Single in Roma

If you read my last post you know that it took place in Florence while I was traveling abroad for a total of four months, and my next destination was Rome. I had left the safety of my travel group to meet my friend Danielle in Florence for a few days, but I was going to be traveling solo in Rome. I had three days to do whatever I wanted, and as it was my first time traveling completely by myself, I was excited but also a little nervous. This may seem like the perfect set up for a Roman holiday with a beguiling, passionate, Italian man with a sexy accent and loads of chest hair, but I’ll tell you right now that it’s not. On this holiday, I made a new friend, a fellow unaccompanied American girl, and she and I conquered Rome together.  

I had been to Rome twice before so the city wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me and I kept that in mind when choosing a first solo international visit. I booked myself a bed in an all-female room in the Yellow Hostel, which is known for young people and having a bit of a party vibe. I had a previous experience with an almost too-empty hostel in London that had completely skeeved me out, so I decided to err on the side of noisy partiers rather than a creepy, empty hostel in which I might have to share a room with just one weird stranger. 

On my first day, I booked myself a tour of the Colosseum and the Forum and headed over early in the day. I paid extra for the Colosseum tour where you get to go down below, into the maze where they used to keep the slaves and the gladiators and the hungry lions and tigers that they would sick on the gladiators. It was unreal, thinking about how old the structure was (almost 2000 years; they started building the thing in 70 AD!), how many people had passed through the exact spot I was standing; how starkly different their lives had been from mine, whether they were a slave, a gladiator (still a slave) or a starving wild animal being raised up through the floor in a giant lift. I took way too many photos as I pondered and wandered.

Once I completed my Colosseum tour, I headed out to meet up with my next tour group that would take me through the Forum. There were dozens of tour guides holding signs up in the air, herding tourists like cattle, and I had no idea how to find mine. I read my ticket over a few more times and headed towards the sign that seemed like it would be my tour. I waited a few minutes amongst other seemingly clueless tourists, until I was approached by a tour guide. 

“Oh, I already have a ticket for a tour.” I offered up, assuming he was trying to sell me a ticket. He smiled at me, and I was a little confused as to whether or not he was just a ticket selling guy or an actual guide. He looked about as Italian as I do (which, if you don’t know me, is not Italian at all), with blonde hair, blue eyes, a few extra pounds on him, some scruff, and a very casual, American-looking outfit of a t-shirt and cargo shorts. 

“Let me see your ticket” he offered. I was hesitant, but he sounded American and in the sea of foreign languages drifting around my ears, it was a bit of a relief. I showed him my ticket and confirmed that my reservation was not with him. He didn’t seem to mind. “Well, you’re welcome to join my tour group. We’re leaving now so you don’t have to wait around, and I’m a much better guide than whoever you’re supposed to have anyway.” He smiled wryly. I studied him, slightly confused, and on the defensive because we’ve all heard the stories of tourists getting swindled in heavily trafficked areas. It happened to me on my first trip to Italy and I was not going to let this guy rip me off.

“Why do you want me to join your group? I haven’t even paid you.” He smiled calmly. “I make most of my money off tips anyway, so there’s still time for that. Plus, you’re cute.” I was taken aback at his frankness and recoiled a bit more. I looked at him, questioningly. He laughed at my unease.

“I get it, you’re a woman traveling alone and you don’t want to get ripped off or taken advantage of. I promise I’m not trying to do either one of those things. I just think that you’re cute and you’d have more fun on my tour.” I smiled at him and decided to relax. It’s not like he was trying to get me to go into some dark alley alone with him, there were literally dozens of people on all sides of us. Plus, I liked his gumption and decided he’d be an entertaining tour guide. I was right about that. 

The tour was great, and he was very knowledgeable and funny. By the end of the tour, it felt like some members of our group were friends and we were talking about our plans for the rest of our trip. Our tour guide, let’s call him John because I can’t remember his real name, had the perfect answer for us. 

He offered a sunset walking drinking tour of the city, every evening at 7pm. If ever there was a tour that sounded custom made for me, this was it. Just take my money! I signed up for the tour and hurried back to my hostel, wanting to change out of my workout clothes and into something a little nicer (and cleaner). I showered and threw on a green dress and boots, grateful for the unseasonably warm April weather in Rome, and headed out for my tour. 

