When I was 22, I moved to Rome on my own. I had fallen in love with the city while on holiday, and had been inspired by meeting a young woman in a hostel. After her marriage ended she'd decided to start a new life in Rome, and she was staying in the hostel until she found a flat, while looking for work as an English teacher. Why shouldn't I do the same?
While still in London, I searched for flat shares and teaching jobs, and fantasized about my new life -- a dolce vita of sunshine, fantastic food, and beauty everywhere. Meanwhile my mother, who was less enthusiastic about my decision, reminded me about practical things like contracts and insurance, and all the new things I'd have to buy. There was no way I could fit my whole life into the single 23 kg suitcase allowed by British Airways. "Why don't I come with you?" my mother suggested. "That way you can bring more things. Though of course, the stuff for the kitchen will be too heavy. We'll have to buy that there. Where can you buy frying pans in Rome?"
Although it was a little disappointing to have my bid for independence supervised by my mother, overall I was relieved. Aside from the benefit of being able to bring two big suitcases (and double the hand luggage), I was glad to know that my mother would be keeping me company for my first few days in Rome. It made the impending move seem much less daunting, and it was useful to have someone else keeping track of practical things, and helping with the packing.
Packing your life into two suitcases is not easy. I have no idea how I'd have managed with one. I'm not the most minimalist of people, and I wanted to somehow fit my entire bedroom in the suitcase. In the end I settled for hiding a few books in-between the clothes, hoping they wouldn't weigh too much. I was so concerned about bringing my favourite books and pictures to decorate my new room that I nearly forgot about more essential items such as documents and medication. In hindsight, having some kind of useful moving checklist would have helped.
A few days later, my mother and I -- and our luggage -- were in a tiny, prison-like bedroom in Rome. There were bars on the window, and a bed which, when folded down, took up all the floor space. I was either in the bed or out of the room, as there was literally no other space. As my mother and I began the laborious process of unpacking, and trying to find a place for my smuggled books, I found myself regretting my impulsive decision to take the first flat I'd found.
I had become fixated on the idea of living in Testaccio, a down-to-earth neighbourhood on the edge of the city centre. As strange as it may sound, the main reason is that I wanted to live close to the Protestant Cemetery. It's one of the most beautiful, peaceful places in Rome, and my two favourite poets (Keats and Shelley) are both buried there. Reading Rachel Roddy's food blog Rachel Eats had also made Testaccio sound enticing, as an authentic, unpretentious Roman neighbourhood with a lively market and some of the best places to eat in Rome.
So, when I saw an affordable room in the neighbourhood of my dreams, I leapt at the chance. At the beginning, I was so happy to be in Rome - and Testaccio - that I was prepared to overlook the flat's shortcomings. It didn't matter if my room was a bit on the small side, or if there was no proper shower cubicle, or if the drains got blocked and flooded my bedroom occasionally...And, no, I didn't speak enough Italian to be able to successfully communicate with my flatmates or my landlord, but that was all right. Things would get better, piano piano.
I can still vividly remember those first few days in Rome -- the heat and the torrential rain; a visit to the Colosseum and a trip to the department store to buy new pillows. In a foreign setting, the most mundane tasks took on a strange kind of significance. A search for kitchenware acquires a certain kind of glamour when it involves a walk through the centro storico of Rome, past Baroque churches and Renaissance palazzi.
From our morning cappuccino at Linari till last thing at night, my mother and I were always together. She paid for our meals, bought me kitchen supplies and blankets, and reminded me to sort out practicalities like buying a new phone and getting a codice fiscale. While I walked around with my head in the clouds, she was always more alert, and on one occasion quickly steered us away from a would-be-flasher on the Aventine Hill. I had bought mosquito spray, but unfortunately there's no deterrent for perverts.
Despite my excitement about my new life in Rome, my mother's imminent departure seemed to hang over us like a Roman storm cloud. One of the many reasons I'd moved to Rome was that I'd wanted to leave home, become more independent, and start feeling like an adult, but doing that involved saying goodbye. I got a lump in my throat just thinking about it, and began to dread the inevitable moment.
It came on the platform of Ostiense, with the arrival of the train that would take her to the airport. We hugged goodbye and both cried. I've cried in front of her countless times, but it was the first time I could remember seeing her cry. Her tears made it seem so much worse, confirming that it was a real goodbye, and not just me being sentimental.
A couple of years later, we talked about that farewell at Ostiense. "I felt terrible," she said, "As though I was abandoning you. Leaving you alone in a foreign country where you didn't know anyone, in that horrible flat..."
Everyone talks about the practical difficulties of moving abroad -- packing, finding a job, finding a flat, dealing with bureaucracy and learning the language. But for me, nothing compared to that goodbye. Although I didn't feel abandoned, it was the loneliest I'd ever felt, and it's only in hindsight that I can understand why everyone kept telling me that I was "brave" to move to Rome on my own. It does take courage to start a new life abroad, knowing that you're separated from your family by the entire country of France.
Moving to Rome turned out to be the right decision. Three years later, I'm still here, living in a much nicer flat in Testaccio. I've got a job, plenty of close friends, and an Italian boyfriend. The goodbyes at train stations and airports are still the hardest part of living abroad, but nothing will ever be as difficult as that first farewell. And if there's any silver lining to the dark cloud of reluctant goodbyes, it's the realisation that even as an adult, you're still your parent's child.