The first bite should be mouth-watering, eye rolling, moan inducing good. But instead, it feelswrong. I’ve been on a strict diet for years because of my career, and finishing last night on carbs and starting the morning the exact same way goes against everything I’ve ever been taught.
But I’m not surfing anymore.
Ideservethis.
I push through the uncomfortable feeling and force myself to finish the whole slice before I pick up my cappuccino. Time for the moment of truth, can coffee actually taste good? I close my eyes and take my first sip, waiting for that euphoric feeling every coffee addict talks about. Disappointment seeps in as the bitterness settles in my mouth. It’s not as bad as an espresso, but still bad nonetheless.
The waiter must hear my heavy sigh because he walks over and takes a seat across from me.
“You don’t like?”
I give him a guilty smile before shaking my head no. “It’s too bitter.”
“Do you want to try caffé latte instead? That is much lighter.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I chuckle. “I think I’ve had enough caffeine for today.”
He nods with a warm smile, standing up to take my empty plate and half-finished cappuccino before shouting out “buona giornata!”?*on my way out. When I check the time, I realize I only have thirty minutes left before I need to meet with the art program lady and according to my GPS, I’m forty minutes away.
Lovely.
With a crampin my side and not enough air in my lungs, I make it to the meeting spot just in time. It’s tucked away into a quiet corner of the city with narrow cobblestoned streets. The building is made of pale stone, with tall wooden doors that are framed by stone columns, and a narrow plaque hanging above it that reads Galleria Colonna.
The lady from yesterday leans against the stone walls, smoking a cigarette while scrolling through her phone.
“Buongiorno!” I call out, giving her a small wave when she spots me.
She grins and tosses her cigarette to the floor. “Dai, vieni a vedere!”?*
She waves me over when I don’t move and I quickly meet her at the entrance just as she says something in Italian to thewoman guarding the door. The guard nods and moves to the side so we can pass.
“I don’t think I caught your name yesterday,” I say as I follow her to the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Giovanna,” she looks at me over her shoulder, “and you?”
I don’t answer right away. This could be the first step to reinventing myself, to creating a different version of myself that isn’t Zalea Evans, Surfing Prodigy.
“Lea,” I finally say, but something about the look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me.
“I’ve reserved the space for the next hour. There’s something I want to show you, Lea,” she says as we reach the top where the hall leads into a series of interconnected rooms.
Giovanna walks us into an empty large room where the walls are lined with what seems like hundreds of paintings in gilded frames. “What is this place?” I ask, as I spin around taking it all in.
“This is Galleria Colonna. It is part of Palazzo Colonna, one of the most significant aristocratic palaces in all of Rome,” she watches me carefully as I look up. “This gallery contains centuries of paintings, sculptures, and other decorative art collected by the Colonna family.”
“The Colonna family must be filthy rich,” I mumble as I stare at the stunning painting on the ceiling of figures floating in the clouds.
“Si,” she says, coming to stand next to me now. “The Colonna’s are one of Rome’s most influential noble families.”
When my neck starts to hurt too much to continue staring at the masterpiece on the ceiling, I look at the walls instead, finding several family portraits.
“Here you will find art by many notable artists, like Guido Reni, Carlo, Maratta, Girolamo Troppa, and many more,” she says, continuing her speech.
But I’m not listening because something has caught my eyes, or rather someone. Staring at a life-sized family portrait before, I’m shocked to find Giovanna staring back at me—or rather, a painted version of her.
“You’re a…Colonna?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“Ahh, I see you found our newest painting. This wasn’t supposed to be put in here until tomorrow.” She tuts as she comes to stand beside me, arms crossed.
