Free Again, but Better by Christine Riccio Page B

spots to hit, where to eat, where to go out. It’s great.
    “So, we’re working on expanding that series and adding some more exotic places. We’re also always looking to add new series and points of view. Maybe as a final project here, you could even do a piece for us? We can work together on A Guide to Studying Abroad in London ? I think study abroad guides could bring in a whole new demographic.”
    I choke on air for a second. Me? Do a piece? For their real-life magazine? It’s a struggle not to gasp. “I … I’d love that. That sounds amazing!”
    “Good!” She smiles at me again. “Have you done much traveling?”
    “Um, not yet. Well, I traveled here, but I want to travel more. I’m actuallygoing to Rome this weekend,” I blurt excitedly.
    “Fantastic! You’re going to love it!” She shrugs enthusiastically, while still managing to look sophisticated. “We’re a laid-back group here. We all love traveling, so if you ever want any recommendations or tips, don’t hesitate to talk to us. While you’re here, I hope you learn a lot! Tracey will be your go-to gal for questions, and she’ll introduceyou to the staff on your first day. We’re looking forward to having you.”
    “Thank you so much!”
    She stands and shakes my hand again. That was it? I’m going to work at a travel magazine!

10. Rome Ma-Ma
    Our seats end up being scattered throughout the plane. Babe’s in the window seat directly behind me. Sahra’s a couple of rows up. Pilot’s a few rows back, across the way in a middle seat. There’s a drunk couple sitting next to me who keep trying to pull me into their conversation. I laugh feebly at their jokes and then go back to reading Shadow Kiss or staring out the window.Every so often, I sit on my foot and twist around to check on everyone. Babe isn’t a constant reader, but she’s currently working on I Am Number Four because the movie’s coming out soon. I should give her a list of book recommendations for when she finishes. Maybe I can convert her to constant reader-hood. Pilot’s ordering a bloody mary because drinks are complimentary on this flight (as has beenmade glaringly obvious by the couple in my row). I can’t quite see anything other than the tip of Sahra’s head. She’s probably reading an intellectual book. I spotted something nonfiction sticking out of her bag earlier.
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    It takes us less than two hours to get to Rome. As we stride through the airport, I’m struck over and over again with jolts of excitement as I read the signs around us. They’rein Italian, and I know what they all mean! It’s probably annoying, but I can’t help reading them out loud every few seconds and translating them.
    “ Uscita! That means exit!”
    “ Cibo, that’s food, guys!”
    “ Farmacia, that’s a pharmacy!”
    It’s obnoxious, but since everyone’s equally excited, I’m tolerated without complaints. We pass through customs in a daze of enthusiasm. They add a Rome stamp tomy barely used passport. I smile at it before stuffing it back into the purse inside my book bag.
    On the way to the inn, our taxi drives right past the Colosseum. The Colosseum! We just casually pass it on the road. It’s all lit up from the inside with gold light. Not two minutes later, the cab driver tells us we’ve arrived.
    We file out onto a narrow cobblestone street. Old-fashioned buildingsline both sides of the road. We shuffle up to number 42—the address of our inn. The numbers are carved into a gray stone mounted next to a giant arched wooden door—the kind of door you see on castles in movies.
    We glance around at each other with hesitant expressions.
    “This is it, right?” I ask Babe.
    “This is it.” She reaches out toward a small, dark doorbell to the left, dwarfed by the sizeof the door. It makes a buzzing noise, and after a few moments, the door opens to reveal a tiny Italian man.
    The inside is quaint, cozy. The man introduces himself as Paolo, the innkeeper. He gives us