Her trolley suitcase lurched to a standstill beside her, sitting awkwardly on the unevenly cobbled street. It was mid-July and Rome was slowly baking. The heat rose off the cobblestones in suffocating waves. A jumble of yellow, ochre and cream buildings loomed overhead. Their earthy shades contrasted against a hard strip of blue sky. Rome was deserted. Only fools and tourists were out in the blistering midday heat. Kay pulled her blouse away from her sweat-soaked back and consulted her map. Trastevere, Rome’s old workers’ quarter, across the river from the historic centre, was a labyrinth of twisting cobbled lanes. Her hotel was in an alleyway somewhere in the heart of the labyrinth, and if she was reading the map correctly, it was only a block away. Kay continued on and minutes later turned left into a narrow lane covered with ivy. Up ahead her hotel loomed: L’Albergo Gelsomina. Finally. Kay was about to wilt. Her home town of Wellington, New Zealand, had mild summers and she wasn’t used to fighting against a wall of heat.
