Arriving in Rome

I remember that it was swelteringly, smoderingly hot. I arrived at the end of the month of July, no doubt Italy's hottest period of time--I don't recommend it. It was so hot that my shirt was sticking to my back and my ass was sticking to the cheap pleather seat in the cab on the way to my rented apartment. It didn't bother me...at first.

I was far too busy gawking out the window as Rome flashed before my eyes. Snazzy Italians zoomed by me on their mopeds and the cypress trees lined the streets, standing like soldiers to welcome me to the Eternal City. I had been to Rome before for a few days, but I was trying to absorb the fact that I would actually be staying there for four months (and possibly longer). I had this hunch that I would fall in love here (and my prophecy would ultimately be fulfilled). The sun glittered in the sky, the sweat rolled off my brow, and my heart was beating wildly as I attempted to take a mental snapshot of the ancient buildings and the decadently-dressed Romans.

We zoomed past Santa Maria Maggiore, the basilica that would be like a guardian angel, watching me in silence as I spent many Roman nights laughing, crying, kissing, and soul-searching in her piazza. The taxi pulled up in front of a haggard-looking wooden door attached to a building that had some issues with paint peeling. My apartment. My heart sank as it occurred to me that I had no idea what this apartment looked like. It could have been the roach motel for all I knew, and I had committed to living there for at least a month.

I knocked on the door, but no one answered, and then I worried that Maria Teresa, the landlady, might have forgotten me.