Chapter 5 - Zalea | Rome
FIVE
ZALEA | ROME
The morning sun beams in through my curtains, directly onto my face and wakes me up. For the first time in what seems like forever, I feel rested and…happy.
Who knew all it took was an excessive amount of sleep to finally start feeling good again?
Last night, when I finished dinner and found my way back to my hotel, I jumped onto my tablet—thankfully Gabriel didn’t try to hack that, too—and searched up the address of that place the art academy woman told me to meet her today.
Initially, I wasn’t going to go—I’m not one to make plans with strangers—but when I found out it was near the Colosseum, I was over the moon. I’ve planned the whole day for sightseeing after my meeting with her, and I’m more excited than I have been in a long time.
After getting dressed, I turn off airplane mode on my phone and walk toward the meeting place with the help of Google Maps.
It’s not long before I find a cozy cafe tucked into the corner of a narrow cobblestone street.
Terracotta pots are placed all over the space with ivy and trailing jasmine vines looping around the iron railing, and small marble-topped tables with wooden chairs are placed throughout.
The smell of buttery pastries drift toward me and I take it as a sign that this is where I should be eating breakfast today.
I walk up to the counter to place my order, only to come face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered, man in a crisp white button-down. His dark hair curls at the ends, and when he smiles at me my heart skips a beat.
I swear Italy must have a government program dedicated to producing the most genetically gorgeous men on the planet, because all I’ve noticed since wandering the streets here are the hottest men I’ve ever seen.
“Buongiorno,” he says.
“H-hi,” I stutter, feeling so stupid for answering in English.
I order a cappuccino—fingers crossed it’s better than an espresso—and I’m surprised to find pizza as an option this early. The old me would never—absolutely not. But the new me? I order a small slice, not sure if I can handle so many carbs this early in the morning.
The first bite should be mouth-watering, eye rolling, moan inducing good. But instead, it feels wrong. I’ve been on a strict diet for years because of my career, and finishing last night on carbs and starting the morning the exact same way goes against everything I’ve ever been taught.
But I’m not surfing anymore.
I deserve this.
I push through the uncomfortable feeling and force myself to finish the whole slice before I pick up my cappuccino.
Time for the moment of truth, can coffee actually taste good?
I close my eyes and take my first sip, waiting for that euphoric feeling every coffee addict talks about.
Disappointment seeps in as the bitterness settles in my mouth.
It’s not as bad as an espresso, but still bad nonetheless.
The waiter must hear my heavy sigh because he walks over and takes a seat across from me.
“You don’t like?”
I give him a guilty smile before shaking my head no. “It’s too bitter.”
“Do you want to try caffé latte instead? That is much lighter.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I chuckle. “I think I’ve had enough caffeine for today.”
He nods with a warm smile, standing up to take my empty plate and half-finished cappuccino before shouting out “buona giornata!” *on my way out.
When I check the time, I realize I only have thirty minutes left before I need to meet with the art program lady and according to my GPS, I’m forty minutes away.
Lovely.
With a cramp in my side and not enough air in my lungs, I make it to the meeting spot just in time.
It’s tucked away into a quiet corner of the city with narrow cobblestoned streets.
The building is made of pale stone, with tall wooden doors that are framed by stone columns, and a narrow plaque hanging above it that reads Galleria Colonna.
The lady from yesterday leans against the stone walls, smoking a cigarette while scrolling through her phone.
“Buongiorno!” I call out, giving her a small wave when she spots me.
She grins and tosses her cigarette to the floor. “Dai, vieni a vedere!”*
She waves me over when I don’t move and I quickly meet her at the entrance just as she says something in Italian to the woman guarding the door. The guard nods and moves to the side so we can pass.
“I don’t think I caught your name yesterday,” I say as I follow her to the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Giovanna,” she looks at me over her shoulder, “and you?”
