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L eft a bit . . . right a bit . . . higher . . . lower . . . there!’

Our bedsheet banner is perfectly centred above the bar door and I give Ren and Sofia a big thumbs up. This is it. It’s official. Hours of frantic phone calls, speedy shopping trips, and begging at neighbouring doors and businesses, and our fundraiser – brEW COMMUNITY – is officially underway.

The banner, with its marker pen bubble writing, is as makeshift and scrappy as the rest of our efforts, but if I step back and scrunch my eyes a bit, the last-minute lively event that now stretches from the bar all the way to the fountain at the bottom of the street is not a million miles away from the Piazza Navona–Edinburgh Fringe Festival mash-up idea that kept me awake all night.

There are stalls and food and even a juggler in the shape of Kenzi’s older brother, Mehdi – minus the fire, hula-hoop, unicycle and traffic cone.

But still, he’s good. The Swedish exchange students are handing out flyers, but instead of advertising comedy and theatre events like the Edinburgh festival, these ones show a simple line drawing of Pasquino surrounded by handwritten notes that read: Save Nina’s Bar, Support Your Community, Help the Little People and, most importantly, FREE COFFEE , written in at least six different languages.

We’re trying to capture the essence of what Pasquino stands for, giving a voice to this tiny corner of the city.

We even have a giant cardboard cut-out of the talking statue surrounded by stacks of colourful Post-its for people to scribble down their ideas for the bar – what they want from their community, what they’d like to see.

And Sofia is like a modern-day version of Pasquino, sharing our story on the crowdfunding page she’s set up, amplifying our voices online, too.

‘You’re incredible, you know that?’ I peer over her shoulder, earning myself a mouthful of yellow hair, and watch her fingers fly over the screen as she uploads photos from her phone.

She shrugs, bumping my chin. ‘It’s not so different from the retro flash mob I organized for my mum’s birthday.

And who doesn’t love an underdog story?’ Her hand glides through the air like she’s showing me a news headline.

‘Fragile old lady evicted by powerful banker while stuck in hospital bed.’ She shoots me a grin. ‘ Clássico!’

Ma catches the tail end of our conversation and we share a grimace.

Nina would be absolutely furious to hear herself described as a ‘fragile old lady’.

And, to be fair, none of the elderly regulars who’ve shown up for us today fit that description either – this entire event, aside from Ma, has been pulled together by teenagers and pensioners.

But despite the joy and energy that fills the street, my mind keeps wandering back to one person. Giulio.

I can’t stop thinking about him – where he is, what he’s doing, why he’s not here with us, and why-oh-why couldn’t it have been a sturdy deckchair instead of a wobbly hammock?

Ma hands me an empty wine cooler and nudges me towards the stalls. ‘Can you go and collect some of the donations?’

I weave through our pop-up market. Paper tablecloths cover stacked crates, turning them into impromptu stands.

There’s one selling the friendship bracelets we’ve been stringing together in every spare minute, and another featuring Pay-What-You-Can portraits run by an artsy neighbour – with a cheeky sample drawing of a bank manager extorting money from someone who looks remarkably like Nina in a hospital bed.

The raffle table is overflowing with gifts from neighbouring businesses – fancy wines, chocolates and handmade goods all jammed together.

But it’s the food that is the real attraction.

Ren’s fusion dishes are disappearing fast. Enrico’s Roman classics – crunchy bruschette and plates of fresh pasta – are keeping a steady line.

Kenzi’s jad is here too, dishing out Moroccan specialities while he chats to Enrico’s friend in Arabic as if they’ve known each other all their lives.

As I move between them – locals and tourists, old regulars and new faces – it hits me. We did this. My friends and me...in a few short weeks we created a sense of community and belonging where we had none ourselves.

And maybe, in a way, this is what I’ve been searching for all along.

I’ve spent so much time trying to fit into one thing or another – afraid of being too Italian, or not Italian enough. But maybe what I am is exactly what this place needs. A little bit of everything, a bridge between worlds. Just like the bar.