We met in the city near the Colosseum at a small market that sold alcohol and snacks. We all purchased our own drinks, I chose a small (ish) bottle of white wine with a screw top for convenience, and we were off. John showed us some of the smaller, less noticeable but equally as historically significant elements of the city, starting with Stumbling Stones. 

These were brass stones inlaid with the cobblestones that marked the location where Jews had lived and worked before they were taken from their homes during the Holocaust. They were small, flat, brass stones, engraved with the words “Qui Abitava”, meaning “Here Lived”, followed by their name, birth date, and death date. I would have completely missed them and walked over them on my own, and was grateful that John pointed them out and told us their story. John showed us all kinds of small things like that, pointing out statues and explaining their meaning as we went. 

One of the best things about this tour though, strolling through the beautiful streets of Rome at sunset while sipping my wine, was that I met the other solo traveler who would become my Rome buddy, and Stephanie and I spent the next three days exploring, eating, drinking, and laughing. I would have done all of those things by myself, just without the laughing and company, and this changed my entire experience in Rome. 

Stephanie and I started chatting while we purchased our drinks from the market and that’s when I found out she was traveling alone, she was from New Jersey, and she was pretty fucking cool. We bonded on the tour when we came to an open square that looked like an active archaeological dig, except that it had been inhabited by dozens of cats. John told us that these cats used to live at the Colosseum, and I remembered when I had visited on my previous trip to Rome that the colosseum had, in fact, been occupied by lots and lots of cats. They weren’t in the way or anything, mostly basking in the sunshine where the old marble seats used to be, but as you scanned the colosseum you would see cat after cat dotting the horizon.

Evidently the city officials had grown tired of this and relocated all of the cats to this square/dig site, where they appeared to be living quite contentedly.  They weren’t feral or aggressive, they just didn’t belong to any humans. Some of them would walk right up to you and pose for photos, hoping for food.  It was quite a remarkable sight to see the dig site itself as well. Mere feet below the city streets of present-day Rome lay an entire world, and this was a spot where you could bear witness to that.

As we finished up the tour, we returned back to our starting point and ended at a pub to have a drink with John. He had invited the whole group to stay but only a few of us did; the solo travelers and young folk. We sat and drank and talked and when John revealed that he had a scooter, Stephanie was thrilled. She wanted a ride on that scooter, and John was happy to oblige her. 

He took her for a quick spin around a few blocks and then returned to take me for a spin. He had helmets for both rider and passenger; the big, bulbous, goofy looking kind that were white with a red and green stripe, mimicking the Italian flag. We took pictures on the scooter and were ready to call it a night, but John was a little disappointed and clearly had been hoping for a rendezvous with one of us. 

I can see how this would work on one tourist girl after the next; a sunset walking tour with wine, followed by a scooter ride through the cobbled streets of Rome, but neither one of us was into him so we thanked him for the fun evening and headed out. I was grateful that John had goaded me into joining his tour group though, because otherwise I never would have gone on the sunset walking tour and made my new friend. Stephanie and I exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up the next day.

Our plans happened to coincide nicely, and Stephanie and I both wanted to head to the Spanish Steps, do some shopping, and just wander around the city. We made our way to the Trevi Fountain and tossed our coins over our shoulders into the water, making secret wishes to Triton and his seahorses. We visited the Pantheon and its accompanying fountain, then continued on to the Piazza Navona, a former stadium from the first century (!) that now serves as a busy marketplace lined with shops and restaurants, and featuring the Fountain of the Four Rivers in the center. This is another massive statue featuring four river gods, each representing a river from the four continents that had been reached by the Roman Catholic church; the Nile (Africa), the Danube (Europe), the Ganges (Asia), and the Rio de Plata (Americas).

We had a delicious lunch featuring the best calamari I’ve ever had, followed by gnocchi and a delicious pasta and washed down with an Aperol Spritz. Pro tip: Aperol spritzes are a great deal in Europe, as they are heavily featured during happy hour and usually run you about five Euros. We ate our meal facing the bustling square and listened to the musicians playing their violins, cellos, and stand-up bass, while children danced around them and dropped tips into their instrument cases as instructed by their parents. It could have been a pretty romantic scene, but we were both glad just to have the company of a new friend with whom to enjoy it. 

