Doesn't matter if I even go

“Sorry man, I tried my best,” reads the disappointingly terse, yet sincere text.

And with that, leaning against the wooden snack bar table in the office kitchen, I take stock of my situation. In six hours, I’m going to Rome alone for the weekend. So long, all prospects of having intelligent conversation while waiting to enter the Musei Vaticani. “Should I just forfeit the tickets and stay in France this weekend?” I hesitate for a second before deciding against it.

I immediately get to work looking up things to do alone in Rome.

On the one hand, the series of unfortunate events really blows. It’s been a month in the making – a Roman escapade with a couple new friends, taking a break from life in the best city in the world. On the other hand, I’ve always wanted to travel alone, but not quite like this. I’ve imagined it to be solo from the start, not as a fallback plan. But when life gives you lemons…

“Have a good weekend! … in Rome!” my coworker says cheerfully, albeit with a tinge of pity, as she strides out of the office. I grab my bag, make my way to the airport (without Orange reception), and fly to Rome. It seems almost comically quotidian writing it out.

Stepping off the plane, I’m assaulted by the hot, humid air. Here I am. On the tarmac of a foreign country on vacation. Going solo.

And it’s fan-tastic.

Liberation.

After a long-awaited night of sleep without having to use an alarm clock, I enjoy a breakfast of sugary croissants and strong, black coffee in the garden of my bed & breakfast just outside the Aurelian Walls.

I crack open my very barebones French guide to Rome and begin circling destinations to visit on my barely legible map printed out on a sheet of scrap A4. The sun soon becomes unbearably hot, so I head out.

After wolfing down a lasagna bolognese and drinking a bottle of Peroni, I head into the lush Villa Borghese. Some parts remind me of Northern California – wild, pristine nature with minimal traces of human tampering – while others remind me of England – manicured gardens that are simultaneously stifling and awe-inspiring. Wandering rather aimlessly, I still manage to show a French family even more lost than myself their way.

I eventually spot a fountain just off the main path with people in various stages of undress lounging along the perimeter. I sit on the side, roll my jeans up, and dip my feet in. I take my trusty Nalgene filled with crisp, chilled Roman spring water and my Philippe Delerm book out of my knapsack. And thus begins my lazy afternoon gazing at the city of Rome below, at the cloudless sky above, and at the others wading in the pool.

Desperately in need of human contact, I ask the British girls sitting beside me where the Spanish Steps are. “I’m not too sure, we’re not from around here,” one mutters as she pulls a map out of her purse. “I know you’re not,” I say in return, knowing very well which way I should go thanks to my iPhone. “Why don’t you just point me in the right direction?” I suggest. They point correctly, “Just go that way.”

The Spanish Steps are a letdown. “Why is everyone hanging out here?” an incredulous fellow American inquires loudly. I move on to the Trevi Fountain. All I see are tourists either posing for photos or taking them. In fact, I can barely see the fountain at all. I tell myself I need to get away. I make my way to the equally touristy Caffè Sant’Eustachio and order an espresso. “Café… amo-… amor?” I start to say, trying to recall how exactly to ask for my espresso black. I elicit a blank stare from the barista. “Sans zucchero?” I try again, this time in a newly formed language based on French and Italian. “Amora?” With a look of full comprehension at last, the barista shouts, “Un caffè amaro!” Wow, way to mix up amore and amaro, I tell myself. I kill the coffee in a single shot. Nothing bad, but really nothing special either. I keep walking.

I end up near Stazione Termini, where I see a stream of groups of Koreans carrying gelati. I follow them like breadcrumbs through a sketchy neighborhood not unlike that surrounding Gare du Nord, and end up at the door of G. Fassi, supposedly the oldest gelato shop in Rome. I indulge myself with pistachio, hazelnut, and rice in a cone. Looking around, I notice all the locals (or at least those I assume to be locals) eating their gelati out of cups, not cones. “What fun-hating people,” I conclude as I walk out the door.

Back in the Roman summertime heat, my gelato immediately starts to melt.

I barely get a lick in before the liquefied sticky mess gushes and subsequently trickles onto my pants...

my shoes...

my hand...

my forearm…

everywhere...

Soon I’m holding the cone a foot in front of me and lean my head over to desperately chomp on it. I get a little greedy and my mouth is too full with gelato. Now with melted gelati all over my face, I throw the rest of the cone away and sit down by a street-side water spring that I initially mistake for a leaking fire hydrant.

I take out some Purell and rub it all over my hands. I guess I still haven’t learned that Purell isn’t water – it just mixes with the gelati to form a beige, translucent substance that smells like rubbing alcohol and sugar. The spring water gets most of it off, but my hands are still incredibly greasy from the rich gelati.

Here I am, wandering the streets of Rome with a sticky situation, but nothing serious. Rome is beautiful. I survived. I’m enjoying myself. Sure, I’m not raving about the coffee or the gelati, but j’ai passé un bon moment. Transplanted from the City of Light to the Eternal City, I’m able to catch my breath before leaving Europe the following week. My one chance to disappear, to create these memories where none were to be made. It doesn’t matter if I even go.