Page 24 of My Italian Love Affair

I might have been here for a good few days now, but I still can’t help but marvel about how the hum of life is so muchdifferent here. How it’s slower and more deliberate, with a sense of history woven into every stone, street and corner.

I wander through the city for what feels like forever, and eventually, after a few hours have passed, I find myself standing in front of the Colosseum.

It towers over me - a relic from another time - and the sheer scale of it takes my breath away.

The mass of tourists is thick in the area, but honestly, it’s kind of nice to be surrounded by other people who are just as appreciative of the wondrous sight before them. I’m meeting Mark after lunch, which means that I unfortunately don’t have the time to pay for a full inside tour of the monument today.

So instead, I find a small pizzeria over the street with tables that boast a perfect view of the Colosseum.

I take a seat, the sun warming my face as a waiter approaches and takes my order. As I sit there, waiting for my lunch to arrive, I let my mind wander.

A strange feeling settles over me as I blink over at the stone building.

This is real history. The kind that can’t be replicated, no matter how many monuments are built in the future.

There are hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of people who’ve stood in this exact spot over the centuries. So many lives, so many victories and struggles…

It’s humbling in a way that’s almost overwhelming.

The aroma of freshly baked pizza pulls me out of my reverie.

I smile up and thank the waiter before I take a bite. It’s hot and crispy with just the right amount of cheese, and as my eyes flutter to a close, I feel a spark of something deep insideme.

I pull out my notebook, scribbling a few lines down, and then stop.

This.

This is it.

The sense of wonder, the admiration for the past, the beauty of the city - it’s exactly what I need for my novel.

Maybe the protagonist doesn’t need to just be caught up in a love story, but in the richness of the world around her, the weight of centuries of stories in her very bones.

For the first time in days, I feel a flicker of excitement about my book.

I’m not just chasing deadlines. I’m getting back to why I started this in the first place.

I smile to myself, feeling a little less lost and a little more at home in Rome than I did yesterday.

*

I finish my lunch and spend the next hour wandering the streets, letting the inspiration keep flowing. Ideas continue to spring to mind - little words and phrases, even some dialogue - and I scribble them down, not wanting any of it to slip away as it has so many times before.

By the time I return to my apartment, the calm of the morning is slowly being replaced by the tension of my afternoon meeting with Mark.

I’m not sure why I’ve started to feel like this. Why the mere thought of his presence is bringing my nerves to the surface.

The fact that he’s older and more experienced than I am contributes - but it’s not just that.

It’s his patronising demeanor, his condescending tones -

The way he speaks to me like he’s wasting his breath.

I opt to take the metro to meet him at The Tribune’s office, which is situated on the other side of the city. It’s in a nice district - the streets are wider, cleaner and lined with towering glass-fronted buildings that house high-end boutiques and designer stores.

Even the air feels different here - cooler, more refined.

I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder as I weave through the crowd, feeling slightly out of place among the tailored suits and effortless elegance of the Roman elite. It’s a stark contrast to the rustic charm of my own neighbourhood, where small family-run cafés spill out onto the cobbled streets and locals take their time with pretty much everything that they do.

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