An Extraordinary Journey - When In Rome

"All I want to do is eat good food and look at pretty buildings." This is what I told my friend as we discussed our potential trip to Rome. As the skies turned more grey and the days became shorter, we wanted a chance to catch the sun on our faces for another moment. Within a week of my mentioning of the possibility, we video-called each other and booked it. We were going to Rome.

When I told people that I would shortly be on a plane to the city, their faces lit in memory of their time spent there. A certain fondness coated their eyes. Each person told me what I absolutely had to see. The Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum, Vatican City. Unintentionally, they burdened me with pressure to return to the country with a report of my findings. Though, I would only be in Italy for two nights.

I do not like tourist attractions. Of course, anything worth seeing becomes one. So, this mindset may stunt my ability to witness particular beauties of the world. However, I believe there is so much beauty to be seen. To be felt and heard and lived. I cannot and will not see it all. I find my beauty in conversations with people I adore. In cups of coffee and through the streets of London. So, my intention for this trip was not to see every impressive monument only to say that I had been there.

As we made our way to our first stop, the Trevi Fountain, we were unsure if we were getting closer to the destination. That is until we saw a vast crowd of people huddled closely together. Before taking in the sight, we looked for an ice cream parlour. This was not a strenuous task as there were about five of them next located beside each other. I do not even like ice cream. But, it felt necessary. You go to Italy, you eat ice cream. Once we bought our scoops, we found that we could not sit beside the fountain holding food. So, we stood in close enough proximity and with spoons in hand.

The things that we treasure and value may not make sense to others. Before I left England, I was told that the Trevi Fountain is the most beautiful sight somebody beheld. I realised as I stood amongst the sea of tourists and locals that this person must have found such beauty in the art of what they were experiencing during their life at that moment. For the state of their heart and head. For what they were feeling and the questions they needed answered. Personally, I did not believe that the fountain was the grandest beauty I had revelled. Though, I felt comforted by the sound of water falling into itself. I wrote poetry in my mind of the lives beside me. People becoming engaged. Babies in strollers and families uniting. Those are the things that I noticed and admired.

Walking to the bus stop that would take us to our bed for the night, we stumbled upon some steps. "Are these the Spanish Steps?" I asked my friend. Tracing her memory to her past trip to Rome, she confirmed that they were. For a reason I do not know, I assumed that the Spanish Steps were extraordinarily immense - to draw many breaths from those who were brave enough to climb them. So when I asked my friend if these ordinary-looking steps were the steps, I was slightly underwhelmed. I mean, Covent Garden station has more steps than that!

After reaching the top of the stairs to find a man playing the guitar, high from weed, with a bunny on his shoulder, most likely high, too, we took in the view with our elbows on the ledge. The sky, clear and dark. The buildings, cast with a sepia hue. Each light, each lamp, shone with purpose and necessity. On our right, we noticed a rooftop bar. Classy and intimate. Mentally, we made a note to wear our black dresses for that bar the following evening.

Dissatisfied with my lack of over-consumption, I asked my friend if we could find somewhere with a citrus dessert to cap the night. Unconvinced that we would find one as we approached our end, there it was. A lemon tart glistening in the window of a French patisserie. I know that I wanted to eat Italian food, but I soon learnt that this tourist-heavy area was feeding the tourists, not the locals.

Something strange happened to me inside of that French patisserie. Travelling to another country where you do not speak the language can be disorientating. Equally, responding to the locals asking the question of where I am from and them not accepting my answer of "London" as the truth, I had become lost. I did not realise this until we were greeted in the French language by each waiter and waitress. Despite my inability to speak French without caution and embarrassment out of fear I will misspeak, I responded in French with a smile. A peppermint tea for her and a decaffeinated coffee for myself, we sipped and spoke and sipped. I felt overwhelmed. In the best way possible. An unexpected emotion arose from my eyes and fell down my cheeks at the sheer content I felt. After feeling lost, I found my bit of home.

