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How I Was Reborn In Rome
The hot Italian sun bathes my face as I look across the narrow street to the Coliseum in the distance.
For the one hundredth time since I arrived in Rome, I marvel at the architecture, the heritage and the history encapsulated in this one building.
The city bus pulls up in front of me, blocking my view. The doors open and the notes from Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used to Know” blare out.
I smile at the familiar sound and silently marvel at the important place this song has quickly come to hold in my heart.
A place born of my not so distant past.
A place only I could truly understand.
“Come on,” my best friend urges. “You have to get on the bus.”
I follow her up the steps, my mind lost in memories.
The summer my best friend and I went to Italy we were both in our early twenties.
I was fresh out of a five-year-long abusive relationship, and this trip, as my friend called it, was to celebrate my divorce.
Seems a bit much? Travelling to another country to celebrate the end of a relationship?
Let me explain.
