In lieu of an exciting European holiday this summer, I have been reminiscing about holidays past. Perhaps one of my fondest memories comes from the summer of 2018 when, buzzing with post-exam results potential, I went to Italy with three of my oldest friends.
Starting in Rome, we spent two weeks making our way across Italy, stopping in Florence, Bologna, Venice, and Verona, taking in all of the culture, pizza, and ice cream possible. While our holiday was full of art, history, and Italian Catholicism, it was also full of limoncello mixed with regret, and our last night in Rome epitomises the spirit of the trip.
After trekking around the Vatican, we returned to our hostel earlier than we expected, around 6pm, and decided to go in search of a happy hour of any sort. Upon finding said happy hour, we took our seats at a table in a picturesque Roman street and, fittingly, got absolutely slaughtered.
After many glasses, we finally decided to leave (to find any form of carbohydrate to soak up the vineyards that were our stomachs), and came across a sweet little restaurant not far from the Pantheon. As I was the least drunk of the four of us, I ordered our pizzas and tried to keep everyone else in check. That was easier said than done.
Suddenly, my friend darted out of the restaurant and ran down the street, coming back a few minutes later looking dishevelled. As she sat down the pizzas arrived and, after taking her first bite, we asked her where she had been. The answer to this question was simple, she said, she had run out of the restaurant to vomit. And vomit she did, at 7.30pm, outside the Pantheon, the most preserved and influential building of Ancient Rome.
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