Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
I’m in Rome. For three whole months.
Rome.
The thought hits me like a delayed reaction, settling heavily in my chest as I finally unbuckle my seatbelt and stand.
This isn’t some fleeting holiday. Nor is it a long weekend of sightseeing before returning to the mind-numbing routine of writing about influencers and their petty drama.
This is my life now - at least for the next ninety days.
Dragging my carry-on down the narrow aisle, I step off the plane into the terminal, blinking against the flood of morning sunlight pouring in through the high glass windows.
Everything around me is a blur of travellers and flight announcements crackling over the speakers - along with the occasional child crying, because of course there’s always a child crying at an airport.
But beneath the usual chaos, there's something different in the air.
Rome has a feeling.
It’s in the rich scent of espresso wafting from the nearby stall and in the smooth, rapid-fire conversations swirling around me in a new language.
It’s in the easy confidence of the people moving through the terminal, effortlessly chic even in their travel-worn states.
I grip the strap of my handbag a little tighter, a sudden awareness creeping in that I am, without a doubt, an outsider here.
By the time I make it through security and baggage claim, my overstuffed suitcase finally thudding onto the carousel, the weight of my situation fully sinks in.
This is it.
No turning back.
Three months in a country where I barely speak the language, covering a sport I know next to nothing about and surrounded by people who will absolutely see right through me.
But, hey - at least there’s pasta.
*
I stumble out of the airport, my suitcase clunking behind me.
I’m admittedly a little overwhelmed, but I can’t help but feel like I’m in the middle of a postcard dream.
The warm air, the rush of chatter and the smell of freshly baked pastries drifting out of every café I walk past on my way out of the airport...
It’s as if everything has been plucked from a movie set.
Or, you know, one of those influencer posts that I’ve spent far too much time scrolling through in the name of work.
Knowing I’m not going to be covering reality stars for the foreseeable is a genuine treat, and I can’t quite get over the fact that my job has sent me here.
Richard had pitched this as a career opportunity to me, and though he’d also made it clear that his reasons for pushing me into this were simply due to a combination of convenience and to tick off a diversity chart, who knows - maybe I can make some kind of progress after all.
Maybe I can do well enough that it’ll prove to everyone that despite my age (and the fact that I have a vagina), I’m capable of covering meaningful content.
Even if I am here for football.
At least it’s a start.
I weave my way through the sea of travelers who linger by the exit. My eyes scan the crowd of drivers holding up various signs, my fingers tightening around the handle of my suitcase.
Please don’t let there be a mistake. Please let there actually be a car for me.
Then, I spot it: my name, printed in bold, black letters on a sign held by a short, middle-aged man in a crisp navy blazer.
This is the beauty of travelling for work - that everything has been handled for me. No last-minute panicking over hotel bookings, struggling with Google Maps or desperately attempting to find an overpriced taxi.
Everything has been taken care of.
And while I’ve been nervous about this entire experience, I haven’t actually been all that stressed. I guess I've not had much time to overthink it, which has, for once, been helpful.
I smile politely as I approach the driver, offering a small buongiorno in what I can only hope is a semi-decent accent.
He responds with a friendly nod, taking my suitcase with ease (which is impressive, considering I may or may not have packed half my wardrobe inside of it) before he gestures for me to follow him to the sleek black car waiting at the curb.
As I slip into the backseat, I let out a slow breath.
For the next sixty minutes or so, I can pretend I’m just here on an exciting European adventure - one where I spend my days sipping coffee in sun-drenched piazzas and my nights wandering history-soaked cobbled streets.
I settle back against the cool leather seat and stare out of the window as the car pulls away, letting the sights of Rome unfold around me. The sun is pleasantly warm, casting a golden glow over the ochre-colored buildings, and the streets are a perfect kind of chaos, with vespas weaving between cars and pedestrians dodging traffic like it’s a sport in itself.
It’s beautiful, and for the first time in a while, I feel like I can breathe.