This is a story about a summer romance in the Eternal City, where love is visible around every corner. This city makes you long for love in ways you never knew existed. You see and feel love on the streets: old people holding hands, teenagers shamelessly kissing, strangers flirting without holding back, and couples sharing gelato. The summer heat just seems to fasten the process of falling in love.
Roman guys are, in a lot of ways, the same as the city itself: chaotic, confusing, unreliable, even rude, but, at the same time, charismatic, authentic, and absolutely stunning. This also describes the guy I met last summer.
It was August, and the city was hot, extremely so. Staying inside and taking several cold mini showers was the only routine that made life doable.
We met at Piazza Trilussa for the first time. I really thought my Dutch soberness would protect me against the bullshit of Italian men, but boy was I wrong about that. The guy was handsome, mysterious, smart, funny, a bit strange, and all of that combined made him very attractive. Talking to him felt easy while he casually smoked about 18 cigarettes per Campari spritz. After one too many drinks, we took a walk next to the Tiber. On its banks, we liplocked for an hour straight.
He brought me home, and I invited him to my rooftop terrace, snagging a half-empty bottle of prosecco from my fridge. I’m not making it more filmic than it was, I swear. We talked and smoked more cigarettes, drank prosecco, and kissed with the city of Rome in the background as our only witness.
We kept in contact during the following days, and my friends from Rome warned me early on about “the Roman guy complex”, that they can have challenges processing their emotions and tend to disappear sooner or later. Of course I didn’t listen, because where’s the fun in that?
Soon after, we returned to my balcony, and began kissing after just ten minutes of seeing each other. We didn’t stop for food. We almost didn’t stop for air. I felt no hunger. Not for food at last. The apericena spread I had put out stayed untouched.
The following week was filled with more of this physical attraction that’s hard to describe. One late, hot evening (temperature wise) we were cruising to Gianicolo by car, the windows open and loud music bouncing from the speakers. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so effortlessly attracted to someone before.
But part of that attraction came down to the nonchalant, steady distance that I got from him. Somewhere on a subconscious level, I knew this might not be the best idea, and that this had nothing to do with love. But all my sense of reason would go out the window every time I caught him waiting for me in front of my house, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette.
Of course my friends and subconscious were right. He disappeared as fast as he appeared. I think, on some level, it was better that way. Hot summer romances stay more intact if they end when summer does.
I also can’t blame him. Just like you can’t blame a dog for barking or a wasp for stinging. Roman men have been bruising hearts since the beginning of mankind. Did it hurt? Absolutely. Would I do it again? Absolutely.
