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The Marco Chronicles: To Rome, without love
The Marco Chronicles: To Rome, without love
The Marco Chronicles: To Rome, without love
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The Marco Chronicles: To Rome, without love

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Get ready to have all your illusions of the glamorous Italian expat life shattered in this hilarious, irreverent memoir of a young American woman's romantic (or rather, unromantic) misadventures in the eternal city. Handsome, charming Roman men; perfectly made cappuccino and risotto; breathtakingly beautiful antiquities and that incomparable Italian light—none of these are perhaps quite as idyllic as they might seem to the casual traveler. With a jaded eye but an always vulnerable heart, Geoghegan gives us the anti-Eat, Pray, Love, a tale every bit as atmospheric but way funnier than the runaway best-seller. This is what life in Italy really looks like when you're a 30-something woman running from grief and trying to find her way back to love. Elizabeth Geoghegan writes in English, dreams in Italian, and wishes she could remember how to speak French. She earned an MFA in fiction writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and an MA in creative writing from the University of Colorado at Boulder. She is currently completing a story collection, The Book of Boys, and at work on a novel called The Year of the Cock, a black comedy set in Southeast Asia. She lives in Rome, Italy, on a dead-end street between a convent and a jail. This is a short e-book published by Shebooks--high quality fiction, memoir, and journalism for women, by women. For more information, visit http://shebooks.net.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherShebooks
Release dateJan 21, 2014
ISBN9781940838113
The Marco Chronicles: To Rome, without love
Author

Elizabeth Geoghegan

Elizabeth Geoghegan is the author of Natural Disasters: Stories and The Marco Chronicles: To Rome Without Love, a Kindlebestseller, winner of the Travelers' Tales Solas Gold Prize for Memoir, and selected for The Best Travel Writing, Volume 10. Most recently, her essay about her friend and mentor, "Smoking with Lucia Berlin," was among The Paris Review's "Best of 2015." Geoghegan earned her MFA in Fiction from The School of The Art Institute of Chicago and her MA in Creative Writing from The University of Colorado at Boulder. She lives in Rome.

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    Book preview

    The Marco Chronicles - Elizabeth Geoghegan

    Chris

    The Marco Chronicles

    To Rome, without love

    If Rome were a woman, she’d be a whore. The kind of whore who looks good from a distance or in just the right light. And while you are busy ogling her cupolas, she will deftly slip the wallet from your back pocket. She will deceive you and she will seduce you and she will be so intoxicating you will have a hard time letting her go.

    * * *

    My anti-relationship with the Eternal City began by accident. I never burned for Italy the way so many others do. I never imagined idyllic afternoons, lolling supine beneath a vine-strung pergola, chatting in a foreign tongue to new friends. And I never bought into all those stories about the irresistible charm and sexual dynamism of that mythical creature, the Italian male.

    Instead, more than 20 years ago, a friend invited me on what was her dream holiday, not mine. She planned every detail, researched every facet. I never so much as glanced at a guidebook. But we both knew I needed that trip even more than she did. Staggered by the recent death of my brother, I landed in Italy and proceeded to ignore the place along with everything I was feeling. Then, one afternoon, alone in a café near the San Lorenzo market in Florence, I met a beautiful—and, it must be mentioned—non-Italian man who invited me to a dinner party in Fiesole, a village along a winding road, high above the city, the house just a stone’s throw from the birthplace of Galileo.

    That gathering became the eventual memory upon which I would later impulsively quit my job, sell my possessions, and pack my bags to construct a life abroad. It wasn’t the bougainvillea dangling above the doorframe that did it. Or the homemade fettuccine, fresh fennel, raisins, and cream. Nor was it the view of Florence glittering below, those overly romanticized Tuscan hills unfurling in the distance. It wasn’t even the glorious golden light that gave way to the rising mist as evening suddenly surrounded us. It was the half Puerto Rican, half Trinidadian graffiti artist from the South Bronx.

    It was the guy. Not Italy.

    And it was the two of

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