Robbing Rome
Italians. There is just something about them, their shoes and cuisine too, that reverberate deep in the chambers of my heart. Rome, a focal point in Italy that epitomizes this booty-licious country which is complemented by its own boot-like geographical shape.
Ever since I was a little girl, I have been drawn towards Rome, the Vatican City and the witnessing of Michaelangelo's mastery. Something about the crusty old man and his works represented the Catholic Church well. I suppose I could call it a pilgrim visit but if I do not consider myself a good Christian would I be a pilgrim. Yet despite mother's attempt to sway my mind to visit Paris, or Munich where some of her relatives are, I was going hard out for Rome.
It would have been easy, due to the relative proximity between Rotterdam and Rome, had financial situations been more stable. Although nothing worthwile is ever easy, some things make life more feasible. Specials on budget airlines (operative word 'special', for even the budget price to Rome is out of my range) and hostels are two of them.
As I was just about to convince myself that Rome would need to wait a few more years, a titillating Transavia advertisement flashed in front of my wide open eyes trained subconsciously as Roma radars.
Rome €50.00 one way
As if the price was not a good enough hint, the fonts on the television screen were green, the colour of Transavia Airlines and the nicest colour of traffic lights. In addition, it appears that Transavia was the only airline to fly direct from Rotterdam to Rome, the others usually depart from Amsterdam or another city in Europe.
The green light was flashing for me to go with the road ahead saying Buon Giorno, Belissima, Ciao Bello and be returned with the same greetings, where they speak the language daily.
Just to rewind my day by less than 24 hours, I received a devastating personal call. The kind that would take years to recover from and one that would be changing the course of life completely. It has to do with the consequence of my leaving Turkey.
Rome? Or back to Turkey to tidy the aftermath. My personal posessions are all there. I hung on the thought for a while.
Slowly but eventually, I realised that although I would be stripped bare of my belongings, I have enough in the two suitcases I have with me, one large and one small, to resume life. It is too traumatic to return to Turkey, which is the main reason to stay out. Considering what has already hemmorhaged, I was not about to let Rome be robbed off my hands.
I do not want to run away, but I realise there is no way I could stay on with the way I have been living. I have been quite unwell. One thing is for sure, the magnified Sistine Chapel and Basilica of St Peter would blind me temporarily of my misery by placing things into perspective. The minuteness of my single being in comparison to a much grander whole.
The first and only other breakup I ever had was with my former boyfriend of five years, some eight years back. I swore I would live alone. An Italian man, by mere words, wiped it. I was able to trust again. The second break, as we painfully speak, will need more than a city of Italians to heal it.
But making an effort to give my childhood dream a fair go to turn true is a start. I would love to begin anew by taking the time to stroll down the streets and savour the scent of Roman roses. Rome was not built in a day, a good symbolic paralel to go on with the rebuilding of this life here and now.
Ever since I was a little girl, I have been drawn towards Rome, the Vatican City and the witnessing of Michaelangelo's mastery. Something about the crusty old man and his works represented the Catholic Church well. I suppose I could call it a pilgrim visit but if I do not consider myself a good Christian would I be a pilgrim. Yet despite mother's attempt to sway my mind to visit Paris, or Munich where some of her relatives are, I was going hard out for Rome.
It would have been easy, due to the relative proximity between Rotterdam and Rome, had financial situations been more stable. Although nothing worthwile is ever easy, some things make life more feasible. Specials on budget airlines (operative word 'special', for even the budget price to Rome is out of my range) and hostels are two of them.
As I was just about to convince myself that Rome would need to wait a few more years, a titillating Transavia advertisement flashed in front of my wide open eyes trained subconsciously as Roma radars.
Rome €50.00 one way
As if the price was not a good enough hint, the fonts on the television screen were green, the colour of Transavia Airlines and the nicest colour of traffic lights. In addition, it appears that Transavia was the only airline to fly direct from Rotterdam to Rome, the others usually depart from Amsterdam or another city in Europe.
The green light was flashing for me to go with the road ahead saying Buon Giorno, Belissima, Ciao Bello and be returned with the same greetings, where they speak the language daily.
Just to rewind my day by less than 24 hours, I received a devastating personal call. The kind that would take years to recover from and one that would be changing the course of life completely. It has to do with the consequence of my leaving Turkey.
Rome? Or back to Turkey to tidy the aftermath. My personal posessions are all there. I hung on the thought for a while.
Slowly but eventually, I realised that although I would be stripped bare of my belongings, I have enough in the two suitcases I have with me, one large and one small, to resume life. It is too traumatic to return to Turkey, which is the main reason to stay out. Considering what has already hemmorhaged, I was not about to let Rome be robbed off my hands.
I do not want to run away, but I realise there is no way I could stay on with the way I have been living. I have been quite unwell. One thing is for sure, the magnified Sistine Chapel and Basilica of St Peter would blind me temporarily of my misery by placing things into perspective. The minuteness of my single being in comparison to a much grander whole.
The first and only other breakup I ever had was with my former boyfriend of five years, some eight years back. I swore I would live alone. An Italian man, by mere words, wiped it. I was able to trust again. The second break, as we painfully speak, will need more than a city of Italians to heal it.
But making an effort to give my childhood dream a fair go to turn true is a start. I would love to begin anew by taking the time to stroll down the streets and savour the scent of Roman roses. Rome was not built in a day, a good symbolic paralel to go on with the rebuilding of this life here and now.
posted by cherry at 6:33 PM
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