Will a thank you suffice?
Hardly.
Will a chunky heart full of love do?
Maybe. That is a start.
Rome was never just a "pretty city" for me.
Pretty cities are easy. You take pictures, eat something overpriced near a monument, complain about your feet, and leave with a fridge magnet. Rome, however, had other plans. For two months, it became more than just a destination. Transitory life gently grew roots, as if preparing for a future.
Cappuccino mornings, cotoletta afternoons, macchiato evenings, Bus 62 rides back home, slow cooking nights, broken-Italian-speaking wins, tiny errands, and enough "ciao bella" moments to dangerously launch a broken woman's confidence era. Not that I am complaining.
Somewhere between snack bars, coffee counters, cobbled streets, and buses that arrived only when emotionally ready, I began to build a life out of very small things. A usual table. A familiar waiter. A grocery run. A coffee order. A street I knew without opening Google Maps. A bus stop where I stood like I had always belonged there, even when my face clearly said, "Please let this be the right direction."
Rome made ordinary things feel cinematic, which is deeply unfair because now I expect personality development from every cup of coffee.
The Food. Obviously.
The food helped. Obviously.
There were cotoletta lunches that felt like emotional support disguised as fried chicken. There were macchiatos taken with the seriousness of a religious ceremony. There was spaghetti alla carbonara eaten with zero guilt, because some versions of me are simply not available for moral debate.
And then there was the language. My Italian was broken, but enthusiastic. Which, frankly, is a valid personality type. I ordered boscaiola. I asked for water. I said where I was from. I told people I was leaving and that I would return. Every tiny sentence felt like unlocking a new level in a game where the reward was a waiter smiling and saying, "Perfetto" or "brava." Please understand, I almost framed that moment.
At one café, when I asked, "Posso avere un bicchiere d'acqua?", the waiter looked at me with fake seriousness and said, "Difficile." Then he brought it anyway, quietly miming, "Don't tell anyone." Oscar-worthy performance. Five stars.
Rome rewarded effort generously.
On Learning to Say Yes. And Also No.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing movie-climax worthy. Just small, warm things that add up quietly until you realise you are not just visiting anymore. You are participating.
At a place I went to often, Sandra, one of my closest friends in Rome now, gifted me my last cotoletta on the house. Va bene! How is a girl supposed to leave after a farewell cotoletta?
Rome also taught me the delicate art of saying yes. Yes to walking a little further. Yes to trying in Italian. Yes to eating alone. Yes to asking. Yes to looking silly. Yes to going out even when staying in felt easier.
But strangely, it also taught me to say no. No to rushing. No to over-explaining. No to plans I did not have energy for. No to treating rest like a criminal offence.
Who knew personal growth could be hidden somewhere between a macchiato and a bus ride? Not me. I thought I was just trying to survive summer in Rome without melting into the pavement.
Instead, I found routines. I found friends. I found corners of the city that started feeling familiar. I found out that I could talk to strangers, make myself understood, cook myself dinner, take the bus home, and laugh alone on cobbled streets like a woman with absolutely no pending shame.
Two months in Rome did not change me in one dramatic flash. It was sneakier than that.
You were not just a city I loved. You were the city where I remembered how much fun it is to be me.
Grazie di tutto, Roma.
