When the first slivers of sun began to make their way onto the terrace of my Roman apartment on a balmy March day, I stuck my head into them like a cat, relishing the feel of the heat on my skin. Perhaps it was the contrast that gave way to this distinct pleasure.

Only days earlier, I had been caught in a treacherous rainstorm while making my way from Piramide to the Fascist-era post office on Via Marmorata, awaiting the one bus that would take me up the hill to my apartment. That morning, I had optimistically decided against a jacket, thinking it would be charming to take a chance, to just wear a sweater, to be calm and carefree. (Was I ever calm and carefree?)