After losing my job, I needed to avoid misery. This city delivered

In this series, My Happy Place, our writers reflect on the holiday destinations in Australia and around the world that they cherish the most.

When a bad-fit job imploded, I was looking to feel anything but misery. Despite being well travelled, I’d never been to Italy. Rome’s promise of la dolce vita appealed to someone badly in need of a little sweetness.

I used my severance pay to book a flight and a tiny room in a little hotel near the Spanish Steps.

And the very first morning I awoke there, the calling made sense.

Thanks to jet lag, I began wandering the city as it awakened, just me and the garbage collectors and street sweepers, then bar owners putting seats outside, newspaper vendors rolling up shutters and police taking up position near government buildings. The sun peeked over the seven hills the city is set on and drenched it in a distinctive golden light.

Rome’s outrageous beauty beamed in response. Structures built thousands of years ago stood next to Renaissance confections. Umbrella pines, laurels, olive trees and oaks greened the city lavishly.

As the days went on, I saw how life unfolded around all that. From morning coffee through to evening vino, the well-dressed locals moved through the city with an indifference to its grandeur, as if it was no big deal to live in a place so special. Yet when asked about their home, they beamed with pride.

I also loved that Rome rewarded curiosity. A wrong turn could lead to a hidden courtyard, an ancient ruin, a fountain or a church that could paralyse me with its beauty and atmosphere – yet be completely off any sort of tourism radar.

And in all this, the Italian capital proved to be the remedy I was seeking; I found bliss at virtually every turn.

Soon, favourite places and things became my companions, confidants and life coaches. The Pantheon whispered of resilience. Bernini’s Elephant and Obelisk reminded me of strength.

In the church of Santa Maria del Popolo on Piazza del Popolo, I encountered a painting by Caravaggio, The Conversion of St Paul. It deeply affected me, the confronting realism showing spiritual surrender on the dirt floor of life, not in the pretty, lofty place festooned with garlands and angels of so much Renaissance art.

In the following decade or so, I returned to Rome several times. After setting my bags down in my hotel room, the first thing I did on each visit was go to see that work by Caravaggio. It was like saying hello to a friend.

I’d check in on the Pantheon, the obelisk and various other favourite Roman landmarks, discovering new ones along the way.

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