How to Avoid a Hill…
We arrived in Rome and hopped into a pre-booked shuttle—something I had arranged stateside with a very cheerful agent who promised door-to-door delivery to our hotel. Spoiler: he lied.
Instead, we were unceremoniously dropped several blocks away—down a hill, in a plaza (which we’d soon learn is called a piazza). We stood there, luggage in tow, with absolutely no idea which direction to go.
Q, you could barely carry your backpack without tipping over backward—something we probably should’ve anticipated before flying across the world. But you were so determined. You kept trying to stay upright, even as that giant pack tugged you back like a cartoon character in slow collapse.
As each of us was hauling an overstuffed, absurdly heavy backpack. I was trying to drag one of the wheeled bags while wearing way too heavy (brought too many clothes) backpack – while holding my carryon thingy in front of me like a proper touist. I was sweating and silently cursing and way to weighed down. There was NO WAY I was able to carry this load. Not at all!
And try as you might, Q, it just wasn’t going to work—your backpack was nearly the size of you. So Dad, hero that he is, ended up slinging your pack over one arm while still wearing his own fully loaded one.
And you? You dragged one of the roller bags—nearly as big as you—down cobblestones, and even took my little carry-on backpack on your back. You insisted on having two bags – to counter the one dad took from you.
You’ve always had that fierce kind of determination—that “can do, no matter what’s in front of me” spirit. You were not about to be defeated by a backpack or shown up by the rest of your family. It was so sweet, so genuine, and just so you.
Uphill Both Ways
It was hot. We were fried—jet-lagged, sweaty, and completely overwhelmed by the chaos of Italian addresses. We were stressed about the lying shuttle agent, feeling a little abandoned, and seriously weighed down—with bags, exhaustion, and fear.
We kind of wandered around, a traveling circus of bags and bad attitudes, until Dad finally figured out that the hotel was “just up this little hill” – his words“about four blocks or so.”
It was not a little hill.
It was a motherfucking huge hill. And the longest four blocks in recorded history!
In this heat? With these bags? I can’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
Trying to make the situation better, Dad said he’d get a cab…an expense we really didn’t want, especially since we’d already paid for the shuttle that was supposed to drop us off at the hotel door. He dropped his bag, and the rest of us stood guard like little soldiers over our entire life’s possessions that were so freaking heavy – while he jogged a dozen yards to the corner of a busy intersection just off our piazza.
He tried. Really tried. Four, maybe five failed attempts at hailing a taxi.
Finally, someone took pity on him and explained: in Italy, you can’t just wave down a cab—you have to go to an official taxi stand.
Nearest one? 700 meters away. The opposite way from our hotel and also somehow miraculously up another huge hill!
For fucks sake.
Eventually – mercifully – Dad managed to flag down an Italian cab driver who took pity on us, even though we were clearly breaking the “taxi stand” rules.
He didn’t seem to care about the rule and was determined to help out this pour group of tourists. So, the cab driver double-parked his sort of crappy car in front of the piazza and crammed our bags into the pseudo-trunk of his cab, while angry drivers made their displeasure known with horns, hand gestures, and plenty of shouting.
We squeezed into the stifling, very hot backseat, juggling the rest of the bags on our laps and bickering over who was hogging ass space on the sticky vinyl seat.
The whole circus took about ten minutes to load the bags and us – and it seemed wildly chaotic and nerve wracking with all the shouting and horns, but then the cab driver zoomed us the four blocks up the hill in no joke – under a minute and then charged us 40 euros!
That was almost as much as the airport shuttle, which had been a 45-minute drive.
Turns out, it wasn’t a kind-hearted local cabbie rescuing some frazzled tourists. It was a guy spotting an easy mark and going for it. But honestly? It was the best €40 we’ve ever spent.
Our Efficient Hotel And Another Breakdown
Let’s just say the hotel was… efficient. We took the tiny, tiny, tiny elevator—two at a time, one bag each—because anything more wouldn’t fit. Up we went, then carted the rest of our life down a narrow, dim hallway.
