Page 32 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Besides, I didn’t get any pictures of the fountain yesterday (again, Mark’s fault), and I need a slew of awesome shots to choose from for my bet-winning photo.

Early in the morning, there are fewer tourists, and I snag a front seat at the water’s edge. The light doesn’t hit the fountain the sameway as yesterday, and it’s like seeing a new friend without makeup for the first time, fresh and natural. Now that I’ve seen its features in the morning and evening, I know Trevi better (and see, we’re on a first-name basis already).

Maybe this is what Mark means about knowing Rome. Seeing her over time, in various moods.

I take a few photos I can make shine with a few easy edits, then pull out a euro cent coin, hefting it in my palm, brainstorming my options. I read my mom’s letter again, but there are still no clues as to what she wished for when she threw her silver dollar into the fountain. I can’t ask to win the bet, because I wouldn’t have conclusive results until Thursday.

On the verge of wishing to find the location of my mom’s painting, Mark’s face pops up in my mind, very weed-like, and before I know it, I’m tossing the coin high over the water and saying, “I wish to find a green paneled door with scuffed paint.”

That picture he showed me on the plane is something special. I don’t think it’s wrong of me to add one tiny thing of my own to my Mom’s Italy Plan.

The coin lands in the fountain with a quiet plop. Done. The splash speckles my bare knees. I shiver, then laugh at myself.

“Aren’t you supposed to throw the coin behind you over your left shoulder?”

For Pete’s sake. Is no one happy with how I throw away my money?

I turn toward my newest critic. A middle-aged woman in Nike sneakers, turquoise sweatpants, and an oversize T-shirt squints at me. She’s wearing her loaded backpack on her front side, a hack to foil pickpockets but not a hack for a comfortable, stylish day of sightseeing.

“If you want to do it like in the movies, then yes.”

The woman folds her arms. “Well,Roman Holidaywas filmed here in Rome, so it must be right.”

“Um, yes. So wasThe Good, the Bad and the Ugly, but that doesn’t make it right to dig up graves to find gold coins.”Not relevant tothe conversation,Lexi.Doesn’t stop me from wondering, though, if Mark knows that fact. I’d love to face off with him in a Rome trivia battle. See if his real-life experience is a match for the Wikipedia he so handily scorned.

The woman is staring at me as if I’d thrown my sanity marbles in the fountain along with my coin. (Please, no comment.)

I give her my most rational, sensible smile. “Want me to take your picture?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Both of us, if you don’t mind.” She hands me her phone and bellows over her shoulder. “Hey, Bea, this gal’s gonna to take our picture. Got your coin?”

A second woman, dressed nearly identically, scoots close, and I aim the phone’s camera. It takes them a minute to get in position, coins in their right hands, a couple practice throws to choreograph how to do it without hitting anyone, and then they count down for me. I take several snapshots of the throw and leave them chuckling over the photos.

On the other side of the fountain, I spot the elderly gentleman from yesterday munching on a breakfastcornetto. He raises his bread in greeting, shoulders shaking in a way that makes me sure he saw everything, and I wave back before lowering my sunglasses to my nose and turning west down Via delle Muratte.

Souvenir shops on the cobblestoned street are just opening and agelateriaemployee is wiping white metal chairs in front of the ice cream store. The fresh, sugary scent of pastries lightens the morning air, and the sunlight seems to stretch and roll its thumbs in anticipation of frying us all later in the day.

Today’s plan is Vatican City, which isn’t one of my mom’s envelope locations. I’m spacing out her letters instead of opening them all in my first few days. So I pass north of the Pantheon (see you Thursday, buddy!), headed for the river, but at the top of Piazza Navona, I spot Mark striding down the street I need to take. My stomach flutters, and I take a step toward him, then remember my middle-of-the-night text.

My highly unadvisable middle-of-the-night text. I cringe. Sending a photo of his apartment at one in the morning? In the light of day it seems forward and weird. At best.

I can’t run into him today while that embarrassment is so fresh. This is a Mark-Free day, or at least it should be a Lexi-Free day for Mark.

Rome is a maze of alleys and uneven blocks, so I swivel left and take one of a dozen other side streets, weaving my way toward the Vatican. I walk the length of the piazza, passing sidewalk cafes, flowers spilling over balconies, shutters flanking windows, and a stately Baroque church, but when I come out the other side, Mark is there again, even closer to me. He’s wearing black jeans and a gray T-shirt, curls tamed.

I groan. Is there anything he could do or wear that would lessen his attractiveness? Maybe if he were caked in raw egg. That might do it.

Might.

He must have taken the street running parallel to the square, so I head the opposite direction, out of my way, but I can take any one of the bridges spanning the Tiber River.

Assuming I can even find the river now. I have a lot of Rome’s center mapped out in my head, but I’m not a genius. I’m lost. My trusty canvas sneakers are starting to complain, and there’s no one around to ask directions from.

I pull up my navigational app. Great. The waiting wheel of no-signal doom spins on a fuzzy, gray screen.

At some point I have to run into something familiar (a delusional hope, but it’s all I’ve got) so I keep walking.

A squat bird with a long neck flies over my head. The kind you usually see near water. Bingo. I may know less than zero about birds, but I’d stake my lunch—wait, not in Italy—I’d stake my shoes on the fact he’s headed for the river.