Rome Without Romance

Only a few days had passed since classes ended when I decided to go to Rome. Christmas was approaching, I had very little money, and the trip seemed like one of those wishes you postpone until life becomes more orderly. But a week before leaving, something unexpected happened: someone finally paid me a debt I had been trying to collect for more than a year.

It was not a fortune, but it was enough to turn the adventure from an idea into a possibility.

I bought a new jacket, put together an itinerary with the urgency of someone afraid of changing his mind, and less than five days later, I was sitting on a plane to Rome. The ticket had cost around fifty euros. I would have to figure out the rest along the way.

It was not my first time in Italy, so I arrived with the misleading confidence of someone who believes he knows a country simply because he has visited another one of its cities. Rome, however, was unlike anything I had seen before. It was larger, louder, and older than I had imagined. It also seemed to live by its own rules, as though, after existing for so many centuries, it no longer felt any obligation to explain itself to anyone.

I arrived on December 30, tired and still trying to become familiar with the neighborhood where I would stay for almost two weeks. I left my things in the room, checked Google Maps, and confirmed the schedules for visiting the Vatican the following day.

For months, I had seen posts online about the Holy Door, an entrance that, according to what I had read, opened once every twenty-five years and attracted pilgrims from all over the world. Since I was already in Rome, there was nowhere else I wanted to begin.

Early on the morning of December 31, I left the hotel. The cold was severe, but the sky was clear, and a soft light fell over the streets. I would later discover that it would be the only truly sunny day of my entire stay.

By the time I reached St. Peter’s Square, a large crowd had already gathered. In my still uncertain English, I asked how I could pass through the Holy Door. They told me I would have to wait until after the ceremony. Since I had nothing better to do, and since I had not traveled all the way there to be in a hurry, I found a place and prepared to attend the final Mass of the year in the heart of the Vatican.

Sitting among thousands of people, I thought about how unlikely that moment was.

The year 2025 had been a succession of setbacks, decisions, disappointments, and small victories. I had moved to a new country, started a new stage at university, and tried to build a life from nothing, far from almost everything familiar. And now I was there, surrounded by columns, flags, and pilgrims, in one of the most symbolic places in the world.

Even I could hardly believe it.

While I waited, I thought about Venezuela, my family, and all the challenges still ahead of me. I also gave thanks. Sometimes one becomes so accustomed to surviving that it is easy to forget to recognize the moments when life, for a brief instant, decides to be generous.

The ceremony was conducted in several languages. Every time someone heard the name of their country or recognized their language, a part of the crowd came alive. There was something beautiful in that shared emotion. People who did not know one another smiled, helped each other find a place, and endured the cold together as though that, too, were part of the ritual.

At the end of the ceremony, the pope moved through the crowd. He passed quite close to where I was standing, and I managed to take a few photographs and videos. I watched him move forward among the greetings and thought that Rome had that power: it could turn an ordinary morning into a scene that would have seemed impossible only a few months earlier.

Soon afterward, an enormous line began to form. I assumed it led to the Holy Door, so I joined it.

There were thousands of us.

The line moved slowly, though it never completely stopped. As I walked, I admired the architecture, took pictures, and recorded videos. Everything seemed to demand an image: the columns, the statues, the façades, the square, and that human river patiently moving toward the basilica.

Then I realized that my phone was running out of battery and storage space.

So I stopped trying to record everything.

Perhaps that was for the best. I put the phone away and began to truly look.

As I approached the door, the atmosphere became more solemn. I had read that crossing it symbolized leaving one life behind and beginning another. I did not know how much of that idea came from faith, how much from tradition, and how much from hope, but it made sense to me.

I, too, was leaving something behind.

I had arrived in a new country, started at a new university, and was only a few hours away from entering a new year. Crossing that door would not solve my problems or miraculously change my destiny, but it could serve as a silent promise to myself.

I crossed it without making a sound.

Inside St. Peter’s Basilica, everything was larger than photographs could ever suggest. The height, the sculptures, the marble, and the light created a feeling that was difficult to explain. The route was continuous, and the number of visitors made it impossible to stop for very long, but even while walking through the crowd, it was possible to feel the grandeur of the place.

I continued through the church until I came out on the other side. Outside, the pope was still moving among the crowd, greeting and blessing people from different parts of the world.

When I checked the time, it was almost four in the afternoon.

The day had disappeared without my noticing.

I remained in St. Peter’s Square for a while longer, taking a few photographs and trying to preserve the moment in my memory. The temperature was already falling below ten degrees, and the sky was beginning to threaten rain. I was cold, hungry, and tired, but I also had the feeling that I had experienced something I might need many years to fully understand.

That was the most extraordinary part of the trip.

The night, however, was far less glorious.

I tried to welcome the New Year near the Colosseum, but the atmosphere felt too chaotic. There were too many people, too much noise, and a sense of disorder that made me uncomfortable. I returned to the hotel before midnight. I was so exhausted that I fell asleep and did not even have the energy to call my family.

That was how I welcomed the year: asleep in a room in Rome while the city celebrated without me.

On January 1, almost everything was closed. I used the day to rest and walk. I wandered through squares, parks, and avenues. I crossed much of Rome on foot, without a particularly clear plan, letting the streets guide me and following my usual habit of walking until my body tells me it is time to return.

