On Borrowed Time
a Roman holiday, unexpectedly extended
Would I be terrible if I said that Iran’s bombardment of Israel was, for me, a sort of deus ex machina?
Let me explain. Earlier that very evening, I had stood at the top of Janiculum Hill, overlooking the Tiber and the heart of Rome beyond, and emphatically told Nick I was not ready to leave the next day. I loved every single thing about this city: wafer-thin biscuits stuck in scoops of rich gelato, children chirping “ciao!” like little baby birds, terraced stucco buildings casting shadows over uneven streets. I would have done anything to stay forever in a little apartment here, where I could drink my morning cappuccino standing up at the neighborhood bar and spend afternoons scribbling in a notebook on a piazza.
