Some Evenings say, in Rome, one feels a gnawing nostalgia to be precisely where one is, to be there more fully than it is perhaps possible to be, spinning in the center of the Piazza di Spagna to take it all in, but especially the shutters the blue of robins’ eggs found when one was a child, opened or closed artfully, as if the people who live in the building where a plaque declares a composer you’ve never heard of much less heard lived and died, conspired to make it picture perfect, though you don’t take a picture, having left your phone behind, which is why you’re looking up.