The Final Dispatch From My Eternal Adventure

After eighteen days in Rome, I now understand why the city is called Eternal: the chaos is eternal, the pasta portions are eternal, and the attempts to rob you apparently… also eternal.

But let’s start at the beginning of the end.

The Pickpocket Olympics (Roman Edition)

I always assumed pickpockets in Rome were like urban legends — creatures whispered about by travel blogs and nervous aunties. Turns out: completely real, highly active, and unfortunately not very bright.

There I was, minding my own business, when I felt a hand inching into my pocket like an uninvited squid. The owner of said hand clearly imagined himself as a master thief. Sadly for him, I decided against being a victim that day.

So I turned his wrist in a rather unfriendly angle and delivered the kind of multilingual yell that instantly gathers a crowd. Tourists turned. Locals raised eyebrows. The would-be thief reconsidered all his life choices.

Result:

Me 1 — Pickpocket 0.

The Sequel Nobody Asked For

Just when I thought the show was over, Rome provided a bonus episode. A second pickpocket tried to go after two Japanese ladies — probably assuming they’d be an easy target.

What he didn’t factor in:

One of them was a karate master.

Before he could even finish his wicked thought, she struck like a scene straight out of a martial-arts film. The guy recoiled, stumbled, and bolted off — dignity left behind somewhere between Piazza Venezia and shame.

Final score of the evening:

Japan 1 — Pickpocket 0.

Rome’s unofficial crime league? Defeated twice in one day.

18 Days, 1 Day of Rain — I Call That a Win

The weather treated me kindly: only one day of rain in more than two weeks. Considering this is Rome, where even the clouds need bureaucratic approval to appear, it felt like a small miracle.

Meanwhile, my Hasselblad and Leica behaved exactly as expected — like professional divas who know they’re the best in the room. Zero drama, maximum performance, beautiful negatives. If only Roman buses were that reliable.

The Final Hours

Now I’m packing my suitcase — hoping the zippers don’t burst under the weight of too much pasta, a stack of books, three new shirts I didn’t need, and roughly 9,000 photos.

Tonight:

A last dinner in a trattoria, preferably with a waiter who calls me amico and serves twice the amount of food I ordered.

Tomorrow:

The march back to the airport — passport control, espresso, chaos, and farewell waves.

Rome, you’ve been wild, loud, chaotic, beautiful, exhausting, charming, and absolutely unforgettable.

Ciao Roma. Arrivederci.

Until next time — because there will be one.