There’s no way around it, I love my city. I have now lived in four cities in three different countries, and I have spent considerable time in others, but as far as I am concerned none can compare. Sure it’s chaotic, full of tourists and a parking nightmare, but the second I arrive something in me says home.
I love that, for such a big city, it’s so green. I love that, in no time at all, you can be either in the country or at the seaside. I love that it is the mixture of big city stimulation and small town everybody knows each other how’s your mother sure I’ll send the local plumber your way when I see him.
I love the weather, and do we even have to mention the food.
And yet, when I come back now, my love is tinged with a profound sadness, because I don’t think that I will ever be able to live here again as a working adult. My job, my boyfriend’s job, and our ambition has brought us elsewhere, and I don’t see us being able to come back any time soon. A part of me weeps for the fact that it has to be so, another tells me that I’m lucky, and should be grateful that I could have ever lived here at all, and to get over my #FirstWorldProblems.
Soon, the sadness will pass as I fall back into a Roman routine, forgetting that I no longer live here permanently. Then I will have to leave again, and I will become homesick before I even make it to the car. Then I will be back in my German routine, and Rome will be like a warm memory of a wonderful dream, distant and not quite real. I’ve done this dance many times, it’s par for the course by now.
For now, I have ten days to make the most of my favorite place in the world. Let’s do this, Roma sono tua.