This is La Piazza de Republica at night. No it's not Getty Images, this is all me and my D90 baby!

I landed in Rome, and realized how terrified I was to be in a country alone, that spoke a language I didn't understand.  I realized quickly that my lashes and curly locks wouldn't get me too far with culture, unless of course I was asking for "trade options" - wink wink, nudge nudge... and indeed I was not.  The airline crew, aside from the pilot who, Thank God, got me to Italy alive, was rude and brash. 

The porter of my residence (t'was similar to a hostel, but had hotel attributes) had a minor crush on me, and made my name sound much cooler than it does in America - "Kristiana," but the front desk manager was a bad word in every language.  She wasn't too fond of me either, as she directed me to take the stairs with all 80lbs of suticases that I lugged across the country.  By the time I got to the second floor, I had a cramp in my thigh, back and toe (yes my toe), I was sweating bullets and I was pissed.  I looked down the hallway for a fountain - and saw the elevator.  I was done.  I took the elevator up one floor and walked inside to my humble beginnings in Roma. Making a promise to myself not flip out on anyone behind the thick glass that served as the front desk.

Inhale... exhale... ok, I'm good.

I had some authentic pizza, and the most wonderful diet coke... and took a wonderfully long nap.  I woke up to a night time Roma, ready to be explored.  I am in Roma.  I am in Roma...

I am in Roma....