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Maybe an idea will come to me.
I skip breakfast in the dining hall on purpose. I don’t need to see Noah and Gabriella flaunting their new love, and weirdly, I’m not all that eager to see Lorenzo again. I mean, I’ll see him in the afternoon and again tonight. That’s enough, right?
After I get ready for the day and check in with my students, I head out to find coffee and congratulate myself when I succeed in leaving the school without running into any of the other chaperones or Lorenzo. Being on my own on the streets of Rome is freeing. I spend my morning hunched over a little café table, annotating my copy of Where the Red Fern Grows. It’s an old favorite and I find comfort in visiting the familiar characters.
I love sitting alone, reading, and watching everyone come and go. I know you’re supposed to visit a foreign place so you can take yourself out of your comfort zone, see landmarks, and learn about history in a way you can’t at home, but one of my favorite things to do is go somewhere new and pretend I belong there. Being here in a café like this is both familiar and foreign at the same time. I’m experiencing a day in the life of a Roman.
I make my way back to the school slowly and have no plans to stop for lunch until I pass a delicious savory smell that stops me in my tracks. After waiting in line for twenty minutes, I walk out of a bakery shop with a fresh-out-of-the-oven slice of focaccia bread that’s overladen with tomatoes and rosemary. I pair it with mozzarella cheese and an ice-cold San Pellegrino and eat it all leaning against the wall across the street from Basilica Sant'Andrea al Quirinale. The oval-shaped Baroque church was designed by none other than Bernini. People dip inside for guided tours, but I stand out in the shade and read about the church’s history on my phone, happy for the quiet.
My morning is a far cry from the insanity of my afternoon. My solitude is shattered when Lorenzo leads our group to the Roman Forum—a large excavated area of temples, squares, and government buildings dating back over 2,000 years. There’s a lot of ruins still intact and it’s all very interesting, but the site is also completely exposed to the elements and the blazing afternoon sun is trying to show off. Hot enough for you down there?! Every single tourist (us included) is sweating and panting and ripening into a bright red tomato. I wince when a guy in a tank top walks by with what have to be third-degree burns on his shoulders. He’s going to be in a world of hurt later. Fortunately, I applied sunscreen before we left the school and made sure the kids all lathered up too, ignoring their moaning and groaning about it.
My mom never makes me wear sunscreen!
It smells!
You got it in my nose!
I’m trying to pay attention to Lorenzo as he explains that the Forum served as a hub for political and social activity, but I’m also trying to keep sweat from actively blurring my vision. I angle my little guidebook so it partly shields my eyes from the sun and remind Brandon and Chris that they aren’t allowed to wander off on their own.
“Boys, stick with the group please” is what comes out of my mouth when in my head I’m raging at them to behave because it’s too damn hot out here to be policing middle schoolers.
Suddenly, that bonus doesn’t seem like enough money to be here. Couldn’t we have visited such wonderful destinations as Siberia or Antarctica? I hear the northernmost tip of Alaska is lovely this time of year.
Gabriella and Ashley huddle together with their Trinity kids, who all have battery-powered misting fans and cooling towels around their necks. I watch with envy as Gabriella angles her fan toward her face and closes her eyes, basking in the chilled air.
Meanwhile I’m chafing in places the Roman sun don’t shine.
Noah appears by my side and tries to pass me his water bottle, and I stare down at it like it’s last month’s leftovers I just found in the back of my fridge.
“Your mouth was on that.”
“You’re going to dehydrate,” he says, nudging it closer.
I hold up my hand. “I’ll take my chances.”
He sighs as he lifts the bottle to his mouth. I watch him guzzle down a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I suddenly feel lightheaded.
Maybe I won’t have to fake an illness tonight after all.
“How long is your boy going to make us stand out here?”
I straighten my shoulders. “Lorenzo is not my boy.”
“We should have visited this place in the morning so we could have avoided the crowds and the heat. We could have swapped the schedule and had the kids do their Latin lesson in the afternoon.”