In the following days, I visited the Altar of the Fatherland and climbed to the top to see the city from above. I also visited the museum inside and later went to eat pizza at a nearby restaurant. They forgot my order, and I spent more than two hours waiting while hungry.

I considered leaving, but every place outside was full. Rome had so many tourists that giving up a table could mean starting the same wait all over again somewhere else. I decided to stay. By the time the pizza finally arrived, it was no longer lunch. It had become a form of historical compensation.

On January 3, I had my second favorite experience of the trip: visiting the Vatican Museums.

I left the hotel before sunrise and arrived at around six in the morning. Ticket sales began at approximately nine, but there were already about four hundred people ahead of me.

The wait was long, cold, and entirely on my feet.

The line moved with frustrating slowness. The museum closed early, and at times I thought I would not manage to get inside. I finally crossed the entrance at around twelve forty-five. By then, I had been waiting for almost seven hours, but the most difficult part had only just begun.

My main goal was to reach the Sistine Chapel. It was my last opportunity to see it during that trip because weekends and public holidays were coming. However, access to the chapel would close at around two in the afternoon.

I had little more than an hour.

The Vatican Museums are a labyrinth built from wonders. One gallery leads to another, then another, and just when you believe you have already seen the most impressive room, an even more beautiful one appears. There were sculptures, maps, frescoes, tapestries, and objects from periods so distant they hardly seemed real.

But there was no time to stop.

Thousands of people were moving in the same direction. It was impossible to walk faster and almost impossible to remain still. Every sign pointed toward the Sistine Chapel, but I kept walking and walking without reaching it. It felt like a promise that moved farther away the more we tried to approach it.

I was thirsty, hungry, exhausted, and desperately needed to use the bathroom. Still, I was afraid of losing time. I also avoided drinking too much water because, in that cold and without knowing where I would find a restroom, my bladder might have turned into an international tragedy.

So I continued.

I reached the Sistine Chapel barely ten minutes before access was closed.

The moment I entered, I understood why all of us had endured that race.

The ceiling did not look as though it had been painted by a person. It looked as though it had somehow been revealed. The figures, the colors, and the scale created an almost divine sensation. It was the kind of work that forced the body to remain still, even after so many hours on its feet.

I sat on one of the benches along the wall. For the first time that day, I was able to rest. I remained there looking upward, allowing exhaustion and wonder to mix together.

I do not know how much time passed. In places like that, minutes behave differently.

When I left, I bought a few postcards from the souvenir shop and finally found the food area and the bathrooms, two places that at that moment seemed as important as any Renaissance masterpiece. I ate another pizza and then sat in a garden in front of the museum.

From there, I called my family.

I told them part of what I had experienced, although I knew that words would not be enough.

After the Holy Door and the Vatican Museums, Rome began to feel less extraordinary to me. Not because it lacked things to see, but because my budget was limited and the enormous number of tourists made many places difficult to truly appreciate.

I visited the Trevi Fountain, walked around the Colosseum, ate in trattorias, and wandered through streets I had previously seen in films and photographs. Above all, I walked. I did not use Uber, and I almost never took public transportation. I found my way with Google Maps, common sense, and a confidence that was sometimes greater than my actual knowledge of the city.

That was how I discovered narrow streets, old façades, hidden squares, and places that had never appeared in my itinerary. I came to know Rome through my feet. Every day, I walked in a different direction and returned when the cold, hunger, or darkness reminded me that I still had a room waiting for me.

Shortly before the end of the trip, I made a beginner’s mistake: I had booked my accommodation for one day less than I believed.

I discovered it when I tried to enter the room and could not.

Fortunately, the staff managed to solve the problem and gave me another available room. It was larger, more comfortable, and much better than the previous one, although they charged me the same price. After so many days of demanding patience from me, Rome decided to say goodbye with a small act of mercy.

I spent my final night there.

The following day, I went to the airport early. My improvised vacation had coincided with public holidays, which had allowed me to explore the city without too many work-related worries. However, as the return approached, I had to reconnect. I worked from the airport and attended a few meetings while waiting for my flight.

When I finished, I checked in and entered the departure area. I explored the airport like a child. I looked through the shops, walked along the corridors, ate something, and enjoyed those final hours without rushing.

I truly liked Rome’s airport. Perhaps because airports are a kind of border between the life one leaves behind and the life one is about to return to.

Eventually, I boarded the flight home.

As the plane took off, I thought about everything that had happened since the moment that old debt was finally paid. The trip had been rushed, inexpensive, and poorly planned. I had walked for hours, waited in endless lines, endured the cold, worked from an airport, and welcomed the New Year asleep.

I had also crossed the Holy Door, seen the pope from nearby, stood beneath the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and walked through a city that had once been the center of the world.

I returned exhausted, but grateful.

Rome was not a romantic trip. There was no love story, no candlelit dinner, and no walking hand in hand beside the Tiber. I traveled alone, with little money, many responsibilities, and my mind still occupied by university, work, and the future.

Perhaps that was exactly why it mattered so much.

That journey was not about finding someone else. It was about finding myself in the middle of an immense city, while leaving behind a difficult year and moving toward a life I still did not know how to build.

I would do it all again.

Although next time, I hope Rome will have a little more romance.