I was taking the bus from Ciampino airport to the Termini Station in Rome today, and all I could think to myself was, “Holy fuck,” over and over again. I am 20 years old, in Rome, functioning without the language, using public transportation without getting lost, not being robbed or otherwise taken advantage of. Oh — and once more — I’m in Rome. That’s in Italy. That’s… not the United States, and it’s not Spain.
I thought, “I should pinch myself. This is an opportune moment to pinch myself.” So I did. I pinched myself very, very hard. Not as hard as a nose-piercing pinch, but I left a mark. And I pinched myself multiple times. Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to me, but I really can’t grasp that I’m in Europe, and not just one state over. Italy =/= Indiana.
But I felt a tinge of homesickness for Spain. Is that possible? Homesick, for Sevilla. I kept trying to respond to Italians in Spanish and wishing I could ask questions in the native language instead of needing to speak English.
Rome is beautiful, and I’m excited to see it by daylight. Today was full with a tour of the U.S. Embassy, some solo exploration of Piazza di Spagna and the Keats-Shelley House and taking in city sights at dusk with my aunt. As of 11:31 p.m. local time, no pizza or gelato consumption… yet. I’ll be up early for the Vatican tomorrow, so I’ll put in a good word for all of you with the pope. And of course, I’ll return next week with a novel-length entry and photos to boot.