After our late lunch (we were really living like Italians) we wandered down towards the Tiber river, and on our way we stepped into a shop that featured mostly clothes and accessories, but had a glass case of what looked like marijuana. Stephanie and I saw it and exchanged a look. It was relatively inexpensive and even though we couldn’t fully communicate with the shopkeeper to get an answer as to whether or not it was, in fact, marijuana, he seemed to think that it was and it was cheap enough that we took a chance. Turns out Stephanie and I were both part time stoners who were jonesing for some weed! We took our purchase and set off to find a market that would sell rolling papers and a lighter, then found a place to sit down by the river. 

Unfortunately, Stephanie and I are both terrible at rolling joints, so after way too long we were left with a pretty lumpy, unevenly filled, puffy-ish joint. Didn’t matter, we were stoked. It was time to light it up! The papers burned so unevenly though that it would burn all the way down one side and not through the middle, the actual flowers, and we were stumped yet again. We returned to the market in search of something pre-rolled and found some pre-rolled cigarrillos. We bought a pack and emptied one out, filling it with our “weed”, and that sort of worked. 

We had also purchased a bottle of wine from the market and this time decided to sit up on the bridge over the water and watch the sunset. We sat on the wall of the stone bridge, attempting to smoke our makeshift joint, giggling, drinking our wine straight from the bottle, and just having a care-free evening. Passersby glanced at us but didn’t seem to be bothered by the open container or whatever you would call what we were attempting to smoke. The Romans were just relaxed, making their way home or to dinner, and we were greeted with smiles. 

And then one passerby stopped to talk to us. She was a beautiful blonde woman in her late 20s-early 30s, and she walked over to us to ask if we knew a good place to grab a drink nearby. Her name was Sanne, (she told us it was okay to call her Sunny once we mispronounced it a few times) and she was from Amsterdam. Stephanie and I laughed at ourselves as we explained to her that we were just tourists trying to figure out how to smoke this sad little joint and invited her to join us. Ironically, Sunny didn’t smoke, but she did share some of our wine with us. We told her we weren’t sure where to find a drink but that we were happy to wander with her until we found a watering hole, and just like that, we became a trio. One drink turned into many, and before we knew it, we were drunk and dancing at a bar, as if we had known each other for years. 

Stephanie and I had booked a tour to go to the Vatican City the next morning. You what’s not a fun place to be when you’re hungover? The Vatican. It’s crowded, it was hot, and you’re on your feet ALL DAY LONG. Of course we had booked a tour and not just walked through on our own, which had perks like skipping the line that wraps a half a mile around the street surrounding the Vatican, but also meant that we were moving much slower through the museum instead of just skimming at our own pace and sitting down whenever we saw an open spot on a bench.

By the end of the tour, we had seen all the sights; St. Peter’s Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, the Pope’s balcony. The hangovers had worn off and mostly fatigue remained. We grabbed a quick bite and then stopped by a market to grab more wine and cups and headed to a park to meet up with Sunny. Once we arrived at the Caffe del Pincio, a beautiful park up on a hill affording beautiful views of the city, we were pleasantly surprised to find an outdoor stage with an Earth Day music festival taking place, apparently free of charge. We found a spot on the grass and drank our wine, alternating sitting on the grass with dancing near the stage, watching the sunset from atop the hill, and watching fire dancers in the piazza down below attracting crowds near another architectural masterpiece in the center of the square. 

It was accidentally picturesque, and again, would have been incredibly romantic with a partner, but was honestly just as enjoyable with my newfound traveler friends. We wandered down the hill, found a restaurant, and treated ourselves to the most decadent meal I’d had yet in Rome. Fried artichoke, caprese salad, pasta, gnocchi, lamb, gelato, and tiramisu. We shared all of the dishes and a couple bottles of wine, and it ended up being a pretty perfect day. 

That was my last night in Rome, and so I parted ways with my new travel partners in crime. We stayed in touch for the next few months and I even met up with Sunny again when I visited Amsterdam a month later. Stephanie returned home to New Jersey to start her new job, resuming life as usual. We aren’t in touch much anymore, but I wouldn’t hesitate to call either one of them the next time I’m traveling, and they are both welcome in my home any time they pass through California.

Being single in a romantic city isn’t bad, especially when you find friends to share it with. This was my first time traveling completely by myself, and though I had been a little intimidated by the prospect of it at first, as I just went about my plans and sightseeing, companionship found me. It’s a unique experience traveling alone, and even though mine was short, I had more fun with my unexpected new friends and just playing it by ear than I ever could have imagined. Chalk it up to one more life experience I got to have as a single woman that I never would have had if I were coupled up. See? This single thing isn’t so bad after all. 


