It was still very cold, colder than in the States which went against all of the silliness I'd built in my head about Italy. Mostly from thinking about Sicily and Naples so often, forgetting there were entire regions north that became bone chilling during Christmas-time. I had already come once previously during the holidays, a period of time I don't like to think about other than to remember it as being the first visiting with Matthew as something beyond best friends; and now I was back again. It was just the two of us, his ship out of port and roommate out at sea with it. 

 

 

 

We took a long weekend to Rome. I was thrilled to take in all of the city, walking through streets soaking up the buildings and colors and fashion. We went to the Colosseum for another attempt after a failed arrival just after closing during my first visit. This attempt also failed. I didn't mind.

 

I was out of my mind crazy excited to see the Sistine Chapel. I can't describe how long I've waited to stand in it's presence, and so we got in line, went through security and through tired realization saw we had gone to the completely wrong sector of the Popes Square - to see St Peters Basilica. And I am so happy we made that misstep. I'll see the Chapel someday but I never would have gone to see the basilica if it weren't on a sleepy mistake. After walking hundreds (was it thousands?) of steps up to the dome and back down, a very exhausted Matthew and I walked into the main part of the building and as he plopped down to rest I spent the next two hours craning my neck in obscure angles to take photos of anything and everything along the ceilings and walls. The art was astounding, it was beautiful and had this way of making you certain you were in the presence of something much greater than your very small self. Something huge and other worldly.

Now I really wish I had photos or documentation of this in any sort - but sadly I don't. Matthew found where I had wandered to, took a few photos so I could remember myself being there and suggested it was time to go. Then he pulled me aside before the exit, got down on his knee, pulled a ring from his pocket and started speaking for what felt like an eternity and if you asked me what he was saying I can't even recall because my heart was thudding in my knees and my stomach was floating above my head upward toward the blue and gold ceiling. I was elated. I'm pretty sure I giggled and half-skipped the whole way back to the subway, to our hotel and while carrying 40lbs of luggage onto our train home.

We arrived back to Gaeta where I snooped around the local weekly market, made feline friends on an abandoned property that runs along the way to the walk into town and collected the many bruises I received from my frequented visits of unconsciousness. I don't know why during these months my fainting became so terrible and maybe it will sound odd but this point in time was equally as beautiful as it was stressful.

Half a year has passed since these photos. A lot has changed. But much has stayed the same when it comes to my feelings about overseas. A place I want to go back to and somewhere among it's countries I'd like to make a home, if only for a little while.