Most of you probably don’t know this, but I went to Rome at the end of the June. And instead of writing a big old blog post about it, describing my experiences in hilaric (a real word, I’ll have you know) detail and what not, I’ve managed to do everything but that. My intention this evening was to finally write an amazing, funny piece on my travels to Rome, sharing with you the stories of my life for that one week I did something different. Instead I ended up wasting my entire evening by adding a bunch of older blog posts from the last three years to this archive, thus making me focus on him just enough to shift my writing from humour, to wallow.

That’s procrastination at its most basic.

I can’t write about my trip to Rome, it simply won’t flow. In fact the only thing that did flow in Rome was the wine and the tears. The tears first obviously, then I soaked them up with the wine.

You see, I should have experienced Rome with the ex. It was supposed to be our romantic holiday in the eternal city – the place for love. But that was ballsed up earlier in the year when our relationship ended. So instead of forgoing the holiday, I went anyway. All by myself. The person who is crap at reading maps; who used to leave all the finer details of sorting a holiday out, to the ex.

I never even made an itinerary of things to do for whilst I was out there, because all the months leading up to the holiday, I was simply blocking it out. Delaying the inevitable, ignoring my last link to the ex – because I didn’t want to have to think about him. I couldn’t. So everyday I was out there, after consuming far too many pastries and cups of coffee than is perhaps socially acceptable and physically possible, I left the hotel complete with a bottle of water, a map,  my camera and a notebook.

And I walked, not looking at my map once.

I walked wherever my feet would take me. I didn’t stop. I saw everything. I tried everything I wanted to try. I drank everything I wanted to drink. I ate everything I wanted to eat; sometimes I even ate things I wasn’t expecting when my Italian didn’t come out as intended. I sat where I wanted to sit. I spoke to whoever and whomever I wished to speak to. I smiled whenever I found something worth smiling about. And I enjoyed and hated my time there in equal measures.

Enjoyed, because I was free to do whatever the hell I pleased. If I wanted to get ice-cream at three in the morning, I could. If I wanted to waste an hour at the colosseum staring at it in all its weathered glory, I could – and did. Enjoyed, because instead of running away at the thought of going on holiday alone, I embraced it. Perhaps I didn’t make the most of every moment I spent there, but I lived through every moment.

Hated… well, I was alone. Don’t get me wrong, I love my own company. I can spend many a day by myself people watching, happily eating in a restaurant by myself – even smiling to myself. But knowing that there should have been another person with me when there clearly wasn’t – that I did not enjoy. Not at all. It started at the airport when I had to check in.

PERSON MISSING.

It continued on the flight.

PERSON MISSING.

Empty seat.

It continued checking into the hotel.

PERSON MISSING.

Yes, I’m sure there isn’t someone else checking in. No, they won’t be arriving later. No, it’s just me now.

Just me.

Me.

Single.

Singular.

No we, no us, just me. Me. Me. Me.

A double bed – a hotel suite, far too big for one person, especially one as short as me. And after closing the door to my suite, I pushed my suitcase into the corner of the room, took off my red jacket – and filled the silence with huge, I’m-feeling-very-sorry-for-myself sobs. I cried. I sat slap bang in the middle of that big bed, and I let it all out. Months and months of pretending I didn’t care about my relationship ending leaked its way down my cheeks. It ruined my mascara, but I didn’t care. No one could see me.

And then I stopped crying. I washed my face – reapplied my mascara, even added some lipstick. I took my camera, my map, my notebook, my key card and I walked. And for the next seven days, I didn’t stop walking. I mean obviously I came back to the hotel in the evenings and slept, but I walked everywhere. All the time. I was walking off the last four years, definitely the last four months – and especially those last four croissants I had for breakfast.

I’ve tried writing about the things I saw whilst over there, about the things that happened to me, I really have; but what’s the point? A guidebook could tell you better than I could. Besides, that’s what photos are for, aren’t they? I bought a camera for that exact purpose. To prove that I could go out there and do something I didn’t really want to do. Not visit Rome, no, that I did want. But I didn’t want to acknowledge how much I had been hurt. I’d been surrounded by people for so long, housemates, work colleagues, friends… and now, without that support around me, I was exposed.

The truth is, I couldn’t tell you what I saw. I didn’t see anything there except the end of my relationship. And no one wants to see that.