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)
Even in the evenings when the city supposedly relaxes, the energy remains the same - just with an added layer of alcohol. Bars and pubs overflow with office workers still in their stiff suits and pencil skirts, their ties loosened and heels kicked off under high tables as they spill onto the pavement with pints in hand. There’s laughter, sure, but it’s tinged with the kind of exhaustion that comes from surviving another workday.
People drink to decompress, to shake off the stress before they do it all again tomorrow. It’s socialising with an unspoken undercurrent of obligation.
But Rome?
Rome breathes.
The noise here isn’t just sound; it’s life.
It spills out of cafés where people linger over their hot cups of coffee instead of clutching tightly to paper cups on the go.
It winds through cobblestone alleys where old friends stop to chat without checking their watches.
It drifts through the air on the scent of freshly baked pastries and rich tomato sauce, inviting rather than demanding.
All around, it doesn’t seem that people are just killing time before heading home. Here, they’re present; laughing and smiling and fully living in the moment.
They sit together, dressed casually in linen shirts and flowing dresses and sipping wine because they enjoy it, not because they need it to unwind. They talk with their hands, with their whole bodies, animated and unfiltered.
The people here don’t just exist between meetings and deadlines.
They live. They pause.
They take up space without apologising for it.
And judging by the laughter echoing from the nearby piazza, they’re much happier for it.
The streets are impossibly charming, like something straight out of a film. Terracotta buildings with wooden shutters, balconies overflowing with potted plants and locals chatting animatedly as they pass by on scooters or linger outside small shops -
And me?
Well.
I’m just trying to walk without looking like the lost tourist that I very much am.
I keep my phone in my hand, mapping my way towards a small supermarket that’s apparently just a five-minute walk away.
Of course, that estimate doesn’t account for the number of times I’ll stop to gawk at my surroundings or nearly trip over uneven cobblestones.
Priorities, though - as I have to keep reminding myself.
Food first, sightseeing later.
I push open the glass door of the little alimentari - the word I’ve quickly learned means corner shop - and immediately feel like I’ve stepped into another world.
It’s nothing like the soulless supermarkets back home. This place is small but packed from floor to ceiling with fresh produce, crusty bread and rows of pasta in shapes I’ve never even heard of.
It even has a deli counter where a serious-looking older man is slicing prosciutto with the precision of a surgeon.
I grab a basket and begin wandering through the aisles, trying to make sensible choices. A loaf of bread, some cheese, a bottle of olive oil that looks fancier than necessary but feels like the right thing to buy.
Then I arrive at the wine section.
It would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?
I scan the labels before finally settling on a bottle that looks decent and isn’t outrageously expensive. A woman next to me - probably in her fifties, wearing a stylish linen dress - glances over and nods approvingly.
"Buona scelta," she says. Good choice.
I blink. "Oh. Uh, grazie!"
She smiles before moving along, and I have to stop myself from fist-pumping the air like a child who just got a gold star.
Did I just pass my first unofficial Italian test? Am I blending in?
Probably not - but it’s the little boost that I needed, anyway.
*
By the time I return to my apartment, my arms are slightly aching from carrying bags full of food, but my mood is lighter.
I put everything away before I pour myself a very generous glass of wine and step out onto the small balcony, watching as the last of the evening sun dips below the rooftops.
Tomorrow, I have to be a serious journalist. I have to go to a press event, meet the players, pretend I know what I’m talking about.
But for now?
For now, I can sit here, sip my wine, and let myself believe - even if just for a moment - that this might actually turn out to be an adventure worth having.
Chapter Six
Daphne
I shouldn’t be nervous.
That’s what I tell myself as I stand outside the grand hotel where today’s press event is being held, smoothing down my blouse and resisting the urge to check my reflection in the nearest window.
I’ve covered red carpets before and have literally elbowed my way through paparazzi to ask reality stars about their latest break-ups and social media scandals. This should surely be no different.
And yet, it feels different.
For one, the people walking through the entrance aren’t actors or pop stars.
They’re athletes.
And not just any athletes, either.
These are some of the biggest names in international football, the ones with millions of followers and sponsorship deals with luxury brands.