I had a moment of panic that we were going to have to share a bathroom with the whole floor (visions of hostels and questionable flip-flop showers), but thankfully—nope. The bathroom was ours. Tiny, a little smelly, but ours.
The room itself? Four single beds lined up in a row, like some kind of weird family dormitory. There was an “end table” placed oddly on the far side of the room, pressed up against a blank wall like it was in time-out. It looked as out of place as we did. The whole place had boarding house vibes—maybe even minimum security prison if I’m being dramatic (which, let’s face it, I was).
Outside, the street was loud and narrow, and our one small window looked directly onto the chaos of the back side of the train station.
I remember standing there, just staring at the room, and feeling my eyes well up. Is this it? Is this our new life? Did we really go from a five-bedroom home with every comfort… to this? A cramped, impersonal little box with four beds and a questionable odor?
Didn’t you both deserve more?
Failure Comes In All Forms…Even Shampoo
So boys, are you seeing the theme yet? The constant, low-grade hum of my neurotic worry? The kind that spans from global life upheaval all the way down to… shampoo.
That’s right! Shampoo. So that first day – it was mid afternoon when we arrived at our little dorm room hotel – and before our nap, I walked across the street to grab a few basics, and spotted a tiny bottle of shampoo—like travel-size tiny—for 9 euros.
Nine. Euros.
That’s, like, 14 US dollars.
And I just stood there, holding it, doing the conversion in my head and panicking. If this is what shampoo costs, we are screwed.
We are NEVER going to be able to afford this.
I was spiraling over shampoo, and we were only two hours into this grand new life in Italy.
As extroverted as I am, Dad is the introvert.
From our conversations then and since, I know he struggled with the question: Is this the right thing to do?
But he always resisted sharing those doubts—especially in front of either of you.
He’s the rock. The calm in the storm. The “I’ve got this” guy.
Meanwhile, I’m the full-on neurotic tornado spinning in the background and clearly I didn’t filter myself when you all were present! Cue mother of the year music, sash and crown!
Honestly? Dad is and has always been way more stable—like a human Swiss Army knife. Reliable, quiet, and always functional.
Colosseum by Moonlight
After my quick trip to the shop – and approximately my seven hundredth panic attack – I pulled myself together. We all took a much-needed two-hour nap. Around 5 p.m., we woke up, showered (not together, of course!), and set out to find food and take in some sights. Our little dorm hotel left a lot to be desired in the way of luxury – but it was INCREDIBLE as far as location went. It was just around the corner from the Colosseum! So that was fantastic. Dad and I were both eager to show you all the sites of Rome that we had quickly fallen in love with two years before.
Although we were still completely wrecked from the time change and the travel, we managed to drag our jet-lagged bodies across the street to a café right across from the Colosseum.
The food? Delicious.
The price? Wildly expensive.
Cue another panic attack.
After dinner, we wandered around Rome after dark, stumbling through ancient ruins- The Forum and a bunch of other historically significant sites we couldn’t name if you paid us.
(Sorry, historians. We promise we were impressed.)
We ended up at the Colosseum – Dad with his camera, the rest of us just milling around. The weather was perfect, and we had the best time eating gelato, hanging out, and people-watching.
We were, however, wildly stalked by souvenir hawkers trying to sell us all kinds of junk—tiny flags, weird soaps, lighters. They circled back every two or three minutes, and we kept waving them off.
Finally, H, you’d had enough. You stood your ground and said, “NO! Get out of here!”
And somehow… that did it. Word must’ve traveled, because they left us alone after that.
Eventually, we made our way back to the hotel.
Exhausted. Grimy. Grateful. A little overwhelmed – and so excited.
Finally, finally, ready to crash.
Tip Of The Hat
Okay – I gotta pause here and tell a side story…before I get to our first day in Rome…
For whatever reason – don’t ask me why – before we left for Rome, I decided to research what people wear there. Like fashion in Italy was somehow so radically different from, say, anywhere else in the modern world. I must’ve stumbled onto some kind of prank blog or satirical travel site, because I vividly remember reading that kids in Italy wore hats. Not baseball caps. Not beanies. But hats. Like newsboy caps and fedoras.