Two years ago I went on a four month trip to Europe and South Africa. It was one of the best experiences of my life and given the current state of things, I’ve been doing some serious reminiscing back to happier times. In particular I’ve been thinking about Italy, as it’s been in the news so much recently and is one of my favorite places in the world. Lucky for you guys, I had a romance (well, not so much a romance as an interaction worthy of the blog), so for this week’s post, we’re going to Italy! 

I met Joao on my first night in Florence. It was one of those encounters where at first, you’re all about it and by the end you can’t get out of it fast enough. You know those ones? Yeah. Joao is a Brazilian DJ living in Florence who knows my friend Danielle, who just so happened to be visiting Florence while I was living in Croatia. This was geographically convenient so I told her that I was going to meet her there whether she liked it or not.

Danielle lived in Florence for a couple of years so she knows the city, she knows locals, and I was excited to experience Florence more like a local and less like a tourist! Her dad was joining her for the trip too, but would be staying with his friend Bernardo, and I met them both along with Danielle at the train station. Danielle and I got our own cute little Airbnb close to the Duomo and city center, and we were so excited for our girls’ weekend in Firenze!

We arrived in the afternoon and went straight to our apartment to freshen up, drop our bags, and then headed out to meet up with her friends. We found them at an Irish pub, which made me laugh for some reason (When in Rome, ya know?) and immediately we had drinks in our hands and were headed downstairs to grab a table. Danielle caught up with her friends, and after a while there were a few more dudes who had showed up and were hovering near our table. One of these dudes was Joao. 

Joao had dark eyes, long eyelashes, tan skin, a cute smile, a flat brim hat, and a sexy accent. We didn’t talk much at first, but after a few drinks everyone started getting out on the dance floor. The music that was playing wasn’t great, so Joao hopped on the sound system and started to DJ, and pretty soon he had everybody dancing. Every once in a while he would pop out from behind the DJ booth – well, folding table – to come dance with me and Danielle. 

The visits got more frequent and the dancing got more, um, friendly, if you know what I mean. Joao was a very good dancer. I’m pretty sure that’s a requirement if you’re Brazilian, so I shouldn’t be that surprised, but I was really enjoying myself. It may have had something to do with the seven or so whiskey sodas that I consumed, but I didn’t mind when Joao would run over behind me and grind on me like we were teenagers in a club. I would flirt with him and then turn around and dance facing him for a bit, all smiles and batting of the eyelashes. 

He was so much fun and so into me. He was really putting on the moves, coming in closer and closer, and I think he even snuck in a couple kisses. I say I think because, again, seven whiskey sodas. Normally I don’t like kissing dudes I’ve just met in a room full of people, but I think it’s safe to say that my inhibitions were lowered and I was onboard with this Italian romance thing. Or Brazilian, same idea.

I was slightly missing the mark on this “When in Rome” thing but I guess that’s how it goes when you’re in Florence. 

As the night wound down and we were getting ready to leave, Joao was glued to my side. He insisted on walking us home, and since he lives in Florence and would theoretically know his way around, we let him. BIG mistake. As I mentioned before, Danielle used to live in Florence and was fairly certain she knew how to get us home, but Joao didn’t seem to believe her. He usurped the navigation responsibilities from her once we had left together and led us a different way home. AKA, he walked us in circles. Thirty minutes later, Danielle was pissed off, Joao was confused, and I was officially over it. I did not want some Brazilian dude in my bed any longer, I just wanted to go pass out. Joao kept insisting we go this way or that way, and finally Danielle put her foot down. 

“Our apartment is that way!  I’m going that way. Kelly is coming with me. You do whatever you want.” We went her way and miraculously, were home in five minutes. Joao followed us, and at this point it was so late (4am, maybe?) and had taken us so long to get home that I didn’t have the heart to just send him on his way. So he came up with us. 

Our Airbnb had one bedroom and a pullout couch in the living room. Danielle took the bedroom and Joao and I were on the pullout. I tried just going to sleep but he wasn’t having that. Not in an asshole way, he just really wanted to make out with me. I tried to convince myself, this is how you have stories to tell about adventures in foreign countries! And I made out with him. 

