One night will always haunt me from the semester I spent studying abroad in the enchantingly beautiful city of Rome, Italy. Toward the beginning of our semester, we were out at some wild Roman club bar, and by wild I mean it stayed open a couple hours later than the 1:30 last call we were used to in Portland. We were at least two miles away from where we laid our heads to rest each night, which wasn’t much if you haven’t done a roundtrip of that walk to school and back already.
Between the five of us, I was the only person down to splurge and throw in a couple Euros for a cab. We were all drunk, and peer pressure determined that I’d walk all the way home in a favorite pair of heels. Through the Piazza Navona, over the Tiber River with Castel Sant Angelo posing ominously in the distance, past St. Peter’s Basilica and the Vatican, and finally home – feet barking like a DMX ad-lib outtake.
We had no veteran making an appearance to jump in and offer wisdom and maybe a couple hot bars. Luckily Sonnie Carson had such a veteran presence in Jim Jones to help guide hi through his first traipse in unfamiliar big budget territory. While our version was certainly less glamorous than Sonnie’s ode to “We Own The Night,” the same sentiment was there, and the sights were just as beautiful in their own way. Of course our feet hurt the next day, and maybe even for the next week, but you can’t tell me that we didn’t think we owned the night.