We went for pasta, came back shaken
We always wanted to see Rome.
The history, the food, the fountains.
We imagined slow walks through cobbled alleys, gelato in hand.
We even booked a small group tour—fewer crowds, more comfort.
But the minute we arrived, things felt... off.
At Termini station, a man tried to grab my wife’s purse while we were checking the map.
She screamed, he ran—but not before snatching her sunglasses.
Later, at a café, we noticed locals warning each other in hushed voices.
“Watch your bags,” the barista told me quietly.
“Don't wear your watch outside. Not here.”
We started walking faster, holding our things tighter.
No more gelato strolls. No more piazza sunsets.
Just a growing pit in our stomachs.
On our third day, someone slashed a tourist’s backpack right in front of us on the metro.
We left Rome early. Paid extra just to get out.
Now, back home, friends say we “overreacted.”
But when you're 68, and your heart's pounding every time someone walks behind you—
You don’t call it overreacting. You call it knowing better.
Next winter? Maybe we’ll just stay in Colorado.
Some pasta and a good red by the fireplace.
That’s good enough for us.
