…though I guess you can’t really call it a day in Rome since most of it was spent on planes and in airports.

We had a layover in Madrid. I wish there was enough time to walk around. I’d love to see Spain.

At customs, a very handsome Spaniard with dark hair and blue eyes smiled rakishly at me. I handed him my passport. “Desireee,” he said with his sexy accent. I smile back and pass through. Sure took the sting out of missing my connecting flight.

These European airports are impossible. It feels like I walk for miles before I get where I need to be.

Finally, we get on a plane. I fall asleep again promptly. And even though it’s been at least a few hours, it feels like it’s five minutes later that we land in Rome.

I have an unpleasant run in with an Italian cop as I was going through the wrong exit. He was a surly bastard but I think twice before getting my hackles up. I remind myself that I’m black and thus should probably not mess with police no matter the country.

After claiming the bags, we try to find our transfer to the hotel. The drive through Rome is amazing. It doesn’t take me long to conclude that Rome is a very sexy city (I hesitate to say this, but it might even be sexier than New York). The people are sexy, the cars are sexy, the style is sexy and,.. oh God is the food sexy. I vow that no matter how many sexy Italian men want to feed me pasta, I will not during this trip gain back the weight I’ve lost so far.

Juxtaposed with all the chic little pizzerias, boutiques and what have you are breathtaking and ancient looking architectural specimens. Fountains and pillars and sculptures. My jaw drops in sheer awe every time.

The hotel staff is friendly but we need to pay cash and I’m starving so we head out into the street to find an ATM. Luckily the train station is right around the corner. I tell Kevin to take out 100 Euro. Damn. That Euro is still spanking the dollar. I suddenly don’t feel so high and mighty.

We stop to get pizza, because, well it’s Rome. I was surprised. I can easily name five pizzerias off the top of my head in New York with better pizza. I still have my hopes high for Naples, though. The beer and gelato are both excellent however. The waiter smiles warmly at me and refers to me as “Obama.” I know I should probably be offended but he’s just so darn cute.

The Italian men seem to go hard. I’d heard from my oldest friend, who spent a year in Italy when we were in college, that Italian men love black women. So far, my waiter is steadfastly proving that theory. He flirts shamelessly and openly with me, never seeming to mind that my boyfriend is sitting right across from me.

We pay, lamenting that we’ve been in Rome thirty minutes and already are 150 euro out of pocket.

Tomorrow we head to the sea…