Italy was as incredible as I’d imagined. The food, the beauty, the culture…everything lived up to my expectations and more.
Granted, part of that had to do with Christian getting us VIP access everywhere so we could avoid the crowds and explore at our leisure, but it wasn’t just that. There was something magical in the air that melted my stress and turned my worries into distant memories.
Unlike Hawaii, which had a work element despite the dreamy second half of the trip, Italy was pure escapism.
I took videos and photos, but they were for memories more than for social media.
I couldn’t share that I was currently in Italy, anyway, so I’d been posting old photos.
Other than that, there was no work, no cameras, just us.
In Italy, I wasn’t a brand ambassador or a content creator chasing the perfect photo. I was just a girl on vacation with her boyfriend.
It was liberating…when said boyfriend wasn’t being a jerk about my driving skills.
“It’s a Vespa. How hard can it be?” I planted my hands on my hips and leveled Christian with an insulted glare.
“I’m not saying it’s hard. I’m saying there are a lot of pedestrians you can run over in the city.” His mouth twitched at my gasp.
“I am not going to run over anyone. I have zero vehicular deaths on my watch, thank you very much.”
“What about near deaths?”
I didn’t dignify that with a response.
It was our first full day in Rome and our second week in Italy. We’d flown into Milan, made our way down to Florence, and arrived in Rome yesterday evening.
We had a full day of activities ahead of us, and I’d insisted on using Vespas to get around.
It might be cliche, but could one say they’ve visited Rome without riding a Vespa at least once?
Unfortunately, Christian and I had different opinions on how many we should rent. I thought it would be fun if we each had our own while he was convinced I would kill someone if left to my own devices.
Apparently, he wasn’t over the ATV incident in Hawaii. It hadn’t been my fault; I’d merely been rusty. I rarely needed to drive a car in D.C. when the Metro and buses were right there.
He sighed when he saw I wasn’t backing down.
“Let’s compromise. You let me teach you how to operate one, and if you pass the test, you can get your own.”
“What is this, the DMV?” I grumbled, but I agreed.
Secretly, I was glad he’d offered to teach me because I had no clue how to operate a Vespa. It couldn’t be that different from riding a bicycle, right? The only difference was it had an engine.
We’d rented our scooters from our hotel, and we stayed in the courtyard while Christian walked me through the proper procedure.
“Sit straighter and bend your elbows a little…a little more. Like this.” Christian adjusted my position until I sat properly on the Vespa. “Now find your balance by shifting your body to the left and the right.”
I followed his instructions until he declared me ready for the test.
“Don’t look so nervous,” I said as he tightened my helmet. “I’ll be fine. I’m literally driving around the courtyard.”
“Hmm.”
I did not appreciate the amount of skepticism imbued in that one noise.
I switched on the bike and sped off.
See? This wasn’t so bad. I was doing great. The cobblestones were a little hard to navigate, but I could—
“Shit!”
I’d turned too late and sideswiped one of the giant flower pots bordering the hotel’s outdoor cafe.
I stuttered to a stop and cut off the engine while Christian came up beside me.
We stared at the giant crack in the terracotta urn. Luckily, it was so early the cafe hadn’t opened yet, but the gardener working nearby saw the whole thing.
He shook his head. I thought I heard a faint mio Dio before he returned to his pruning duties.
I got off the Vespa and wordlessly handed Christian the keys.
My tiny little Vespa incident aside, our Rome stop went as smoothly as possible until our second to last day, when Christian and I visited one of the city’s top art museums.
I’d been hesitant about putting so many museums on our itinerary since he wasn’t an art fan at all, but he’d insisted we go to as many as I wanted.
We’re in Italy, Butterfly. You can’t visit Italy without visiting its museums.
To his credit, Christian hid his distaste well. If I hadn’t known about his aversion to art beforehand, I would’ve thought he enjoyed the exhibitions.
“There’s no way that is a person.” I stopped in front of a painting that’d caught my eye and tried to parse out what, exactly, it depicted. “Did optical illusions exist in the eighteenth century?”
One second, it looked like a portrait of a nobleman. The next, it looked like a lurid table display of fruit.
It was unsettling but also kind of genius.
“Christian?” I turned at his odd lack of response and found him staring at something on the other end of the gallery.
I followed his gaze to where a young boy stood in the corner. He tugged insistently on what I assumed was his mother’s sleeve, but the woman was too busy fawning over the paintings and taking pictures to pay him any attention.
The boy’s chin wobbled, but instead of crying, he set his jaw and glared down the length of the gallery.
His eyes met Christian’s, who stared back with what almost looked like a sympathetic expression.
I placed a hand on his arm. “Christian,” I said, my voice softer. “Are you okay?”
He broke eye contact and turned his attention back to me. Tension poured off him in waves, and the set of his shoulders was visibly tighter than when we’d arrived.
“Yes.” His smile didn’t fool me for a second. “I’m fine.”
“Do you know him?” I gestured subtly in the boy’s direction, but when I looked again, he and his mother were gone.
“No. He…” Christian rubbed a hand over his jaw. “He reminded me of someone. That’s all.”
I had an inkling I knew who that someone was.
“Let’s get a drink,” I said. “I’ve seen all I wanted to see here.”
He didn’t argue.
We left the museum and made our way to a nearby cafe. Tucked on a quiet side street away from tourists, it was blessedly empty save for an older couple and a stunningly chic woman with a sleek black bob.
Christian and I took a seat in the corner of the outdoor dining area. The other customers were so far away we might as well be alone.
I waited until the server set our drinks on the table and disappeared into the kitchen before I spoke.
“The person that boy reminded you of. Was it you?” I kept my voice gentle. I didn’t want Christian to feel like I was ambushing him, but we’d dated long enough that I wasn’t as wary about broaching his past as I used to be.
He was naturally guarded, and I understood that. I didn’t go around sharing details about my personal life with anyone who would listen either. But if we were going to make our relationship work, he needed to feel as comfortable opening up to me as I did with him.
I thought Christian might brush off my question the way he always did, but he surprised me with an eventual nod.