Something strange happened to me in Rome. It started on the Leonardo Express from Fiumcino airport to Termini train station in the centre of Rome. Caught between watching the reel of luscious greens, pinks and blues of suburban Roma whizzing by my window and being entertained by a sublimely cheeky and curly haired Italian bambolina and her affectionately embarrassed older brother, I have this strange sensation germinating in the pit of my stomach. After a momentary reprieve whilst checking my luggage at the hotel, I embark on my usual mapless wander about the city centre to get my bearings, and find that only seconds have passed before this strange but not entirely unpleasant propagation of feeling returns. Soon enough, as I’m weaving my way amongst cobbled city streets, beautifully rendered and historic buildings in the most divine shades of yellow, pink, salmon and peach, countless vine-wrapped trattoria, wine bars and delicatessen, this slowly developing feeling is intensifying into an all-encomapassing, almost nausea inducing wave of admiration. If the aforementioned weren’t enough to indicate the obvious, then my further discoveries of the ubiquitous and beautiful Roman aqueducts, high and low fashion houses, Bernini marble, artisan boutiques and workshops, impeccably dressed men and women, the beautiful districts of Trastavere and Monti, and the overall penchant of Romans for art and beauty would surely help me realise that in fact, I am hopelessly and utterly in love.