Clothes started coming off, including his hat, and that was when I realized how little hair he had. And how drunk he was. Whoa buddy. His eyes weren’t focusing and he was trying to go down on me and I just had to keep stopping him because it was AWFUL. 

I suggested maybe we skip all of the “foreplay” since he couldn’t get it up anyway. (I didn’t say that last part out loud.) I was not disappointed, in fact I was relieved, and very much ready to go to sleep. He was not. He kept pawing at me way too aggressively and I wondered how an attractive, 35-year-old man had made it this long without learning how to touch a woman. 

I told him to stop. He was drunk and didn’t get it. I told him to stop again and then I did the thing that girls sometimes do when they’re with a dude who won’t take no for an answer. 

*Disclaimer: This is not a date rape story. I do not in any way mean to imply that. I am referring to the amount of enthusiasm that some men have when they take a woman home and they don’t want to admit that maybe they’re just not sober enough to be a good lover. They don’t want to give up, so we have to force their hand. I did this by faking sick, because I’m a grown up.  

I pushed him away from me and suddenly grabbed my forehead and my stomach. 

 “What’s the matter?” He was concerned.

“I don’t feel well.” I took a dramatic pause for effect. “I think I’m going to be sick.” I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and honestly, probably threw up too but I don’t really remember. I had a lot of whiskey on a semi-empty stomach. 

I really took my time in there before I came back to bed, hoping he would be passed out. He wasn’t. I climbed into bed and rolled over onto my side with my back to him. He slid right over and spooned me. I told him to stop. He backed off. Then he cupped my ass.

I told him sternly, “Do not touch me. I don’t feel well and I’m going to sleep.” He backed off. I passed out pretty much immediately, slightly dreading the awkwardness that would be my morning. Fortunately, Joao was up at 7:00 and had to leave for work! He got up and dressed and then woke me to kiss me goodbye. It was sweet, he was gone, and I fell back asleep until 11. 

Eventually I got up and wandered into the bedroom to find Danielle. We were both just wrecked. Heavy drinking takes a heavy toll when you’re in your early thirties. She asked me about Joao, I told her, she cringed. We showered and headed out. Luckily, we were in Florence, city of cappuccinos and amazing food, two of my favorite things when I’m hungover. 

As the day went on, Danielle kept getting messages from Joao asking what we were doing and if I was with her. I checked my Instagram and saw that he had added me and sent me a message. He wanted to meet up again. I could think of nothing worse. We blew him off and told him we had plans of our own. Which was true. 

We walked around the city, saw a string quartet doing covers of current pop hits, ate amazing truffle pasta with white wine, shopped the outdoor markets, and met up with a friend of hers for a drink. Later we went for dinner with Danielle’s dad and his friend with whom he was staying, Bernardo. Bernardo was a very kind Italian man with two sons, a fifteen-year-old and a twenty-one-year-old.

The restaurant was as if I had designed it from own imagination of wonderful Italian stereotypes; cozy and warm, dark wood and light walls, all the guests seemed to know each other and the waiters, their charming Italian accents drifting through the air, house wine flowing, and the most delicious plates of food I had ever seen drifting endlessly out of the kitchen.  

Everyone at dinner spoke Italian except for me, so I sat quietly at my end of the table and just listened, drank wine, and ate a ton of food. No joke, someone actually commented about how much food I was eating and I laughed. It’s not every day I’m eating actual Italian food in Italy, so I ate as much as I could. (I ended up gaining what felt like 10 pounds in the week I was in Italy, and it was totally worth it.) 

I was seated at the end of the table next to Bernardo’s sons, and they spoke a tiny bit of English but were both pretty shy. Andrea was the older one. He was blonde with blue eyes, scruffy, very tan from working construction all day. He seemed very sweet and was checking on me to see if I needed more wine. Of course I did, but I was too afraid to ask the waiter. 

The waiter was a friend of Bernardo’s, and he was also the owner and chef of the restaurant. The head honcho. A large, jovial, sarcastic Italian man who made fun of everyone at the table and was the star of his restaurant. He also didn’t speak English so I was terrified to flag him down and ask for another white wine. I was also embarrassed to be drinking white wine in Italy but red wine was giving me killer heartburn and it was a sacrifice I just had to make. Andrea must have seen the internal struggle I was having because he asked the waiter for me, and so I got my second and third glasses of wine. 