I don’t answer right away. This could be the first step to reinventing myself, to creating a different version of myself that isn’t Zalea Evans, Surfing Prodigy.
“Lea,” I finally say, but something about the look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me.
“I’ve reserved the space for the next hour. There’s something I want to show you, Lea,” she says as we reach the top where the hall leads into a series of interconnected rooms.
Giovanna walks us into an empty large room where the walls are lined with what seems like hundreds of paintings in gilded frames. “What is this place?” I ask, as I spin around taking it all in.
“This is Galleria Colonna. It is part of Palazzo Colonna, one of the most significant aristocratic palaces in all of Rome,” she watches me carefully as I look up. “This gallery contains centuries of paintings, sculptures, and other decorative art collected by the Colonna family.”
“The Colonna family must be filthy rich,” I mumble as I stare at the stunning painting on the ceiling of figures floating in the clouds.
“Si,” she says, coming to stand next to me now. “The Colonna’s are one of Rome’s most influential noble families.”
When my neck starts to hurt too much to continue staring at the masterpiece on the ceiling, I look at the walls instead, finding several family portraits.
“Here you will find art by many notable artists, like Guido Reni, Carlo, Maratta, Girolamo Troppa, and many more,” she says, continuing her speech.
But I’m not listening because something has caught my eyes, or rather someone. Staring at a life-sized family portrait before, I’m shocked to find Giovanna staring back at me—or rather, a painted version of her.
“You’re a…Colonna?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“Ahh, I see you found our newest painting. This wasn’t supposed to be put in here until tomorrow.” She tuts as she comes to stand beside me, arms crossed.
“This is your gallery?”
She nods. “Well, it is my family’s. But I visit it whenever I’m not in Florence.”
“Wow,” I breathe out, amazed at what it must feel like to own all this beautiful history.
“I didn’t bring you here to show off, Lea,” she continues, “I brought you here because you said you feel lost.”
I look at her now, but she continues staring at the portrait.
“Every room in this gallery holds artists who studied across cities and regions, absorbed the style of other artists before finding their own voice, and they traveled constantly while working under patrons.” She finally meets my eyes.
“Movement and art creates clarity, my dear, and I think that’s exactly what you’re looking for. ”
She’s not wrong. Everything feels so confusing and jumbled in my head. I don’t know what I want to do with my life anymore, and it feels like I’m at fork-roads with no clear path. I take a deep breath, walking up to a smaller painting and noticing how detailed the brush strokes are.
“To be honest, Giovanna, I’m worried about saying yes to your program.”
“And why is that?” her voice echoes in the empty room.
“All my life, I feel like I’ve just run away from my problems. Even coming to Italy is me running away from my problems.” I pause, considering my words. “If I sign up to your program that means I’ll be running for a year.”
She releases a breathy laugh before whispering “Poverina…”*, and comes to stand next to me again. I turn to face her and she’s still got her arms crossed as she studies my expressions.
“The way I see it, Lea, you can stay lost where you are, back home, or be lost somewhere that teaches you how to find yourself.” Her words feel like a punch in the gut, but they’re also so true.
“This isn’t just a fun art program. It’s hard work, a chance to rebuild yourself away from expectations of those around you. ”
I hold her gaze, my mind racing with the possibilities of what my life could look like a year from now, and the possibilities leave me excited.
“Okay,” I finally say, a smile creeping its way onto my lips. “I’ll do it.”
She grins back at me, giving a small excited clap.
“Do what?”
The smile drops from my face and my blood runs cold at that familiar voice. There’s no way he’s here in Rome. I have to be hearing things. But by the way Giovanna lifts her gaze and curiously looks behind me, I know I’m not.
I slowly turn, finding none other than Gabriel Matthews leaning against the archway, his legs crossed at the ankle and arms folded across his chest.
And he looks pissed.
* “buona giornata!” = Have a good day!
* “Dai, vieni a vedere!” = Come on, come see!
* “Poverina” = Poor thing.