I'm supposed to be writing a piece of academic writing but telling even five people of my love affair seems a more exciting prospect.
The first time I fell in love I was 9. I had only heard of my love like one hears stories of the Tooth Fairy. Mythical. Magical. A child's imagination had conjured images that I feared could never be surpassed in reality.
The first time I met my love I was in 9th grade. My love was everything I thought it would be if not more. It was as mystical and magical as the 9 year old had hoped. That goodbye was one of the toughest I ever said, and I'm a boarding school kid.
Almost 9 years later I was reunited with my love. But this time my love looked at me like one looks at a stranger.
I've often heard people say that we don't fall in love with people, we fall in love with who those people make us, and my torrid love affair with the city of Rome proves the same for places. At every significant 9 of my life, I fell deeper in love with who that city made me. In the four months of 2018, I found parts of myself I had so easily overlooked. The scared, the lonely, the exhausted, the silly and the hopelessly optimistic.
Everytime I produce a piece of writing I mention imperfections and that is because as human beings we find it extremely difficult to accept or acknowledge our imperfections and slowly they get heavier, an invisible weight upon our shoulders, a chore like Atlas holding the skies. Somewhere along the banks of the Tiber, between Ponte Sublico and Ponte Cavour, a 3.5km stretch with monuments on either side, the strong currents of the river made them buoyant. Much like a soulmate or loved one does. I couldn't help but believe Rome was slowly warming up to me.
I was mistaken. I never imagined a city would hold grudges like a long lost lover does. But Rome did, I could see it in every delayed bus and in every unprecedented weather change. The skies would open up like never before. Until the day those blue skies opened and painted the city white. Snow in Rome. An occurrence I never believed I would witness. Despite all the imperfections, I fell deeper in love.
I would walk the streets and lost old soul that I am, I would find stories everywhere, on the elusive H, the trustworthy tram no. 8, the lifesaving 44 and 64, in the alleyways around Piazza Navona, at the Pantheon, near Santa Maria del Popolo and at the numerous cafe counters where I would stop for espressos and custard filled beignets. The stories felt the same, like the ones I would hear on the Delhi metro but the city still hadn't accepted me.
I had seen Rome in all her seasons. A weepy monsoon, an angry autumn, a cold winter, a warm spring and a welcoming summer. I had felt the seasons of Rome as one might experience the emotions of a significant other. Yet like a wary old lover, she kept me at a distance.
When I look back, I think it was because I was looking for the Rome I fell in love with as a nine year old, a Rome the movies had spoiled for me. Walking around near the Colosseum, I would keep my eye out for a Vespa with some version of Gregory Peck, while walking around Piazza Navona I would imagine a non-existent fountain of Aphrodite and at the Trevi Fountain I would wish the night wasn't as silent. As a 22 year old I kept looking for things I thought Rome should be, but then I remembered one of my favourite poems, 'When Love Arrives.' by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye.
"Love stayed away for years
And when Love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him,
Love smelled different now..."
Rome was different and so was I. We both had songs that would remind us of different people, of different places. So, one day I woke up and stopped looking. Surprisingly, that day when I walked out, I had to send a postcard, the city threw up memories I had stored in a locker somewhere. A mint gelato outside St. Peter's, a green umbrella bought outside Villa Borghese, a Murano glass pendant and four people, sitting outside the Pantheon on a late June evening, celebrating a successful Italian holiday. Every corner held memories of that trip nine years ago.
A nostalgic smile on my face, I began walking back from Trastevere to Piazza Venezia. Lost in a series of memories, I walked down Ponte Garibaldi, stopping to look at the Tiber Island when I heard someone talking to me, a German couple. They asked me for directions to the Villa Farnesina, one of the only places I hadn't visited with my mother (a mistake I rectified when she visited me in April), a place where my memories held the faces not of family but of friends. Having sent them on their way, I continued to walk down to my destination.
It was in that moment that I felt like the city had accepted me, that the city was ready to return the love I refused to give up on. The red poppies and bricks of Rome had me wrapped in the mystery of their bougainvillea vines that decorated the narrow lanes of Trastevere, where I found another version of myself, the version that could spend hours lost in the art the city provided, that could call museums home, that knew the roads in Florence, the lanes in Orvieto, the quickest risotto recipes, the occasional italian exclamations and the best gelato combinations. I found a version of me in which the chaos had turned to calm.
Much like the abundant purple wisteria blooms of spring that visit the city for a short period of time, when the already beautiful city of Rome looks ever more beautiful, a fortnight after which they bid farewell till another season, I too had to say my goodbyes. And this time the skies shed their tears along with me as I bid farewell to the first love of my life.
I fell in love with Rome, I fell in love with the romance and once more, I fell in love with myself.
So, When in Rome, be it person, place, panini, pizza, pasta or a pistachio cannoli, Fall in Love.
