In 1998, my family decided to take a slightly chaotic and very off-brand spiritual journey: a trip to Rome during Ramadan. We boarded a ship from Athens to Ancona — which, if you’ve never done it, is basically like being trapped on a floating buffet where the entertainment makes no sense and your sister is seasick the entire time.
The ship had these strange concerts — think awkward lounge singers and lighting from someone’s basement — and because there was no billing system on board, we were feral. All-you-can-eat, zero parental regulation. My brother Tariq and I ran wild. My sister stayed horizontal and nauseous. It felt like the longest two days at sea, though it was probably just one.
When we finally landed in Ancona, we missed our train (classic) and found ourselves stranded in some frozen nowhere in Italy. We eventually made it to Rome late that night, dragging ourselves into the Indonesian ambassador’s residence. He was posted at the Vatican, and clearly expected the Pakistani ambassador’s family to be fasting. Except… we weren’t. Backtracking a little — his wife had sent us this extended shopping list of goodies she wanted from M&S in Athens. I mean, it read less like a request and more like a hostage negotiation. I actually asked my mother, “Is this normal? Do people just… demand gifts now?”
We were what you’d call “convenient Muslims.” The kind who believe any mild discomfort — like hunger or travel — is a divine sign to skip fasting. The ambassador’s staff had been patiently waiting to break their fast with us, only to realize we had absolutely no intention of skipping dinner. There was a quiet but unmistakable awkwardness. Ramadan shame was in the air. They realized quickly we’re just infidels. My parents still argue otherwise.
Breakfast the next day was minimal (probably punishment), and my siblings and I, still starving, lunged for the baklava box we had brought as a gift. We were caught mid-pounce by their staff, who just laughed and told us to eat properly. It became the running theme of the trip: our hosts fasted while we unapologetically devoured carbs in front of them. They even gave us two fasting embassy staffers to chauffeur us around Rome. Again, deeply awkward. But again, no regrets.
Despite the diplomacy fails, it was one of the best trips of my childhood.
I remember having the best cappuccino of my life — and yes, I was only eight years old, drinking espresso in Italy. Naturally. We threw coins into the Trevi Fountain, as if the universe was going to grant our preteen dreams. Who knows how many of those came true?
Cher’s Believe played absolutely everywhere. That vocoder-heavy anthem soundtracked the entire trip, and even now, it brings back flashes of cobblestones, sunlit fountains, and Roman chaos.
We took a day trip to Venice that felt like stepping into a postcard. During our train journey to Venice and an argument during a game of scrabble our father stepped out of the cabin. When I decided to go looking for him, Tariq commented, ‘Saira even if he got off and missed the train – he’ll get on the next one.’ My siblings had really flown the nest by then. We filmed all of the Sistine Chapel against the security’s wishes. We never developed that tape to film and eventually it got robbed in the Islamabad robbery. Oh well.
At some random shop, we met a woman who insisted she had once met Imran Khan’s cousin or some really tall, white handsome Pakistani man and we spent ages guessing with her. The man she described sounded like a Greek god — definitely not anyone in our extended family. We developed that part of the footage of her to this day, and we still don’t know who she thought she met.
Rome gave us cappuccinos, confusion, and comedic cultural mix-ups — and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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