Awaking from restless slumber, I blearily peered out my window.
Up above, the moon brightly followed us, with a sidekick planet drafting beyond.
Below, a blanket of clouds encompassed the earth like freshly fallen snow.
The cities peaked out amongst the drifts mimicking sporadic constellations or alien runways, beckoning us, surrounded by inky black abyss.
Closing my eyes again, I awoke later to the sun greeting us, gently rising above Rome.
More than anything, I’m disconcerted by how natural this feels.
Deep down, sono romana.
Whether it’s the jet lag or the vino rosso della casa, this is turning into an out of body experience.
The women ignore me.
The men seem captivated and often protective.
I’m a curiosity in their living rooms, yet one that seems to evoke sadness in others.
Romans do not eat alone in public on Friday nights.
I am quiet, odd flotsam floating in a sea of love, laughter and la dolce vita.
I soak in the bubble bath of foreign cacophony.