this summer. Of last spring and last summer.
One hundred beginnings. One hundred middles. And one hundred…endings?
“Stories to add to your quilt of life”.
The smell of burnt espresso in the afternoon. Red borrowed lighters, kissing strangers in white dresses. Arms wrapped around each other’s necks. Tracing tattoos, and eyes that speak a completely different language. Years of longing, but a summer of freedom.
Letting the city push you, letting the water hold you, and letting love and the universe catch you.
Art. It saved me, it immortalized those memories, and it immortalized us. Those beginnings, those middles, and those endings.
But here’s to one hundred, baby.
And here’s to you. My angels in the form of strangers.
My Roman Empire is this.
I couldn’t have built it without you.
I love you. And I hope you know just how much.
Emily
Perfection as always