Roma.

I had the time of my life once I got to college.

After spending years feeling all proper and buttoned up in the Upper East Side private school bubble, I loved that I was now in a dirty basement in PA, drinking beer, out of a keg.

So when my mother brought up the idea of studying abroad I thought the notion sounded crazy, I would miss so many of my beloved basement keg parties, was she nuts?!

However, I took the test, one of many in my life, to appease her, and much to my chagrin, was accepted.

Damn I hate being so smart.

I KID.

Anyways, the time came to send this little bird over to the other side of the ocean to see if she truly could leave the nest and fly. I had traveled lots by this point but never alone.

My parents happily drove me to JFK and waved goodbye. I turned around and gave them the meanest look I could muster.

I may as well have been walking to the gallows.

I was pissed.

That sounds obnoxious I know, but I was.

How dare my parents rip me out of my fun zone in Scranton PA to send me to ITALY!

Once the plane landed, we exited to the terminal and were informed in various languages that smoking was not allowed. As if on que, every Italian on the flight immediately pulled out their smokes and lit up. Dude, bad ass.

Once outside we were all collected and put on a bus to Monte Mario, the highest of the seven hills, where I was to live. As I watched out the window, I observed Fiats and Vespas flying by. Fiat, I was later told, was an acronym for, Fix It Again Tony. I remember the men and women were dressed to kill.

As the drive continued, I started to become exuberant.

Dare say, excited.

My wanderlust had become awakened.

We got to our school, dropped our stuff, and a bunch of us decided to wander around the neighborhood. We found a local pizza joint and ordered some Peronis. All the patrons were excitingly talking in Italian, looking fabulously casual, and taking deep puffs from their cigarettes.

I stopped and took it all in. ALL OF IT IN. I took a deep breath and smelled the pizzas, the smoke, the beer. I smelled Italy.

Wow, I remember thinking, I am in Rome. I am going to LIVE IN ROME.

This is fucking awesome.

I remember calling my Mom once I had come home later that evening, having the audacity to tell her that I forgave her for sending me to Rome.

Imagine. I called to tell my Mom I FORGAVE HER for sending me to live in ITALY.

Mom I am so sorry.

Man, kids can be assholes.

But boy did I FLY.

When I landed at JFK a year later, I arrived with multiple new suitcases in tow, to house my newly curated collection of clothes, shoes and accessories that weren't even going to become trendy until two years later.

No one has fashion like the Italians.

As I left the airport and walked to meet my parents, I put on my new French sunglasses, and casually took a puff on my cigarette. I proudly sported my pink snakeskin pants, high heels, and fake blonde bun in my hair.

I had been reborn.

Guess you had fun? my parents beamed.

I couldn't wait to tell them of my many adventures.

So, thank you Mom, thank you for pushing me out of the nest and making me FLY.

It is with those wings I will fly again.

Hai il mio curore Roma.

SPQR.