We ate multiple courses of food, presented family style and spread all over the table. There was a charcuterie plate the size of a small coffee table, piled with meats and cheeses. There was bruschetta and paté, grilled vegetables, bread, and olive oil, and then there were the main courses. The owner asked us if we wanted pasta or meat and naturally we said both please. He brought us a Florentine steak (when in Florence! I did it!) seared to perfection, medium rare, dripping with juices and delicious flavor. Then he brought us three pastas. There was a pistachio pasta that I had thought was pesto at first, light green in color and creamy in texture, a meat ragu over pappardelle, and a short rib pasta that melted in your mouth. I was in heaven. 

I thoroughly enjoyed that meal, and since we were there with Bernardo, the bill was taken straight to and handled by him. I thanked him graciously and emphasized how much I had enjoyed everything, and he chuckled, saying he “could tell I enjoyed the food.”

The next night while we were out, I got a text message from a number I didn’t know. It was Andrea, the older son from the night before who had ordered me more wine when I was too afraid. I didn’t know how he would have gotten my number, but then I remembered Bernardo got it when I had met him at the train station the first day. Andrea had asked his dad for my number and wanted to go out with me. 

I was flattered but surprised since we had hardly spoken to each other, but maybe I came off as mysterious since I couldn’t say very much? Noted. He wanted me to have a drink with him. I told him I had plans with Danielle that night to go see her friend’s band play and that he was welcome to join us. He did, and Bernardo and Danielle’s dad also came. We watched the show and had a few drinks, then the dads went home and we all hung out and had more drinks. A LOT more drinks. 

Joao had been messaging me on Instagram all day, wanting to meet up and “do what we didn’t get to do the other night.” Yikes. Needless to say I was not into it, but I felt bad so I invited him to the show. He showed up so late, after the band was finished, and we were all standing outside drinking and smoking, comfortable and drunk and having a good time. Joao just stalked up silently and stood next to me, as if claiming me. He didn’t greet me or anyone else, he just looked pissed that I was there with other guys. It was instantly uncomfortable.

I said hi to him and asked if he wanted a drink. He said no rather aggressively. (Anti-whiskey-dick maneuvering, perhaps?) So we stood there and I continued chatting with the group while he awkwardly sulked nearby, sober and angry. After a while we went inside and Andrea wouldn’t let me or Danielle pay for a single drink, yet somehow I had more shots? I hadn’t seen Joao in at least thirty minutes and assumed he had left, until I went back into the other room and saw him just sitting silently by himself, looking very pissed off. 

Danielle and I decided it was time to go home, and Andrea and Joao took that as their cue to follow us out. Oooh, this is awkward… It was clear they were both thinking they were going to spend the night with me, when in reality, there was no way either one of them was going to. However, Andrea was way too drunk to drive home, so we told him he could sleep on our couch. Joao seemed to take this as an invite to stay over too, and he literally followed us all the way home. I thought he was being chivalrous and walking us home and thanked him for doing so, stating it with some finality to let him know that he was not invited in. Not to mention we had barely spoken all night, so I didn’t feel that I had given him any reason to believe he was going to end up in my bed that night. When we arrived at the front door of our Airbnb, Danielle had had it, and she laid down the law. 

 “Kelly and I are going to bed. Together. Andrea, you are sleeping on our couch because you are way too drunk to drive and I’m not going to let you sleep in your car, if you even know where that is. Joao, it’s time for you to go home.” 

I stood next to her in the doorway nodding to confirm her words. Joao looked at me, hoping for another answer, and I shook my head.

“I’m going to sleep. With Danielle.” I said as sternly, yet gently, as possible. He was pissed. He huffed and puffed and glared at Andrea, who was completely oblivious to the situation, then stormed off. Ciao Joao! Danielle and I put Andrea to bed on the pullout couch. He reeked of cigarettes and whiskey and had no idea how he got there the next morning. 

Our last day in Florence was spent tasting over 30 flavors of gelato at the Gelato Festival in Piazzale Michelangelo. I have to say, ending my trip eating spoonfuls of gelato on a beautiful day in a picturesque square with a statue of the David and a view overlooking the entire city of Florence was the perfect way to end my trip, and I could almost forget about my attempt to “Do as the Romans do”, or rather, just do a Roman. Besides, I would have a chance to remedy that when I headed out for Rome the very next day.