After I quickly donned more comfortable footwear, Marcello, my rather silent and useless guide, walked by my side, dodging and weaving through the hordes of tourists and locals zigzagging across our paths. If I had wanted to wander aimlessly around Rome I could have done so myself; beyond pointing towards a corner to take, or curve to veer down, Marcello said nothing, and I wasn’t entirely sure he knew where we were going. It seemed like we walked for an eternity, strolling past charming tancoloured buildings with intimate balconies brightened with vibrant petunias. As I strained my neck to see the ornate facade of an apartment building framed with shuttered windows and covered with ivy, it occurred to me that it didn’t really matter where we were going; each twist and turn brought new variants of colour and scale in this incredibly ancient yet dynamic place.

This was exactly how any free day should be spent.

So enraptured was I that the smell of pizza drifting past me almost had me blindly following, until a firm grip on my arm pulled me in the opposite direction, yanking me reluctantly from my stupor. I was kind of annoyed until we exited the narrow little street to find a promenade where the large crowds milled about in interest.

‘Scallina Spagna, also known as—’

‘The Spanish Steps.’ I cut Marcello off, much to his surprise. I may not have been able to speak the language but I knew exactly where we were. It was where Audrey Hepburn bumped into Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, though Marcello didn’t need to know my knowledge was thanks to a midday movie binge, especially since he looked a little impressed.

We made our way up the wide, irregular steps, which were a mix of curves, straight flights, vistas and terraces. Without a word to each other, we found a tiny break in the groups of like-minded travellers to rest for a moment and soak up the atmosphere and city views. Marcello leant towards me, almost yelling to be heard over the chattering of the crowd; it was almost as if his inner travel guide kicked in as he educated me on how the steps connected to the lower Piazza di Spagna and the upper Piazza Trinita dei Monti behind us, with its beautiful twin tower church dominating the skyline.

‘Aside from all the tourists, beyond all this craziness, the design of these steps has made it popular for artists, painters and poets. The presence of artists attracted many beautiful women to the area, hoping to be taken as models. This then attracted rich Romans and tourists, and over time the steps have attracted all kinds of people from all walks of life; the tradition of the Spanish Steps has lived on ever since.’

‘It kind of feels like a massive lounge room.’

Something sparked in Marcello’s eyes. ‘Piazzas have been serving the community since ancient times, with their broad inviting steps; the fountain is like a neighbourhood sofa.’ He pointed below.

I shielded my eyes from the sun, squinting towards the fountain at the base of the stairs. Before I could even ask the significance, Marcello continued; long gone was the silent bystander pointing and pulling me in different directions. As we sat on the Spanish Steps in the sun a new person emerged, a smile adorning his face so warm and bright I could see the two pockets of his dimples on either side of his cheeks; they almost made me forget entirely about the fountain.

‘It’s called Fontana della Barcaccia, or Fountain of the Old Boat. See how the fountain has the form of a sinking ship? It is said to be based upon a folk legend.’

‘Oh?’ I said with interest, trying not to look at his distracting dimples.

‘The legend tells that a fishing boat was carried all the way to this exact spot during a massive flood of the Tiber River in the sixteenth century.’

‘Wow,’ I said, trying not to openly stare at his profile. I seemed unable to take in these truly fascinating history lessons due to my awareness of Marcello’s jean-clad leg pressed up against mine. I wasn’t entirely sure it was the Italian sunshine that had me suddenly feeling all hot and bothered.

‘Should we go up?’ I said.

‘Si,’ he said, standing up, momentarily blocking the sun and offering to help me stand. I took his hand, which seemed strangely intimate, but I knew he was just being nice.

‘Grazie,’ I said in my painfully Aussie accent; my attempt at the local lingo wasn’t lost on Marcello, who laughed and swept his arm in front of him.

‘After you.’

By the top of the however-many steps, I was breathless; I wish I could have given credit to the view but the cause was my fitness, or lack thereof. Hours spent eating supermarket-bought pizza and watching Buffy had in no way prepared me for this very real adventure. One that had me standing by a very handsome Italian man overlooking the magnificent panorama of St Peter’s Basilica and Vatican City.

Still catching my breath, I pointed down the street beyond the old boat fountain. ‘What’s down there?’

‘Ah, Via dei Condotti, one of the most luxurious shopping streets in all of Rome; lots of high-end fashion labels. But you probably don’t want to go down there.’ Marcello shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning against the terrace. ‘I mean, you’re probably tired.’

I suddenly straightened, a newfound invigoration setting in. ‘What kind of shops?’

‘Oh, Dior, Gucci, Louis Vuitton.’

‘Let’s go.’ I set off, ready to descend the steps.

‘I just thought—’

I stopped, turning. ‘Marcello, I’m a girl, and we have needs, even if we can’t afford them,’ I said, annoyed that we were wasting time.

Marcello, surprised by my second wind, followed behind as I dodged and weaved through the tourists and vendors. My formerly quiet tour guide proved to be incredibly helpful in turning away unwanted sellers of roses or selfie sticks, answering with a firm ‘No’ on my behalf. But when I had reached the piazza, the promise of retail bliss powering my steps, Marcello had lagged behind, and my soft, touristy heart was snared by a man from Tunisia and his trinkets. By the time Marcello reached me it was too late; a cheap little bracelet was already half woven in yarn, in the colours of Italy.

‘Sammi,’ Marcello said in a chastising tone.

‘Oh, relax; besides, this is more in my budget than Dior.’

‘Do you still want to look?’

‘Absolutely, it never hurts to look,’ I said, glancing quickly at his matching dimples.

The man braided the bracelet with expert speed. ‘Once it breaks, you will have fortune in luck, love and work.’

‘Really?’ I beamed, examining the thread more intently.

‘How convenient,’ Marcello scoffed. My eyes flashed up to his, annoyed he had tainted my hope that something, even something as silly as a piece of thread, could bring me good fortune in areas that had not had the greatest of beginnings.

Marcello must have heeded my warning as he rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, giving the man two euros for his efforts. The man seemed just as surprised as I was.

‘Grazie,’ he beamed, nodding his head several times.

I turned toward Marcello, peering at him. ‘Thanks. My shout for gelato, then.’

Marcello’s sternness melted away as we moved in step towards Via dei Condotti.