Rome is a Nonna, (Italian for Grandmother.) The matriarch of all cities, where the world visits, and people flock to hear her first hand anecdotes of love and war, art and fashion, family and food, and tales of an emperor, or two. She is stoic, weathered by thousands of years of life, and millions of stories found behind the beauty of piercing eyes.
Her grandeur is awe inducing. Ivy lies artfully laced over buildings like fabric, with ornate details, as if each Basilica were adorned in her ‘Sunday’s Best.’ Bougainvillea blooms throughout the city, hanging like vintage artwork, accessorizing piazzas. And a family’s tomato sauce is protected by confessional, but tastes like heaven.
In all of her statuesque opulence, lies a rustic-ness wrought by warfare, yet she still bore the most iconic historical fruit, whose cultural impact reverberates centuries later. Where Caesar periled, Michelangelo painted, Valentino’s brilliance was born, da Vinci invented, well, everything; and then, there is you know, the Pope…