I arrived in Rome fully aware that I would suffer from excess. Too much art, too much history, too much evidence of human genius compressed into a single city. You cannot walk ten minutes here without colliding with a basilica ceiling or a Renaissance façade. So, I prepared myself for saturation. Still, preparation is a fragile defense.
I woke at half past eight to a Rome that had decided, against all meteorological pessimism, to be radiant. The forecast had threatened days of rain: gray and somber skies, sodden stones, and a city in mourning. But instead, there was a sharp blue firmament and an eight-degree chill that made the light feel earned. From my window, the sun struck the terracotta roofs and ochre walls with a kind of absolution. Breakfast downstairs was as perfunctory as the reviews had warned: a limp croissant, indifferent coffee, hospitality by obligation. Still, it was free, and I have never trusted a man who travels for breakfast.
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.
