She Wasn’t Just Visiting Rome
“I’m sorry,” she said, sliding a white tote and a brown rope bag aside as I eased my jacket onto the seat. The cabin speakers chimed—'boarding complete’—and for a moment it seemed we’d won the rare luxury of an empty middle seat. The moment lasted only until a smiling Scandinavian Airlines hostess asked her to tuck the bags beneath her seat.
The engines roared and the thrust propelled the aircraft forward as I took a deep breath and settled back against the headrest. I tilted my head, and through the window, I caught one last glimpse of Københavns Lufthavn and waited for that gentle moment of “floating” when the landing gear lifts free of the runway.
After a while, the cabin chime sounded and the crew announced we could unbuckle, though I left my belt fastened—I always do.
Starting a conversation with a stranger feels to me like assembling IKEA furniture without the manual—confusing, stressful, and full of awkward pauses. I’d rather run a marathon than say a casual hello.
But everyone in this world is writing a story of their own, even if we only cross paths for a moment. In some chapters they’re carrying hopes, in others worries we’ll never know—like pages of a book we’ll never read. For the length of a flight or a taxi ride our stories overlap, and then we drift back into separate chapters of our own.
Remembering that makes a simple hello feel less daunting and more like opening a tiny window into someone’s life.
Using that thought to steady myself, I stole a glance at the same woman on my right and offered my safest opening: “You can place your bags on the seat now,” I said, forcing a smile that trembled like a paper boat in the wind. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I added, “Your bag deserves its own seat, not the floor.”
She burst out laughing, and a wave of relief washed over me—my stiff smile finally loosening into something real. The IKEA project was suddenly fitting together—no manual required.
She had hair that wasn’t quite blonde and not fully grey—a soft mix of silver and sand, neither one nor the other, but something distinctly her own. Dressed simply yet with an effortless elegance, she occasionally adjusted the grey overcoat resting on her lap, as if already feeling Rome’s warmer air. Something in her face suggested she was eager to arrive, carrying a quiet anticipation that needed no words.
I, meanwhile, wore the same T-shirt for the third day straight—fresh enough to pass as new to everyone but me. My own mind kept circling a single worry: how to avoid the €30 late-check-in fee if I reached my hotel after eleven. In the grand story of this flight, I was sure her chapter promised more intrigue than mine.
A braided rope bag, now resting on the middle seat beside us, caught my eye. It had the familiar look of the hand-woven straw or bamboo bags from my home in Assam, and curiosity got the better of me.
“That bag reminds me of Assam in India,” I said.
“Oh, is it? I would love to visit India someday,” she replied. Her face brightened, her voice light with pride as she explained that the bag was from her village, Alaçatı, in Turkey. She went on to speak about her love for ceramics and handcrafted bags. As she spoke, she gently lifted the other white tote and, with eyes glistening and fingers tracing the name, said, “Alacha—this is my brand.”
I noticed the similarity between the brand name and her village, so I asked about the resemblance.
“I wanted the name to carry a little echo of my village,” she said with a smile. “I am Neşe, by the way,” she added, extending her hand.
We kept talking while outside the window the light was changing, the bright afternoon sky slipping into shades of orange near the horizon. We swapped small details about our travels. I mentioned that I’d started this trip in Denmark because Schengen visa appointments for Italy were impossible to find. The only way to reach Rome was to secure a Danish visa first, so Copenhagen became my first stop before my real destination—Rome and then onward to Dubrovnik.
“That’s exactly what I did,” she said, a soft laugh escaping. “I applied through Denmark too, just so I could reach Rome.” We both chuckled at the odd coincidence, marvelling at how a bureaucratic hurdle had intertwined our paths together.
I asked if she was visiting Rome for a short holiday. She smiled and shook her head, her eyes lighting with unmistakable excitement. “No,” she said. “I’m moving there”
As our conversation wandered, she mentioned—almost in passing—that she had no backup plan, only a few nights booked to begin with.
I was stunned—never had I heard someone leave their country for a new one with only a few nights booked and faith that the rest would fall into place.
She had visited Rome a few months earlier, fallen in love with the city’s rhythm, and decided to begin a new life. She spoke of designing and continuing her own brand there.
I wondered aloud if she ever felt scared. She smiled, steady and bright. “I look to God and my own instinct,” she said. “That’s my map.”
“And when instinct and God disagree?” I teased.
She laughed. “They don’t. Sometimes it just takes me a while to listen.”
‘You should try that too—you’ll find what you love,’ she said, her voice carrying the calm certainty of someone who had already trusted such a leap.
Sitting there, I felt a ripple of admiration—and a small discomfort. Her courage exposed how carefully I had padded my own life with safe routines. I was grateful for the stability those routines had given me, yet I couldn’t help but wonder if they had also kept me from daring more. It left me asking if there was a part of me still waiting for the same kind of leap.
We talk about new chapters as if they’re distant dreams; she was already writing a new chapter mid-flight, guided only by trust in her instinct and faith.
As the plane began its quiet descent, I realised that journeys like Neşe’s don’t wait for certainty; they begin the moment you dare to believe the next chapter is ready to be lived.
Outside the airport walls waited the Colosseum—immense, enduring, and larger than imagination itself. An arena where gladiators once fought for glory, where emperors commanded the crowd, and where centuries of history still breathe through stone. Soon, I would step inside and walk in their footsteps.
