Rome, like most obsessions, began long before I arrived. It began in Manila, in the comfortable tyranny of routine, where I booked a ticket last Christmas on a whim. It was an impulsive act disguised as foresight. I avoided traveling to Rome during my birthday month; August in Rome seemed an unnecessary test of endurance—heat, crowds, the theatrical exhaustion of peak season. February felt more appropriate.
The journey was a distance exercise. Three hours to Singapore. Five hours of waiting beneath the polite efficiency of Changi Airport. then thirteen hours were suspended between time zones, meals served and cleared, cabin lights dimmed and revived while crossing different land masses and seas. Travel, at that length, becomes less about movement and more about surrender. By the time we descended into Fiumicino, I felt neither triumphant nor romantic. I was only aware of the miles behind me.
