Rome, by all means, Rome

I think of Apollo and Daphne in the Galleria Borghese— frozen in that breathless moment, roots spiraling up her legs like a spell taking hold. The sight sends a small tremor through me. And I wonder—does Rome’s own brilliance take root the same way, twisting upward, burrowing deep, claiming every stone, every shadow?

In this city, time dissolves. There is no before, no after— only the things that refuse to age. The icons of fashion that stand untouched by noise or years: a heavy, sequined Roberto Cavalli gown igniting under the spotlight— La Dolce Vita, made flesh. A violet Gucci top from Fall/Winter 2006, a Blumarine leopard-print skirt from Fall/Winter 2003, threads of gold and silver catching the glimmer of starlight tossed across the Tiber. And the diamond-strap Gucci heels from 1996— satin lost in a haze of purple light, slipping into a dream beside the Trevi Fountain, where wishes float just beneath the surface.

I wake in the newly restored Hotel La Minerva, embraced by veins of red-brown marble. I dress in a Blumarine fur-trim backless top and a lace skirt from Spring/Summer 1998, my steps cushioned by satin Dolce & Gabbana tie-up sandals, each cameo glinting like a keepsake from another lifetime. a light that never once flickers out.

Rome rises around me— proud, unbroken, eternal. One day, you will come here too. You will touch the worn marble, walk the uneven Basoli stones, and turn into an alley just in time to collide with the afterglow of an empire.

And you— even if you never meet Joe, never taste gelato on the Spanish Steps, never fall into the kind of serendipity film scripts are made of— you will still say, “Rome, by all means, Rome.” And long after you leave, long after the city exits the frame, you will carry her with you— a soft, golden gleam at the corner of your eye, a light that never once flickers out.