When was the last time you marched into the unknown with only the soft glow of a motive you strongly believed in?
Anna was 7 when her father, John Blackwood, was suspected to have been murdered, but right before she turns 18 she receives a letter th...
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All roads lead to Rome, but when one road leads home then we shall meet...again.
-J.
It sounds like the streets of Rome were chanting my name, calling for me, wanting me to come, to take a chariot just to meet Ceaser himself. But in all honesty, I felt like Sisyphus, pushing a rock up a hill to have to come back down and do it all again in a non-ending cycle. How many more clues must I go through in order to meet him? To what extent must I go to in order to meet someone who hasn't contacted me in years? Why am I here above all else? I begin questioning my actions that have lead me to empty clues.
Jake asked me a good question back at the Statue of Liberty, one which I am questioning myself right now: why am I here?
I believe there are two answers to this. First, I am looking for my father. Second, I am looking for answers.
I want to know the truth, the absolute truth. Though I am on the sheer face of a cliff, the feeling of jumping into the unknown is euphoric, unexpected and nerve wrecking. You want to reassure yourself that you will survive once you reach the bottom, learning the truth can give me wings to fly and avoid death. But death, quite literally, is inescapable. I thought that going to Rome would bring me closer to the truth, I thought that it would give me wings, instead, I came close to death. Going to Rome was my downfall. Quite literally and figuratively.
5 hours earlier.
"Miss?"
"Blackwood."
"Right! Miss Blackwood, I am afraid that we do not have any room available. We are fully booked." The hotel receptionist explains once again.
She is the fifth one to tell me that, despite the fact that I have been to eight different hotels requesting for a room and most either said; they do not allow dogs, or they are booked. Giving up on finding a hotel, we decide to go for lunch in the meantime.
Earlier the airplane served only a few crackers and biscuits since the flight from Paris to Rome lasts for two hours. Now it seems that running all the way from Paris to Rome without planning may not have been the best idea, but I didn't want to miss any other chance of meeting my father. Although his last clue was too vague, I just knew I had to go to Rome--and here I am.
I want to eat a crispy Margherita and I am sure I am not the only one, Snow didn't even dine last night when I got to my room, he was sound asleep. Last night, I found it a bit weird that he was asleep, he wouldn't be so quiet if some stranger had been to my room, which is why I believe it is, in fact, my father who left the note. Otherwise, Snow would not have been so quiet to whoever broke into my room.
At the moment, finding a nice restaurant that permits dogs becomes a top priority as our stomach growl. Loud and clear, enough for Snow and I to venture through the city built of bricks and history together in search of food.
