kind of didn’t when he asked us to get separate rooms—which we got, though Hamlet’s bodyguard, Marcellus, not I, slept in the second room. Did my dad really expect us to be in one of the most romantic places in the world and then, like, not stay together? Maybe he did, but if so, that was a little naive. I was worried that he would find out, but Hamlet rightly asked, who was gonna tell? The hotel staff was paid for discretion, and Marcellus never divulged secrets.
The first night, Hamlet slept and I stared at him, unable to believe my luck, foolishly listening for the sound of my dad or brother coming down the hall. Old habits die hard. By the second night, even though it was still pretty unbelievable, I could at least relax and appreciate a boyfriend who wanted to sleep with his arms around me and who told me he loved me before we both drifted off. If it was possible, I fell in love with Hamlet even more that night and each day of the trip.
As for the sights, I was overwhelmed at seeing Michelangelo’s chisel marks still in The Captives and Raphael’s subtle brushstrokes. The Ghiberti doors were glorious, and Brunelleschi’s cathedral dome transcendent. Vespas coughed shrilly and constantly, a sound I will forever associate with intense joy. Everything was perfection.
Our room overlooked the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio, a bridge of unmatched romance and allure. Three times a day I insisted on walking across, taking note of how the vendors and the pace of life changed. When not sightseeing, I sat with my colored pencils and pad, staring out the hotel window, so enraptured by how the sun painted the city anew that I kept forgetting to sketch it. But I remember how each morning pink light kissed the bridge awake. Midday, its yellow and burnt-umber stucco beckoned. At dusk, the river looked like liquid sapphire, and the buildings, though plunged into darkness, seemed to glow from within as if fighting off the coming night.
On our last full day, I sat drinking espresso on the balcony of our room, watching and listening to the city already in motion. Hamlet was completely hungover from a party we’d attended the night before and was lying on a lounge chair with his eyes closed. We had planned on going to the Museo Firenze, but he looked so wrecked that I decided to leave him alone. As I slipped on my sandals, he asked where I was going.
“I really want to make the museum before we leave. I’ll just go myself,” I said cheerfully.
He slapped his face a few times and hoisted himself up. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’m coming. Seeing the new sculpture gallery is what you wanted most from this trip, right?”
I nodded, touched that he knew without my telling him.
He took my hand, put on his sunglasses, and led me outside.
A skeevy-looking photographer with too-tight pants followed us from the hotel to the museum and trailed us to the entrance. Marcellus started to go after him, but Hamlet told his bodyguard to let him handle it.
Hamlet let go of me and calmly approached the photographer. He said, “Listen, we really want to enjoy this alone. Take our picture now if you want, but don’t follow us in, okay?” To my surprise, the guy agreed, snapped a few posed pictures and a few of us walking inside for good measure, then sat down outside, leaving us in peace.
Inside, the cool stone structure was dark and moody. Arm in arm we walked through the halls with their vaulted ceilings, cluttered with paintings that were centuries old. The velvet overstuffed benches looked inviting, but I felt I did not even have a moment to sit. There was simply too much to see, and I wanted to get to the new sculpture gallery before it grew too late or Hamlet grew too bored. He kept checking his watch as it was. Marcellus touched his earpiece and turned to Hamlet, nodding. I was afraid they were deciding to leave, so I quickly suggested we skip the illuminated manuscripts and go right to the new wing.
As we exited the elevator and approached the exhibit, I was surprised to see the glass doors closed and museum guards standing in front of them. My stomach sank with disappointment and I slowed my gait, trying not to seem too upset.
Hamlet looked at me proudly. “They closed it for us for the rest of