Rome was alive with love. I shuffled quietly down a shopping alley towards the Spanish Steps, dodging old men waving fake Gucci bags, ignoring the young couples enjoying coffee and laughter. Mopeds were lined down the street, and one man was trying to manuver his from a difficult parking space. In Rome you parked wherever you could, I guessed. From just a short two weeks of life there, I have seen the craziest driving habits.
Finally. A slightly empty cafe. The seats were damp from the afternoon’s rain. Yet that was the cost of survival. My seclusion from the world felt almost like a tribal instinct – in order to survive, I must be alone. Even slight conversation with the waiter unnerved me so.
By the time the waiter returned with my drink and pastry, I had a page filled in my journal. I felt so cliche. So whiny. So depressive. I had written mostly about the imaginary woman of my dreams, and how I would meet her. How I would serenade her.
A hot, burning sensation later, and I recognized love’s call.