Rome '97

As I reflect on the stories that shaped me, one stands out vividly: a chapter from my early twenties, when I found myself navigating the streets of Rome, Italy, as an au pair, a traveler, and, for a brief but unforgettable time, homeless.



I initially went to Rome for an au pair job—not because I yearned to look after children (though I loved them), but because I craved adventure, experience, and the freedom to live life beyond borders. Au pairing, with its exchange of care for room and board, seemed like the perfect stepping stone. It was a way to live with families, learn their dynamics, and chase my dreams.



My first placement was with a highly intellectual, conservative Italian family. They had one young daughter, and their home was meticulously regimented—a life too cold and restrained for me to endure. I left quickly, carrying the weight of their unwelcoming energy, but richer in self-awareness. Living with different families, I learned more about humanity, relationships, and my own boundaries than I could have imagined.



What followed was a move into a shared apartment with a girlfriend of mine. We scraped by with enough money for rent and little else. Food became a luxury. One day, out of desperation and youthful boldness, we struck up a conversation with our handsome neighbours across the balcony. Upon hearing we had no food, they immediately threw bread and cheese into our waiting arms—a kindness that felt like salvation in that moment.



But life had more lessons in store. As rent money ran out, we tried everything to find work, but our lack of Italian fluency blocked every door. In a last-ditch effort, we auditioned for an Italian TV show, only to discover the producers expected us to parade half-naked in front of them. My moral compass was unwavering; I declined, though my friend was all in. That decision sealed our fate: one fateful afternoon, we were evicted, left homeless on the streets of Rome.



At 22 or 23, I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the UK, defeated yet again. So, I stayed. That evening, my friend and I devised a desperate plan—we would beg. It was almost theatrical in its absurdity, a strange mix of survival and naivety. We dressed in mismatched, tattered clothes, draped colourful scarves over our hair, and crafted a sign that simply read, “God bless you.” We sat on a bustling shopping street, surrounded by the glitz of luxury stores in 1997 Rome.



What struck me most during that experience wasn’t the money we collected, but the humanity—or lack thereof—we encountered. People stared, some pitied, some ignored, but it was the Muslim community who showed us the greatest kindness. They stopped to ask where we were from, offered their empathy, and shared an understanding that transcended words. It was there, on those cobblestones, that my lifelong respect for the Muslim community was born.



But that day wasn’t without danger. A group of Neapolitan men tried to drag us into an alley, but we held our ground, clinging to the safety of the main street. By nightfall, we had enough money for a few meals, but a heavy sadness had settled over me. I felt, for the first time, the crushing weight of being truly alone.



As we wandered the streets that night, clutching our meager earnings, we met an old man—homeless, weathered, and kind. He must have been in his seventies, though life had aged him far beyond his years. He told us where it was safe to sleep, offered his own newspapers to lie on, and showed us a kindness that broke my heart. I wanted to give him all our money, but my friend refused, and we argued over it. In the end, we kept it, but his warmth and generosity stayed with me far longer than any guilt.



What happened next is a blur—my friend and I, both young and resourceful, always managed to find a way out. But that experience left an indelible mark. It taught me the fragility of security, the depth of human connection, and the sheer resilience of those living without a roof over their heads.



When I see homeless individuals now, I don’t judge. There is always a story, a path that led them to that place. I think of the old man who shared his wisdom and his newspapers with us, of the kindness of strangers, and of how little we truly understand what it means to have nothing.