Where else in the world can you land that you are greeted into a city by two youths biting each other’s tongues, practically falling onto the conveyor belt with passion, while waiting for your baggage? Two young lovers that couldn’t have known our bags actually would not come, so had they not been there my eyes would have searched endlessly for something to land on, and well, I was already quite tired. I wish I could thank them.
I do hope our bags enjoyed their extended stay in Paris. We made the connection, but apparently they did not. I will have to ask the last one still there, if it ever chooses to leave.
Bumbling through jet-lag, we are roaming the streets for a new home. Our life is a series of moves, boxes packed and unpacked, never quite settling. But Rome just got bigger; I feel myself expanding.
The little one is in a new school with Mussolini’s great-grandson. Apparently, he’s a bit of a bully.
Will I ever get tired of seeing the Coliseum all lit up at night?
Or the fountains that pour out endlessly?
In our new neighborhood, I have found a café with pictures of African warriors hanging from the ceiling. I go there daily now. I get to be in Rome and feel a little bit of Africa at the same time. A good place to have a red dirt latte.
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