The first time I fell in love I was 9. I had only heard of my love like one hears stories of the Tooth Fairy. Mythical. Magical. A child's imagination had conjured images that I feared could never be surpassed in reality.
The first time I met my love I was in 9th grade. My love was everything I thought it would be if not more. It was as mystical and magical as the 9 year old had hoped. That goodbye was one of the toughest I ever said, and I'm a boarding school kid.
Almost 9 years later I was reunited with my love. But this time my love looked at me like one looks at a stranger.
I've often heard people say that we don't fall in love with people, we fall in love with who those people make us, and my torrid love affair with the city of Rome proves the same for places. At every significant 9 of my life, I fell deeper in love with who that city made me. In the four months of 2018, I found parts of myself I had so easily overlooked. The scared, the lonely, the exhausted, the silly and the hopelessly optimistic.
Everytime I produce a piece of writing I mention imperfections and that is because as human beings we find it extremely difficult to accept or acknowledge our imperfections and slowly they get heavier, an invisible weight upon our shoulders, a chore like Atlas holding the skies. Somewhere along the banks of the Tiber, between Ponte Sublico and Ponte Cavour, a 3.5km stretch with monuments on either side, the strong currents of the river made them buoyant. Much like a soulmate or loved one does. I couldn't help but believe Rome was slowly warming up to me.
I was mistaken. I never imagined a city would hold grudges like a long lost lover does. But Rome did, I could see it in every delayed bus and in every unprecedented weather change. The skies would open up like never before. Until the day those blue skies opened and painted the city white. Snow in Rome. An occurrence I never believed I would witness. Despite all the imperfections, I fell deeper in love.
I would walk the streets and lost old soul that I am, I would find stories everywhere, on the elusive H, the trustworthy tram no. 8, the lifesaving 44 and 64, in the alleyways around Piazza Navona, at the Pantheon, near Santa Maria del Popolo and at the numerous cafe counters where I would stop for espressos and custard filled beignets. The stories felt the same, like the ones I would hear on the Delhi metro but the city still hadn't accepted me.
I had seen Rome in all her seasons. A weepy monsoon, an angry autumn, a cold winter, a warm spring and a welcoming summer. I had felt the seasons of Rome as one might experience the emotions of a significant other. Yet like a wary old lover, she kept me at a distance.
When I look back, I think it was because I was looking for the Rome I fell in love with as a nine year old, a Rome the movies had spoiled for me. Walking around near the Colosseum, I would keep my eye out for a Vespa with some version of Gregory Peck, while walking around Piazza Navona I would imagine a non-existent fountain of Aphrodite and at the Trevi Fountain I would wish the night wasn't as silent. As a 22 year old I kept looking for things I thought Rome should be, but then I remembered one of my favourite poems, 'When Love Arrives.' by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye.
"Love stayed away for years
And when Love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him,
Love smelled different now..."
Rome was different and so was I. We both had songs that would remind us of different people, of different places. So, one day I woke up and stopped looking. Surprisingly, that day when I walked out, I had to send a postcard, the city threw up memories I had stored in a locker somewhere. A mint gelato outside St. Peter's, a green umbrella bought outside Villa Borghese, a Murano glass pendant and four people, sitting outside the Pantheon on a late June evening, celebrating a successful Italian holiday. Every corner held memories of that trip nine years ago.
A nostalgic smile on my face, I began walking back from Trastevere to Piazza Venezia. Lost in a series of memories, I walked down Ponte Garibaldi, stopping to look at the Tiber Island when I heard someone talking to me, a German couple. They asked me for directions to the Villa Farnesina, one of the only places I hadn't visited with my mother (a mistake I rectified when she visited me in April), a place where my memories held the faces not of family but of friends. Having sent them on their way, I continued to walk down to my destination.
It was in that moment that I felt like the city had accepted me, that the city was ready to return the love I refused to give up on. The red poppies and bricks of Rome had me wrapped in the mystery of their bougainvillea vines that decorated the narrow lanes of Trastevere, where I found another version of myself, the version that could spend hours lost in the art the city provided, that could call museums home, that knew the roads in Florence, the lanes in Orvieto, the quickest risotto recipes, the occasional italian exclamations and the best gelato combinations. I found a version of me in which the chaos had turned to calm.
Much like the abundant purple wisteria blooms of spring that visit the city for a short period of time, when the already beautiful city of Rome looks ever more beautiful, a fortnight after which they bid farewell till another season, I too had to say my goodbyes. And this time the skies shed their tears along with me as I bid farewell to the first love of my life.
I fell in love with Rome, I fell in love with the romance and once more, I fell in love with myself.
So, When in Rome, be it person, place, panini, pizza, pasta or a pistachio cannoli, Fall in Love.