At last, we fell asleep to restore ahead of the busy day of exploring we had planned. Our focus was visiting Vatican City. Even though others told me that I had to experience the Sistine Chapel, this was a location I, personally, was interested in seeing. After paying a hefty fee to skip the cue and be accompanied by a guide, we were in. Honestly, I found the concept of beholding the smallest country in the world intriguing. The sun had woken and graced the vibrant green of the garden. Locals sitting on small benches with books in hand and thoughts in their heads. I wondered how much more elegant the sight could become underneath the rain.

I enjoy my time at a museum in the same way I enjoy most art. If only one thing can connect with me and cause my brain to spark or my heart to beat, everything else is worth my time. Each line in a book. Each note in a song. Each and every artefact in a museum. Certain things spoke to me at the Vatican Museum. Tapestries are a glorious wonder to me, so walking through the Gallery of Maps underneath a ceiling of gold was a surreal experience. I was encapsulated within an understandable beauty. And, I understood it.

Finally, we arrived at the doors of the Sistine Chapel. Keeping our voices low and expectations high. I must admit, the work is impressive. Gladly straining my neck, I found parts of paint that meant more to me than others. The cracks and the refusal to mend them. Presumptuously, I believed this could be a place of peace. Where one who was in its search could find it. However, the collective murmur of voices and bellows of security guards insisting, "No pictures!" was far from peaceful. After witnessing the Gallery of Maps and the serenity of the garden, the main event felt underwhelming.

Resting our tired soles beside a small fountain, we watched in awe as a man and woman stood in front of a lens with the water flowing behind them. They must have just gotten married. Or were almost getting married. Love floated around them like a bubble. We watched for a moment longer before setting foot on our next adventure.

After that was the infamous Colosseum. Already exhausted, I confessed to my friend that I would be satisfied with just being there. To view its exterior only. If I am truthful, I was curious to see what was held behind those walls. So, stepping off the bus and revealing that we would be unable to purchase a ticket, I was slightly disappointed. Nonetheless, we took in the view with the late afternoon sun.

The area surrounding the Colosseum was stunning. It was what I had envisioned before taking flight once my expectations were externally risen. Dishevelled ruins dancing with history. Terracotta buildings withstanding in courage. Although, we were rather far from the city centre. Looking at each other with a collective thought, we hopped onto the metro. I know this does not sound extravagant or, indeed, noteworthy. There is something inexplicable about using public transport in another country. Especially when you are from London.

Our feet lead us to the Trevi Fountain once more. It had become our centre point where everything else followed - as most first experiences do. Trailing in a foreign direction, we found markets selling books and food. The two loves of my life. Each road was narrow with conversation and wine flooding the pavements. Eventually, we stopped in our tracks at another fountain, where we saw the newly, or pending, married couple wearing trainers and eating gelato. The golden sun prepared for rest to jazz music until it fell asleep and as it slept, too. Diners laughed and drank on candlelit tablecloths. I must admit, the food was atrocious. A highly anticipated veal risotto was worth nothing of its price. But, my friend and I spoke all night. Through bottles and bottles of table water. Sitting in silence to breathe in between stories. I adore our friendship. Not every topic that we speak is coated in a film of sugar, only mentioning the things that feel light. Our emotions and what really matters are delved into and released. I truly adore her.

We planned to travel back to the hotel, intensify our makeup and shorten the lengths of our hem and necklines. By nine o'clock in the evening, we were exhausted. We agreed to call it a night, a wonderful night, and head back to the hotel. I have not a clue what possessed us that evening, but we fell into hysterics by the bus stop we had grown familiar with. Attempting to not get run over by cars and climbing over and underneath fences that we could have easily walked around. My friend stepping into our huge paper map that she was mortified we were even carrying. Perhaps our exhaustion made us temporarily delirious. Whatever it was, it felt like breathing.

On our final day, I insisted we revisit the French patisserie for a breakfast of crêpes. Clearly, I had accepted that I would not be eating any authentic Italian food. We briefly visited last-minute locations that my friend had on her wishlist. Before we began our departure, I purchased a postcard. As I do in every new country I visit. There may have been monuments and attractions that I was less attracted to as the majority are. But, at each journey that I embark upon, I see and feel that the location is merely a background to the focus. Who I am with, the stories we tell and write, this is what I find extraordinary.