April 2, 2022

I watched the first two seasons of “Emily in Paris” on Netflix this past January while I was sick in bed with Covid. I spent one week binging it because I had next to nothing else to do.

If you haven’t seen the show, I’ll give you a quick synopsis:

The main character, an American girl named Emily, works in marketing and lands a job with a reputable firm in Paris. She takes the opportunity, moves overseas, and starts her life in a foreign city. As you might suspect, she falls in love with her downstairs neighbor, who happens to be a chef, and ends up making quite the name for herself amongst friends, colleagues, and people within her industry. Although she has her fair share of problems, she also seems to have a pretty good thing going for her, too.

To cut to the chase, the show is trash, if I do say so myself. The acting is subpar, the plot is surreal fake, and it’s just really not that good. Most people I know who’ve watched it agree.

And, naturally… I loved it.

I can’t deny that it’s a bad series, but really, what I loved about it was the fact that an American girl moved to a foreign city in Europe and made it her home. I remember watching it and something in me just yearned for those experiences. It felt mystical, almost. Like a part of me was embedded into that plot. Like it was a foreshadow for what was to come. I felt very connected to Emily’s character, and I knew it was because I wanted that to be me.

Lo and behold, a few months later, it pretty much was.

~

I flew to Milan, Italy from New York City at the beginning of April 2022 and then proceeded to move into a condo complex in a little town on Lake Como. I hadn’t been to Europe in almost four years at that point, but as soon as I settled into my new norm, the feelings of, “this is exactly where I should be,” flooded my body.

The first day I was in Italy I spotted my handsome downstairs neighbor in his yard. I secretly recorded Snapchats of him to send to my friends and caught myself peaking out the windows of my condo to catch a glimpse of him talking to the neighbors or mowing his lawn. I referred to him as “hot neighbor”, which we later laughed about.

“That’s the best nickname I’ve ever been given,” he told me.

Needless to say, we spent three months falling in love. My favorite parts about my stay in Italy weren’t walking the narrow cobblestone streets or staring at the Alps against the lake. They were the nights I would turn on James Bay, pour myself a glass of wine, light a candle, and cook dinner for the two of us. I have vivid memories of thinking to myself while mixing ingredients together for stuffed mushrooms, “Maybe this is what love is.” The only thing wrong with thinking that was my use of the word “maybe”.

From breakfast dates to dinner dates, we spent as much time with each other as we possibly could. It never felt like we “dated”. It felt like we were committed to each other from the first night he asked me out.

The third consecutive day we spent together he had a BBQ with friends in his yard. When I joined the party and came down to his condo from upstairs, he greeted me in the kitchen with a kiss. One that felt like we had done that our whole lives. That I had always just come downstairs and been kissed right before we headed into the rush of friends waiting for us outside— at the party we were hosting, with our friends nearby, in a space we called ours. A quick, little moment of calm before the storm.

But it was only the third day I had spent with him. The first “quick” kiss we had ever shared.

Our love continued to blossom from there, and it wasn’t long before I realized that what I had wanted back in January while watching a trash show on Netflix was actually my reality. I wasn’t in Paris and didn’t work for a French firm, but I was living in Italy and falling in love with my down stairs neighbor. He was no chef, but he’d play my favorite music at the table, cook me dinner, draw hearts on my plates in mayonnaise (he’s obsessed with mayonnaise—I know—gross), and always make sure I had enough to eat.

I had never been treated so well in my entire life. Even through a language barrier and our age difference, I was always taken care of. He took me to a chalet for a weekend in the Italian Alps, brought me on hikes that overlooked all of Lake Como, took me to sushi when I was craving Japanese food, showed me how to properly wine and dine (aperitif) before dinner, but most importantly, he single-handedly showed me what love is really about.

I quickly realized I wouldn’t have to worry about “games” with him.

“Should I text him first, or should I wait for him to reach out to me?”

There was none of that with him. He asked me out when he wanted to ask me out. He told me how he felt from the very beginning. He rang my doorbell with dinner and dessert in hand on more than one occasion. He made me feel comfortable in the midst of tough conversations. He constantly asked if I needed anything or if he could help in any way. He showed up when he said he was going to. He followed through with what he had planned. He was honest and patient and understanding and he didn’t ever, not once, pretend to be something he was not.

