one year in rome
a year of roses, of lovers, and of change.
My loves,
It is Sunday evening and I am in the mood to talk to you. I am in the mood to reflect.
I feel like I am the most centered when I write these letters. The most present. It is when my Gemini mind allows itself to stop and be still.
To take in everything around me, and to notice everything around me.
I’m sitting on my red sofa. This apartment came furnished, and the furniture is not exactly my choice of decor - but I have to tell you - this sofa is one of the comfiest sofas I have ever sat on. You know those sofas that just mold to your body? That’s how this one feels. I can sink in and take an afternoon nap and not feel guilty about it.
There’s a pile of clothes beside me. A pile of nice clothes. Storage space is limited here and my summer silks, satins, and linens all need to be hung. Where they will hang - I have no idea. But these are the moments where I can be grateful for my smaller social life - because this couch will be needed as a second wardrobe and not as a piece of socializing furniture.
I want to tell you about my weekend. Friday nights are for Nothing. Friday nights are for Self-Tanning. They are for Healthy Meal Making (lately I’ve been obsessed with stir-frying asparagus and zucchini and topping it off with a yogurt dressing - it’s so easy and it’s literally the best thing in the world).
It also reminds me of the sandwich that I’m obsessed with at one of my favourite bakeries. Grilled carrots, fennel, radicchio, and tzatziki on a brioche bun.
“You always order the same thing - don’t you want to try anything else?”
Me and the girl at the bakery start to laugh.
-
It is Sunday, April 23rd at 7:33 PM.
My phone tells me where I was exactly a year ago.
A black dress and white boots, sitting in the backseat of a taxi.
“Our first solo date night” a Close Friends story reads.
There’s always magic to these final days of April and the beginning of May, don’t you think?
The days start to become sunnier and the wisteria starts to fall along empty courtyards and old buildings. The smell of jasmine lingers on into the evening.
It’s the way the cool breeze moves in between the trees, as if starlight is dancing on each tree branch and is reflected on each leaf.
I open the door of taxi. “Ciao signorina!” The driver says to me.
A year ago today, I first chose that corner seat at the bar.
The best seat in the house, in my opinion. Not a bother to anyone, and not to be noticed by anyone.
-
This past Saturday, I wake up at 10 and make 2 coffees. The espresso I have isn’t strong enough - and I make a mental note to pick up a stronger Lavazza the next time I’m at the grocery store.
A message from date 2/30 reads: “There’s a place near Piazza Navona where we can have an aperitif.”
“Sounds good :)” I reply. I throw my phone in my purse.
There was a time where I cared a lot, and I cared too much. But I cared about the wrong things.
Potato pizza, a coke zero, and water. We’re on a budget, and we’re also on a mission.
The sun is shining.
The man at the floral truck waves, and I wave back. I wonder if he remembers the daffodil he gave me in February.
The boys at the bakery also laugh when they see me. They know my order.
“Pizza con potate?” Always. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Spritz?”
I smile. “No, grazie.”
Not yet.
I want to tell them that I have to go see the roses, but the two words in Italian I know won’t get me that far.
I pay, they wink, we laugh, I leave.
-
I hang my leather jacket over my shoulders and place my purse on the empty seat next to me.
There are two men who are working behind the bar that evening.
One pours a shot for him and the two girls beside me.
Trouble. I think to myself. But the good kind.
Another man comes around him and places a menu in front of me. A shorter, quieter figure wearing a backwards baseball cap. He says something to me in Italian.
I apologize and start to laugh. “Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”
He smiles. “What would you like to drink?”
There’s something about him. A familiarity? A warmth? For some reason, I feel safe.
“Something dry. Surprise me.”
He starts to laugh. “Come on, you have to help me out a little.”
And in a country where I know no one, and in a place where I know no one, I begin to feel known.
-
I walk to the roses. Through the city centre, through Monti, past the Colosseum. The winding hill that takes you to the hill that overlooks the entire city.
All of the roses haven’t bloomed yet, but they’re still so beautiful.
The yellow ones must be new, I didn’t see them last year.
So many of their stems wrap up and climb around trellises.
And how beautiful is it to be able to walk underneath the archways of these roses?
I feel the sun on my chest and my shoulders.
I find refuge in the garden, and I’m having the best time alone.
-
What is so different this time around?
Rome hasn’t changed. Rome will never change. And Italy will never change. That is a truth you have to surrender yourself to.
But, we can change. And we can surrender to those experiences that want to change us.
-
In the past few months, I started to distance myself from friendships where I felt like I was giving too much.
I distanced myself from men who I felt like were taking too much, and getting away with even more.
The old stories started to fade away. And I stopped believing in them.
But what is so different this time around?
-
On this past Saturday afternoon, I tell my 2/30 that I’m too sleepy to make it to aperitivo.
It’s not a lie, it’s a combination of the first sunny day of the season, and the wine and the afternoon spritzes.
At 9:30 PM, I crawl under the covers.
Sun, spritz, and spring drunk on a Saturday.
Date 1/30 sends me a voice note, asking for a coffee in the coming days.
“Absolutely.” I immediately reply. 1/30 is becoming a good friend, and I like how he starts each message with “Miss Emily”.
-
In my phone, I have written down:
grief = falling in love, and falling in love = grief.
They both require surrendering.
Surrendering to defeat. And surrendering to the loss of control.
Surrendering to change.
That’s the only way you’ll make it out alive from either.
But what really lasts? I ask myself before falling asleep.
I don’t recognize the girl in the black dress who sits in the corner of the bar anymore.
And when my father tells me he hopes I have a good week, I know he really means it.
Change.
I’m the one who changed. I’m the one who’s different. And I’ll never be the same again.
And a year ago today, in that same black dress, on that car ride home, a message on my screen reads:
“So. What now?”
What now, baby? What now?
I love you,
Emily