I don’t think I could find that ridiculous site again if I tried, but at the time, I was convinced. It was burned into my brain: Italian kids dress like extras from a 1930s musical.
So, like any mom who overthinks international travel wardrobes, I headed to Target. I bought a fedora for Q and a newsboy cap for H. And when we got to Rome? I insisted—insisted—that you wear them. I even bought one for Dad and you can see he had it on the first few days as well. I have no idea what I was thinking!
Did I stop to notice that literally no one else was wearing a hat like that? Not even old men? Nope. Not a single fedora in sight. Not even an ironic one.
And yet, there we were: freshly arrived in Italy, stumbling around jet-lagged and disoriented, with my kids (and husband) dressed like they were auditioning for Bugsy Malone.
Bless you both and Dad too, because you wore the hats without protest. Long enough for a few photos and a lot of secondhand embarrassment. I think you you all knew it was absurd – and didn’t have the heart to tell me. Thank you for that!
Needless to say, the hats were retired pretty quickly. But it still cracks me up thinking about how earnestly I tried to prepare—and how hilariously wrong I got it. Plus, as you know, we’ve laughed about it many, many times… mostly at my expense! So hey, it did give us some much-needed comic relief.
So, now you have a visual our first full few days in Rome was spent roaming around – pardon the pun! With you guys in your hats…cue eye roll and red cheeks!
When In Rome
Okay, back to our adventures in Rome….
On day two of our adventure in Rome we felt much more rested. It was our first full day in the city and we were going to make the most of it as proper tourists. We took a train up to the Vatican and then wandered the city on foot, making our way back toward the Colosseum and our hotel. Dad and I had done this a couple of years prior and it is a lot of walking – but a lot of sites to see as well.
Our day followed a very consistent rhythm: walk, see a monument—St. Peter’s Square, the Pantheon, Piazza Navona—stop at a café, have a beer/wine/soda, gellato, and a caprese salad. Repeat. Walk. Monument. Caprese. Gellato, Hydrate. Repeat. By the end of the day, we’d seen a lot, eaten enough mozzarella and ice cream to last a lifetime, and stayed remarkably well-lubricated and sun-kissed.
We also tried – unsuccessfully, all day – to get an internet connection. With our business being online, this was a growing concern. At that point, it had been nearly two and a half days without any access, and our stress levels were creeping up. Still, we decided to lean into the wine, the walking, and the wandering – and deal with the internet later. That sounds like we were blase about the whole thing. We were not. We had a lot of anxiety – especially dad – it was just layered on to the rest of our anxiety. Dad and I talked and decided we were going to make the best of this day. The last couple of weeks and surely the last two days had been filled with angst. We needed to lead by example and show you two a nice time in Rome – plus, we wanted to enjoy ourselves too! So, I guess for that day we would kind of pretend we didn’t have an online business.
Calcio a Roma!
As we strolled the picturesque Roman streets – peeking in windows, marveling at the locals, and comparing ourselves endlessly to other tourists – not one wearing one of the hats by the way! We found ourselves back near the Colosseum, ready to finally go inside for the full tour.
That’s when something happened. Something so unexpected and beautiful that I still can’t believe it was real. Even telling it now seems like it is some made up story from a movie.
We passed an inner-city park – just an ordinary patch of open space with a low, circular brick wall, maybe knee-high. Inside it, about fifteen boys, probably between 7 and 11 years old, were playing an intense, chaotic game of soccer. Fútbol! we thought – but soon we’d learn that in Italy, it’s called calcio. We stopped and watched from a distance, instantly drawn in by their energy and sheer joy. Eventually, we walked up the hill to get a closer look. It was the first time we’d seen a big group of local kids—and we thought it’d be a fun glimpse of something authentic for you boys.
