washed over
me as I walked through the door. It was a studio loft, much like Francesco’s old place had been, and I was moderately surprised
to see the same worn leather sofa, the same cream-colored throw rug, the same wrought-iron coffee table, and the same dented
wooden kitchen table that I remembered from his old place. It even smelled like him; the faint smell of cigarette smoke mixed
with a touch of Trussardi cologne. I breathed in deeply, loving the way the scent transported me back in time.
The floor of his new apartment was mostly a glossy, brick-colored tile with a small rug separating the living room from the
rest of the small apartment. A small TV sat on a wooden stand opposite the old leather couch, and a sturdy wooden ladder was
propped against the loft, where I could just glimpse the end of a bed covered in a navy comforter. The kitchen was tiny and
clean, but I guessed Francesco didn’t use it much; I remembered him eating out most nights and complaining that he wasn’t
even capable of cooking spaghetti correctly. The counter was lined with a dozen bottles of chianti, two tall bottles of Campari,
and several bottles of Piper-Heidsieck champagne. Francesco had been cheap in many areas, but never with his alcohol; he drank
only the best. Sunlight poured in through a narrow pair of French doors just off the living room.
Francesco followed my eyes to the patch of sunlight and smiled. “That’s why I rented this
appartamento
,” he said. “The
terrazzo
. Wait until you see it.”
Francesco gestured toward the French doors and I walked toward them to peek out. He came up behind me, and touching my waist
lightly in a way that sent tingles shooting through me, he opened the doors to the terrace.
I stepped outside and breathed the ash-scented Roman air in deeply, falling in love immediately with the view, as he must
have the first time he saw it.
The terrace was longer and wider than I would have expected. It had two dark green reclining chairs and a small table between
them, on which sat a pair of overflowing ashtrays. A few steps away, a wrought-iron railing separated us from a steep, four-story
drop down the side of the building. But it was the sun-soaked view over the edge of the rail that made my breath catch in
my throat.
The scene was nothing extraordinary, and perhaps that’s what made it so beautiful. It was exactly the Rome I remembered and
missed every day. A cobbled street below gave way to several cream-colored buildings roughly the same height as Francesco’s.
Windows were open across the small piazza, and flowers in all colors spilled out of rust-colored window boxes and pots balanced
haphazardly on windowsills. A block down, a partially obscured dome rose up from behind another apartment building, its rounded,
slate-colored top glowing in the afternoon sun and ending in a narrow cross. Below, I had no doubt, Catholics had worshipped
for centuries. Perhaps my mother’s grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents had even knelt beneath it. The sense of being
steeped in history—not just textbook history, but the history of the people themselves—was one of the things that I’d always
loved most about the Eternal City.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Francesco said. He had come up behind me as I stared out on the cityscape. He was holding two drinks
in his hand, both of them clear, bright red concoctions on ice, with thin, floating slices of orange.
“It is,” I said. I glanced at the drinks. “A spritz?” I guessed.
He nodded, handing me one.
“Sì, naturalmente. Cin cin.”
It was the Italian toast I remembered so well. I clinked his glass, looking into his eyes, then I took a long sip of the drink.
It was a Venetian classic that had become popular in Rome in recent years: two parts prosecco, two parts soda water, one part
Campari or Aperol Bitters, served over ice, with a sliver of orange just to sweeten it a bit. It had always
me as I walked through the door. It was a studio loft, much like Francesco’s old place had been, and I was moderately surprised
to see the same worn leather sofa, the same cream-colored throw rug, the same wrought-iron coffee table, and the same dented
wooden kitchen table that I remembered from his old place. It even smelled like him; the faint smell of cigarette smoke mixed
with a touch of Trussardi cologne. I breathed in deeply, loving the way the scent transported me back in time.
The floor of his new apartment was mostly a glossy, brick-colored tile with a small rug separating the living room from the
rest of the small apartment. A small TV sat on a wooden stand opposite the old leather couch, and a sturdy wooden ladder was
propped against the loft, where I could just glimpse the end of a bed covered in a navy comforter. The kitchen was tiny and
clean, but I guessed Francesco didn’t use it much; I remembered him eating out most nights and complaining that he wasn’t
even capable of cooking spaghetti correctly. The counter was lined with a dozen bottles of chianti, two tall bottles of Campari,
and several bottles of Piper-Heidsieck champagne. Francesco had been cheap in many areas, but never with his alcohol; he drank
only the best. Sunlight poured in through a narrow pair of French doors just off the living room.
Francesco followed my eyes to the patch of sunlight and smiled. “That’s why I rented this
appartamento
,” he said. “The
terrazzo
. Wait until you see it.”
Francesco gestured toward the French doors and I walked toward them to peek out. He came up behind me, and touching my waist
lightly in a way that sent tingles shooting through me, he opened the doors to the terrace.
I stepped outside and breathed the ash-scented Roman air in deeply, falling in love immediately with the view, as he must
have the first time he saw it.
The terrace was longer and wider than I would have expected. It had two dark green reclining chairs and a small table between
them, on which sat a pair of overflowing ashtrays. A few steps away, a wrought-iron railing separated us from a steep, four-story
drop down the side of the building. But it was the sun-soaked view over the edge of the rail that made my breath catch in
my throat.
The scene was nothing extraordinary, and perhaps that’s what made it so beautiful. It was exactly the Rome I remembered and
missed every day. A cobbled street below gave way to several cream-colored buildings roughly the same height as Francesco’s.
Windows were open across the small piazza, and flowers in all colors spilled out of rust-colored window boxes and pots balanced
haphazardly on windowsills. A block down, a partially obscured dome rose up from behind another apartment building, its rounded,
slate-colored top glowing in the afternoon sun and ending in a narrow cross. Below, I had no doubt, Catholics had worshipped
for centuries. Perhaps my mother’s grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents had even knelt beneath it. The sense of being
steeped in history—not just textbook history, but the history of the people themselves—was one of the things that I’d always
loved most about the Eternal City.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Francesco said. He had come up behind me as I stared out on the cityscape. He was holding two drinks
in his hand, both of them clear, bright red concoctions on ice, with thin, floating slices of orange.
“It is,” I said. I glanced at the drinks. “A spritz?” I guessed.
He nodded, handing me one.
“Sì, naturalmente. Cin cin.”
It was the Italian toast I remembered so well. I clinked his glass, looking into his eyes, then I took a long sip of the drink.
It was a Venetian classic that had become popular in Rome in recent years: two parts prosecco, two parts soda water, one part
Campari or Aperol Bitters, served over ice, with a sliver of orange just to sweeten it a bit. It had always
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