Page 6 of My Italian Love Affair

The plane touches down with a soft jolt on a bright morning in early March; the kind where the sky is so blue it almost looks fake.

As the engines hum to a stop and the seatbelt signs flicker off, a ripple of movement surges through the cabin. People start shuffling around, grabbing their bags, stretching out stiff limbs. I stay in my seat a moment longer, staring out of the tiny oval window at the tarmac below and trying to process the fact that I am officially here.

I’m in Rome.For three whole months.

Rome.

The thought hits me like a delayed reaction, settling heavily in my chest as I finally unbuckle my seatbelt and stand.

This isn’t some fleeting holiday. Nor is it a long weekend of sightseeing before returning to the mind-numbing routine of writing about influencers and their petty drama.

This is my life now - at least for the next ninety days.

Dragging my carry-on down the narrow aisle, I step off the plane into the terminal, blinking against the flood of morning sunlight pouring in through the high glass windows.

Everything around me is a blur of travellers and flight announcements crackling over the speakers - along with the occasional child crying, becauseof coursethere’s always a child crying at an airport.

But beneath the usual chaos, there's something different in the air.

Rome has afeeling.

It’s in the rich scent of espresso wafting from the nearby stall and in the smooth, rapid-fire conversations swirling around me in a new language.

It’s in the easy confidence of the people moving through the terminal, effortlessly chic even in their travel-worn states.

I grip the strap of my handbag a little tighter, a sudden awareness creeping in that I am, without a doubt, an outsider here.

By the time I make it through security and baggage claim, my overstuffed suitcase finally thudding onto the carousel, the weight of my situation fully sinks in.

This is it.

No turning back.

Three months in a country where I barely speak the language, covering a sport I know next to nothing about and surrounded by people who willabsolutelysee right through me.

But, hey - at least there’s pasta.

*

I stumble out of the airport, my suitcase clunking behind me.

I’m admittedly a little overwhelmed, but I can’t help but feel like I’m in the middle of a postcard dream.

The warm air, the rush of chatter and the smell of freshly baked pastries drifting out of every café I walk past on my way out of the airport...

It’s as if everything has been plucked from a movie set.

Or, you know, one of those influencer posts that I’ve spent far too much time scrolling through in the name of work.

Knowing I’m not going to be covering reality stars for the foreseeable is a genuine treat, and I can’t quite get over the fact that my job has sent mehere.

Richard had pitched this as a career opportunity to me, and though he’d also made it clear that his reasons for pushing me into this were simply due to a combination of convenience and to tick off a diversity chart, who knows - maybe I can make some kind of progress after all.

Maybe I can do well enough that it’ll prove to everyone that despite my age (and the fact that I have a vagina), I’m capable of coveringmeaningfulcontent.

Even if Iamhere for football.

At least it’s a start.

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