Page 22 of The Roman Holiday Rule

I even studied jet lag management strategies and adjusted today’s schedule to accommodate for any possible sleep interruptions.

So except for losing the half day when I would have pulled out cash and bought snacks (and the unsolved mystery of Mom’s envelope painting on the reception program), things are going according to my perfect plan. I plug my phone into the portable charger. Stepping out into the bright, midmorning heat, I lower my sunglasses to my face and head southwest. I’ve pored over maps so many times, I don’t even need to use my navigation app. I chose my routes to explore as much as possible on my way to all the sites.

Meandering through the narrow streets is better than I’d imagined. Rough, aged stone, Mediterranean-colored buildings, lamps and hanging flowers, shutters and churches, cobblestones and domes. Everything is picturesque, but thefeelof Italy is something my research could never capture. (Strike that from the record and never tell Mark Russo I said it.)

American cities are like wild, fun teenagers compared to the mature, wizened personality of old Rome. And thedetails.I can’t get enough of the intricate don’t-ask-me-what-they’re-called on the buildings. Every carved or molded inch of stone reveals an indescribable attention to aesthetics.

I keep my eye out for the temple from my mom’s final painting, but the city block buildings are packed tight, looming over the streets. The site I’m looking for, set in a garden, is likely not in the city center.

I cross the square until I have a full view of the Trevi Fountain. With as many times as I’ve seen photographs and films of the famous site, it shouldn’t take my breath away like it does. I thought it was just a fountain.

The way the sun’s rays light up the rock, the Roman myth caught in the travertine stone backdrop behind the fountain, and the rush of water trickling into the pool below—nothing could have prepared me for that. It is so much better in real life, I don’t even have words for it.

I work my way down the steps until I’m in front of the water.

Coins dot the floor of the pool. My fingers close over the nickel in my pocket. Julie will pester me until I get this done, so, feeling foolish, I close my eyes, think of my mom, and make a wish.Let me find the site of the painting.My back to the fountain, I put the coin in my right hand and toss it over my left shoulder into the water, how tradition says to do it. Done.

I turn, ready to find a spot to read my mom’s letter, but a voice at my shoulder says, in accented English, “You did that wrong.”

I glance behind me to find an elderly man smiling at me. He’s wearing a brown cap and vest, hands in his pockets, with kind, sparkling eyes I immediately trust. “Scusi?”

He points at the water and shakes his head. “That’s not how to make a wish at Trevi Fountain,” he says in Italian.

I let out an amused huff. How could there be a wrong way to make a wish? It’s a fun, meaningless tradition. “I’ve seen the movies.” The Italian words slide with ease off my tongue, and I point at several people around us doing it the same way. “I’m pretty sure that was right.” Why I’m pushing back about this beats me. I should humor him and move on. This was supposed to take two seconds.

He studies me with a mix of humor and admonition, one bushy eyebrow raised. “Are you going to trust an old Italian man who grew up in Rome or Hollywood?”

I grin. Good point. “How should I do it then?”

“First, you have to speak your wish aloud. Also, the coin you throw has to be yours.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have another coin.” I didn’t think I would have to redo making a wish.

He points to my necklace. “I’m looking at one right now.”

My fingers dart to the lira around my throat, and I close my fist around it. “Not this one.”

“We’re on the euro now. It’s worthless.”

“It’s priceless. My mother gave it to me.”

His kind eyes soften into sadness. “Ah, family. There’s not much that will break that bond.” His gaze moves to the fresco behind me, as if searching for a face in the stone. “But we sometimes find a way, don’t we.”

I’m caught in his sudden wistfulness, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

We stand together, and my thumb moves over the grooves in the lira. Mom was the only family I ever had. “I don’t ... I can’t.”

I’ll return another day with aramini. The one cent euro won’t cost me anything to toss in. I give him a small wave, mumble my apologies, and head for a seat on a cold stone bench. The envelope waits, worn and ready. I turn it over and run a finger under the flap, careful to preserve the envelope and its scene of a hot air balloon above a wooden fishing boat with flowers in it. I pull out the single sheet of paper half-covered with my mom’s writing.

Dear Lexington,

Trevi Fountain! Isn’t it fabulous? This was my first destination when I came to Italy. And it didn’t disappoint.

Did I ever tell you that your dad and I saw each other at Trevi Fountain before we met? I was determined to do Italy right, but the only coin I had on me was that silver dollar my uncle paid me as a kid. Remember me telling you about it? The first dollar I ever made from my art. I threw it in just as your father was taking a picture on the top of the wall. I saw his camera flash, so I shaded my face and looked up to find a handsome American with a cheap camera. He gave me an apologetic smile, and I waved to let him know it was okay he’d photographed me making a wish. We both forgot about it until we got home and he showed me his Italy pictures. Sureenough, there I was. That was the only picture from his trip worth keeping. He’d always move the camera—too energetic and busy living—and the pictures would come out blurry.

Sometimes it’s not the time to stand still and wait. Your dad understood that better than anyone.

You get your meticulous gene from me, but that moment I impulsively threw my silver dollar over my shoulder was the moment your dad and I noticed each other.