It was the best feeling when the little plane glided across the screen in front of me, signaling that my flight has twenty more minutes and that the the terrain beneath me was Italian. I landed in Rome on a Thursday morning, and I spent the day getting a crash course. There I was, giddy and lightheaded from all the excitement and dealing with waves of culture shock, yet still feeling more confident and like myself than ever.

I wanted to connect with the people, the places, and everything in Rome in the few days I spent there. The bigger-than-life Pantheon drove me into a state of speechless awe, where I couldn’t do much but stare and feel positively insignificant (which was strangely freeing, in a way). Then there was the ancient ruins in the Roman Forum, where I saw the temple where Julius Caesar was cremated. The silence of the Sistine Chapel was relished in, the Spanish Steps were climbed, and a coin was tossed over my shoulder into the Trevi Fountain. I felt the impressive presence of the Colosseum that Hollywood loves to bastardize the history of. My first sighting of the Colosseum ushered in a surreal moment, with me trying and failing to grasp the full extent of its intricate past filled with gladiators and death that had entranced an empire.

More than just running from one tourist attraction to the next, I felt like I got a good first taste of what the real Rome is. I found myself in more than one out of the ordinary situation. It started on the first day where I wandered into a piazza where flashes of red and wisps of smoke came floating out of the politically charged crowd. A man climbed on the center statue and lit another flare. I felt tense but not threatened, yet people in the piazza sat around the outer rim on steps going about their normal business. I even adventured outside the city walls, getting lost and unlost amongst the locals, and finding some amazing gelato along the way.

In a whirlwind of walks, talks, and espresso, I found myself unable to sleep, sitting on the floor with jet-lagged and bleary eyes, writing in the moonlight all I had experienced. It felt right – Rome is made for the desperate middle-of-the-night writing. It’s a place of immeasurable quality that attacks your senses in the best way; it not only pushed past but exploded my comfort zone, allowing me to go beyond it into a place of curiosity and passion that I hadn’t felt before. It showed, too. The words poured out of me with a quiet ferocity, a tribute to the city I’ve known for less than two days.

Even though my late night ramblings and poorly drawn pictures can’t do it justice, my moment with Rome happened in the middle of the night on a cold tile floor of a small hotel room – not at the Colosseum or the Pantheon like I expected, but in a moment where I felt alone with the city. Your moment can happen anywhere, anytime, but it is one that can’t be replaced. The beauty is in the moments, the little pieces of life you take with you and make your own.

And I’ll be damned if I didn’t take a piece of Rome with me.