We’d only been watching for a minute or two—and the ball had already rolled in our direction a couple of times—when it came near us again. This time, H stood up and took a few hesitant steps toward it, a little shy but clearly tempted to join. The goalie—a tiny but assertive kid, maybe eight years old—had clearly noticed us and picked up on H’s interest. Without hesitation, he walked straight over, reached up, slung an arm around H’s shoulders, and led him into the center of the circle like it was the most natural thing in the world. He spoke rapid-fire Italian, full of big gestures, like a miniature Fellini character giving stage directions—his arm still draped confidently around a very tentative H.
After a moment or two, and without a word, Q followed. He quietly trailed behind his big brother, stepping toward the makeshift pitch. Another boy—short, a little plump, with an expressive face and a warm, open smile—welcomed him just the same, as if they’d been expecting him all along.
Suddenly, the whole group erupted into an animated debate—every boy talking at once, hands flying, voices overlapping, arguing positions, assigning roles. And then, just like that, H and Q—you were on a team. The rules were (somewhat) explained with a chaotic mix of gestures, rapid Italian, and the occasional burst of broken English, and the match picked right back up.
Anytime one of the boys wanted to give you direction or encouragement, they stood close – really close—and tapped their palms on your chests as they spoke. It was our first real lesson in a whole new set of unspoken rules: different ideas of personal space, gesture, connection. And there would be many more to come.
Dad and I just stood there, amazed. Here were you two – our kids—who didn’t speak a word of Italian—now fully immersed in a fast-paced, unsupervised soccer match with a group of local boys. The communication was seamless. Effortless. Joyful. Stunning.
I was mesmerized by the two of you playing and then Dad nudged me. “Oh my god—look.”
I turned and followed his gaze.
Just beyond the soccer circle—maybe 100 feet away—loomed the Colosseum.
It. Took. My. Breath.
I don’t know if it was a “you had to be there” moment, but for us, it was electric. There you two were – our American kids, who just days before had left everything familiar behind, were now running alongside Italian boys in the shadow of a 2,000-year-old structure. It was perfect. It was surreal.
But beyond the epic backdrop, the moment held something deeper for me and for dad. For the Italian kids, it was just a pickup game with a couple of foreign guests. For Dad and me, it was something like divine reassurance.
As parents – especially parents who sell everything and move their kids halfway across the world – you constantly ask yourself: Are we doing the right thing? Are we screwing this up? The stakes feel impossibly high.
And then… this moment. This game.
Our kids were just kids.
Connected. Accepted. Laughing. Playing.
Simple. Pure. Uncomplicated. And right. Just perfectly right!
The match went on for nearly an hour. We cheered from the sidelines, soaking it in, pretending to learn bits of Italian (we didn’t) as the boys playfully argued over calls and shouted directions. One boy in a purple shirt was especially memorable – bouncing back and forth between Q and H gesturing wildly, shouting plays like a tiny coach/director/translator hybrid.
The ball frequently bounced into the street, chased down with zero parental interference. Occasionally, younger sisters pranced across the “pitch.” Sometimes tourists wandered right through the play area. Nothing stopped the game. If someone took a hard fall on the brick surface, they simply rubbed the injury and kept going.
The parents, standing nearby, offered the occasional “Bravo, Luca!” but mostly chatted among themselves. It was chaos—but the best kind. Elbows flew, knees scraped, arguments broke out and resolved instantly with a classic Italian chin flick. No one hovered. No one intervened. The kids were just… free.
I swear: some of the moms I know back home would’ve needed six Valium just to watch it.
But it was magic.
Boys being boys.
It was our boys being accepted in Italy.
As the sun started to set on the Colosseum (for real! I shit you not!) and the match, parents began calling their kids home. H and Q both of you sweaty and exhausted, waved goodbye to your new teammates. Arrivederci! they called back to us, big grins on your faces.
As we gathered our things and made our way toward the hotel – the Colosseum tour would wait for tomorrow. Dad turned to me and said, “We’re going to be okay.”
And for the first time since this whole wild idea began, I believed it too.
4inworld - Quitting Suburban Life for the Unknown 
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