A dear friend of mine spent a semester abroad in Italy a couple years before I went. “Coming home is way harder than going,” she told me one night, over wine in mason jars. I didn’t believe her. How could it possibly be harder to come home than it is to leave?

Well, she was spot on. After a semester in Rome - where the streets never turn as you’d expect, gorgeous alleyways sprout up near busy thoroughfares looking as though you are the first person to discover them and ancient ruins lay in the middle of bars and modern buildings - returning to my hometown in rural Oregon was, indeed, a sudden dip in icy cold water.

I found myself laughing at the “established in 1985” signs on store windows, yearning to take a crowded bus ride by the Tiber. The presence of traffic signs and paved roads rather than cobblestones seemed a bit strange. Jumping in the car just to get a coffee felt like a travesty and the over-sweetened, bitter drink that met my lips through the slit in a plastic cup insulted my memories of tiny espressos sipped standing at a bar near class.

It was as though, upon my return, everything became a bit of a dream. Things seemed hazy, from my own bedroom at home to my memories of late nights in my apartment with my roommates in Rome. Which is real? These two conflicting cultures, so vastly different and to which I feel so beholden can’t both exist within me. I found myself rankled by the idea of being on time to an appointment, or perhaps even early. I found the notion of eating a meal in fifteen, twenty minutes repulsive - where is my three hour dinner with generous helpings of house wine? Conversation? Pasta, for God's sake! Waiters that don’t care at all whether you like the food because they know it will be some of the best you’ve ever tasted; street performers that cater to crowds of tourists for whom anything will seem magical in the Eternal City, but especially if you can breathe fire, play the cello or perform silly magic tricks.

I find myself wondering when I can go back. I find myself thinking about how difficult it is to tell my friends and family members where I’ve been because it seems so vastly different. Everything from that segment of my life turned into a “well, I guess you had to be there” kind of moment.

Thank God for the people I went with - when I see my friends from my time abroad, it all makes a bit more sense in my head. We went through that semester together, from struggling over slick cobblestones in the rain to gorgeous midnight walks through the Roman Forum, recounting our favorite stories. Thank God for the knowledge that life can be so sweet, so savory when you take it a moment at a time. Rome taught me to open my eyes, to see the beauty in even the tiniest moment when it is shared with friends and to remember that everyone is on a journey that they might not be able to describe perfectly to you.

Usually once a day, I’ll find myself reminiscing about my time abroad, remembering moments in eternal places that I can only share, in glimpses, through photographs. I’ll find myself wishing for a fountain to sit by, street performers to listen to or strangers that will become new friends…and after all this time, months beyond my flight home, I find myself transported back, Romesick, waiting to bring my friends along so I can give them a tour of the city I called home.