Page 57 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Although it might not be up to me. Tomorrow is day seven, and I don’t have an answer yet. Not that I haven’t tried.

When I’m tasting a glass of Cesanese paired with the salty tang of aged pecorino, it’s cliché-clear the heart of Italy is wine and cheese. Then I’ll run across Roman ruins, that hint of empire greatness and undeniable history, or watch the opera, and it convinces me those are Italy’s core.

Ugh. No surprise I change my mind every ten minutes—Italy is good at too many things.

The sun is bright as I come to the end of the street with my first full view of the Colosseum. I walk around the outside, taking in the colossal amphitheater from all angles. It’s like a fancy, un-iced cake, but that might be the lingering taste of sugar on my tongue influencing me.

Back at the entrance, I hand my ticket to the gatekeeper and shuffle to the stairs as fast as the crowds allow. The steps are so worn and tall it takes concentration to climb safely. Of course, I wouldn’t fall far if I did lose my step. There are people right behind me, filling the whole stairwell. I mean, I’m not hoping to crowd-surf on ancient stairs mosh-pit style, but if it happens, I probably won’t die.

When I come out at the first level, the breeze whispers of grit and history. I wander the oval, imagining the gruesome horrors that took place here, but also the performances, the spectators, the passage of time. History is as close as breathing, as touching the stone in front of me. I move up a level where there are fewer visitors and gaze up at the open sky. A wave of dizziness descends on me, as if I’ve come unmoored from the present.

I search for a quiet spot to read my mom’s letter. Every jut-out is taken with people posing for pictures, and the window alcoves are occupied either with lovers or dads waiting out the tour in relative peace.

Okay, maybe Mark had a point about tourists. Will I admit it to him? Not going to happen.

I snag a spot as a couple leaves an alcove. I move to the back, lean against the wall near the open window, and hold the envelope labeledColosseumwith the couple-holding-hands sketch. The tall male figure in the painting is thin except for a paunch, and the pear-shaped woman’s high, white-haired bun barely reaches his shoulder.

A corner of the envelope has been folded over and the ink is smudged. I smooth the crinkle.Please, Mom. Tell me whythat temple was important to you and where it is.

I rip the tab and pull out the letter.

Dear Lexington,

Can you feel the history here in every inch of brickwork, chiseled and hand-placed with mortar? So many hearts have beat with suspense in this arena.

Did I ever tell you this is where your dad and I actually met? And the scene of our first fight?

I was painting with my tiny travel watercolor set in a spot overlooking the amphitheater. He backed into me. It knocked my wet brush across the canvas.

My first words ever to your dad were, “You ruined my painting!” Not such a promising start, nor is it much to my credit that my first concern was about my work instead of why a grown man stumbled into me.

He said, “Do I know you?”

Because of the Trevi Fountain photo he took, remember? We had briefly exchanged eye contact, but we didn’t remember that at the time. I said, “Does that pick-up line work on any woman?”

He asked me why he would try to flirt with someone who yelled at him for dodging a weaving toddler he’d almost run over in the crowds. I flushed and told him I hadn’t known that was why he’d run into me.

We both apologized at the same time. He smiled and said, “Let’s start over.”

Then he walked away. I stood there, flummoxed. He disappeared into the crowd so fast, I wondered for a second if the whole episode had even happened. But that streak of paint on my canvas was proof, although on second glance, it worked for the picture.

Then, a gentle tap on my shoulder startled me, and I dropped my wet brush on the canvas again and this time truly ruined it. It was your father, returned to start fresh. Can you believe our do-over resulted in a worse catastrophe than the first accident? We were such a disaster.

He offered to pay for the painting, but how could I fault him for it? When I told him it wasn’t necessary, he offered instead to buy me dinner.

That’s how we ended up on our first date.

Our relationship was always like that—we were honest, we were quick to apologize, and never afraid to start fresh or laugh at ourselves.

Communicate, Lexi. Be honest. The mark of a good relationship is to speak your mind with sincerity and gentleness. Look for any misunderstandings—there always will be some—and start fresh when you need to.

I knew my parents met in Italy, but not where or how. Mom would say vague things like,“I’ll tell you when we get there,”or“It was an accidental meeting,”or“He knew everything about Italy’s history and I soaked it all in.”Learning about their meet-cute in Italy feels like readingSense and Sensibilityfor the first time, when you know it’s going to be a delicious event you keep coming back to for the rest of your life.

I refold the letter and place it back in the envelope. Moving out of the alcove to the circle, I walk the length of it again, imagining Mom painting from one of these jut-outs.

Behind me, an elderly Italian couple argues about which way is east. It’s about noon, so the sun isn’t helping. I pull out my compass app and show them.

The woman pats her husband’s gut, her large bag swinging from her arm and her bun jiggling. “Ha. I was right.”