Page 7 of My Italian Love Affair

I weave my way through the sea of travelers who linger by the exit. My eyes scan the crowd of drivers holding up various signs, my fingers tightening around the handle of my suitcase.

Please don’t let there be a mistake. Please let there actually be a car for me.

Then, I spot it: my name, printed in bold, black letters on a sign held by a short, middle-aged man in a crisp navy blazer.

Thisis the beauty of travelling for work - that everything has been handled for me. No last-minute panicking over hotel bookings, struggling with Google Maps or desperatelyattempting to find an overpriced taxi.

Everything has been taken care of.

And while I’ve been nervous about this entire experience, I haven’t actually been all that stressed. I guess I've not had much time to overthink it, which has, for once, been helpful.

I smile politely as I approach the driver, offering a smallbuongiornoin what I can only hope is a semi-decent accent.

He responds with a friendly nod, taking my suitcase with ease (which is impressive, considering I may or may not have packed half my wardrobe inside of it) before he gestures for me to follow him to the sleek black car waiting at the curb.

As I slip into the backseat, I let out a slow breath.

For the next sixty minutes or so, I can pretend I’m just here on an exciting European adventure - one where I spend my days sipping coffee in sun-drenched piazzas and my nights wandering history-soaked cobbled streets.

I settle back against the cool leather seat and stare out of the window as the car pulls away, letting the sights of Rome unfold around me. The sun is pleasantly warm, casting a golden glow over the ochre-colored buildings, and the streets are a perfect kind of chaos, with vespas weaving between cars and pedestrians dodging traffic like it’s a sport in itself.

It’s beautiful, and for the first time in a while, I feel like I canbreathe.

Maybe I can even use this rare moment of peace to focus on something other than work.

I always have a hundred different stories swirling around in my brain. Half-formed characters, tangled plots and ideas that flash through my mind at inconvenient times only to disappear before I can do anything about them.

Between deadlines, distractions and the sheer exhaustion of daily life back home, I never actually get around to writing any of them down. My fantasy novel has been left mostly untouched, collecting metaphorical dust in my laptop’s documents folder.

But right now, I have nothing else to do butthink.

Maybe I can finally unravel some of the plot holes that have been haunting me. Maybe I can figure out what happens in chapter twelve instead of avoiding it like a tax bill.

Or maybe I’ll just sit here, soak in the beauty of Rome and enjoy the silence.

*

The car pulls up outside my apartment building, and I take a moment to absorb the chaos around me. The streets are buzzing with life, while the building itself is charmingly traditional.

With a soft terracotta façade, wrought-iron balconies with trailing greenery and wooden shutters that look like they’ve been there for centuries, I couldn’t be happier with where I’ll be staying.

It’sadorable.Nestled on a quiet cobbled street just off a busier main road, it’s close enough to the action but tucked away enough to feel like a hidden gem.

From what I remember reading in the briefing notes, I’m within walking distance of a few major landmarks, and there’s a metro stop just a few minutes away. Perfect for exploring - less perfect for someone who will likely be spending more time in football stadiums than historic ruins.

The apartment has been rented out by the media company I work for, a temporary home for whichever poor soul was going to get shipped out here on assignment.

Mark Chapman lives nearby - the journalist I’ll be working with - which means I won’t be completely alone in navigating this new world.

Not that I expect him to be particularly helpful. From what little I know, he strikes me as the kind of man who assumes you should just figure it out rather than bother him.

The driver helps me wrestle my suitcase onto the pavement before nodding a polite goodbye, leaving me staring up at my new home for the next three months.

Well - here goes nothing.

I hoist my bags up the small stone steps, push open the heavy wooden door and step inside the building.

The air inside the building is cool, carrying the faint scent of something vaguely citrusy, as if someone mopped the floors with lemon cleaner in an attempt to mask how old the place actually is. The stairwell is narrow - the kind that was probably designed long before anyone had the bright idea of installing an elevator - which means I have no choice but to drag my suitcase up them.

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