Rome was my home. Indeed, living in Rome itself was a beauty. While residing on Via Volusia from 2008 to 2009, I wished I was a S.P.Q.R. girl. Many people are familiar with the term “Romans,” but in the real world of Rome, the Italians with legitimate Roman birth certificates are actually called the “S.P.Q.R.,” or Senatus Populusque Romanus.

Here are the moments that I miss the most: eating a pizza or gelato on the steps of Piazza di Popollo and Spagna, lowering prices of items by proving that I was not a tourist, buying the freshest fruits and vegetables coated with the early morning mist at Campo di Fiori, riding a bicycle around the city with my friends’ support, taking my European History class in “Roma,” hearing my favorite gypsy violinist play behind the Pantheon, complaining about the heavy morning traffic with the police officers and neighbors on my way to school, having sugarless cappuccino, pasta with thin spread of cheese and salt, rosetta (rose-shaped) bread with prosciutto and juicy mozzarella inside, or crispy panini as breakfast and lunch during school hours, going to guilty vintage shopping where gypsies sell their stolen goods, running to catch buses 213 and 202 every morning, hanging out in my neighborhood of Via Cassia, going for picnics at Borghese Park, sneering at the posters of scandalous Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, listening to Andrea Bocelli’s magical cadence spilling from the Coliseum, learning about business people from Embassies of diverse countries, FAO (Food and Agricultural Organization), and NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) in Parioli, gazing at the back side of Santa Majore Church at night, strolling down Via Berlini with my beautiful friends on my side, and tasting the most delicious gelato in the world near Termini Station.

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