Page 8 of My Italian Love Affair

I pause at the base of the staircase, sizing up the challenge ahead.

My main suitcase is stuffed to the absolute brink of its capabilities and feels like it weighs roughly the same as a small car. My two smaller bags sit beside it, looking deceptively manageable.

Priorities, I tell myself.Get the heaviest one up first, then worry about the others.

Gripping the handle, I brace myself and start the ascent. The wheels bump loudly against each step, my arms burning with every pull.

By the time I reach the second floor, I’m winded.

And I mean truly,embarrassinglywinded - like I’ve just completed an intense full-body workout rather than climbed a modest number of stairs.

The hallway is lined with thick wooden doors, each one adorned with ornate brass numbers. I find mine -2B- and fumble for the key that had been handed to me at the airport pickup desk.

The lock sticks at first, but with a little force (and a mutteredoh, come on), it finally gives way.

My new home is small, but charming. There’s a tiny kitchenette with a fridge and two-burner stove, along with an old but sturdy-looking wooden dining table tucked beneath a small window.

The living space consists of a couch, a single armchair and a coffee table that’s seen better days - but the real highlight is the balcony.

I can already see the soft golden light spilling in through the French doors, an invitation to step outside and take in the view.

Priorities,I remind myself.

I drop my suitcase in the bedroom, glance at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser and give myself a pointed stare.

My auburn hair is a mess, my face is slightly red from my impromptu stair workout and my dark t-shirt is clinging to my back in a way I’d rather not think about.

“You’re in Rome,” I mutter to myself. “Get a grip.”

Then, with a resigned sigh, I trudge back down the stairs to retrieve the rest of my luggage.

I’d been a little worried about leaving my bags at the bottom of the stairs given all the advice I’ve received about pick-pockets and opportunistic thieves watching and waiting, but they’re still here - waiting for me like two smug little reminders that I am, in fact,notbuilt for manual labour.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and grab them both. I sling one over my arm and grab the handle of the other with my free hand.

The second trek up the stairs is marginally easier, but partly because I pause halfway to dramatically sigh and lean against the railing like some tragic heroine in a period drama.

When I finally reach my apartment again, I drop the bags just inside the door and shut it behind me with a softclick.

That’s it. I’ve officially,temporarily,moved in.

I take a moment to catch my breath and survey the new space properly.

It’s small but cozy, with high ceilings and rustic wooden beams that make it feel like I’ve stepped into someone’s charming Italian grandmother’s home. The walls are painted a warm, buttery yellow, and the terracotta floor tiles are cool beneath my feet when I kick off my sandals.

There’s a tiny bookshelf in the corner, already stocked with a handful of books left behind by previous tenants. I scan the spines, noting that they’re mostly Italian paperbacks, although there are a couple of well-worn travel guides and, inexplicably, a copy ofBridget Jones’s Diaryin English.

I make a mental note to check if there’s anything else worth flipping through later.

A gentle breeze drifts in through the slightly open balcony doors, and that’s when it really hits me again.

I’m here. In Rome.

For three whole months.

I wander over to the balcony, pushing the doors open fully. The view isn’t exactly postcard-worthy, per se: just a narrow, winding street lined with old stone buildings and bustling cafes.

Still, it feels homely in a way that London never quite has.

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