That’s the foundation of love— of a relationship. Not these cringeworthy games we play and ulterior motives we hide. Dating isn’t about being on your best behavior to will someone into liking you on the first date or not feeling comfortable enough to strip off the makeup and lounge around in pjs all day. I don’t exactly know where we adopted the notion that from the get-go, we need to bend reality a bit to find someone we’re compatible with, but I’m more confused about how I ever thought something that started that way could work?

~

What’s wild about all of this is that my intuition was the thing to nudge me towards him in such little yet powerful ways.

“Watch ‘Emily in Paris’.”

“Book a one-way flight to Italy.”

“Text your downstairs neighbor asking for ‘help’.”

What if I had never listened to it? What if I had deemed it “crazy” at any of those previously mentioned points? Where would I be today?

I give credit to my intuition for so much that happens in my life. So many wonderful, beautiful things have come from listening to it, even in the moments when it felt crazy, unrealistic, or unimportant. Something in me told me to pay attention a little closer to those feelings of “yes” even if they were whispered in the softest of voices.

But intuition doesn’t just lead you to the “good”. It hasn’t just brought me to the wonderful and beautiful moments in my life. Intuition’s only job is to direct you. It doesn’t care if that means bringing you to pain or ending what once brought you fulfillment and light. It simply is responsible for carrying you along on a journey that may make no sense in the moment but will prove worthwhile in retrospect.

As much as I preach following your intuition and actively creating space for you to be in-tune with it, I also must add that intuition is a double-edged sword. At times, it will use that sword to knock everything down on the path in front of you so that you can continue forward. It will hack away at the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly. Even when it hurts like all hell to part ways with the good and the beautiful.

And that’s the hardest part about following your intuition. There often comes a time when you are faced with the reality of having to let go of something that was once molded in time for you, despite how painful it may be.

~

Six months ago I met a man who taught me everything I know about love. He will likely never know how much I needed him and how much he taught me, but as much as I give credit to my intuition for allowing me to meet him, I give even more credit to him for teaching me everything I now embody when it comes to understanding love.

I’ve learned over half a year that I love being in a relationship. I love the excitement that grows during the beginning stages of getting to know someone. I love learning how a person thinks, and what they like, and who their family is, and what their goals and dreams are. I love the way a stranger can come into your life and change everything you once knew about something you felt confident about.

I love the way someone can eradicate all the annoyances we fixate on and fears we possess. I love how he taught me that once you love someone you don’t harp on what you’d normally find unpleasant about anyone else— how just their scent can calm your nerves, their laugh can make you happy, their favorite things can become important to you.

With all that said, it is with a bittersweet undertone I announce the end of my relationship with my sweet Italian man. Closing this chapter brings a great deal of pain with it, yet if I am to find comfort in this situation, it lies within the fact that we both met in the first place. That the two of us found one another when we needed each other most. That we loved each other as best we could with no strings attached, no malicious intent, nothing but pure, healthy love— something I will carry with me forever.

~

When I decided to start listening to my intuition and using my own internal compass as my guiding star, I had no idea, not a single clue, how hard listening to my intuition would end up being. It’s not a one-time decision— it’s a continuous effort. One I have to keep showing up for, over and over again.

There will always be easier options, appetizing temptations, and people throwing in their two cents. The decision to make the best decisions for you does not get easier. I like to think I get tougher with each one I make, but “tough” is rarely synonymous with “easy”. I have to rest assured that “what’s best for me” is not always present in the hard decision at hand. Many times I only reap the benefits way later. Way, way later.

I want you to know that choosing what’s best for you will rarely feel good during the moments you make hard decisions, and the aftermath of the emotions will make you second guess what you’re doing. You will question if you’re making the right choice. It will burn like all hell for a while, but you have to trust your intuition like it’s an anchor holding you in place in the middle of the ocean.

There is light at the end of the tunnel. There is hope. There is a tiny, tiny, tiny voice that echos throughout the chamber you’re walking down and it quietly repeats that you just have to keep going. To keep trusting. To keep believing. And although everyone else and everything else will point in the opposite direction (including your own ego), you have to know that hard moments make you into someone stronger. Someone more capable. Someone you will soon meet.

~

One of the first things I ever heard my downstairs neighbor say was, “I love my life. I don’t have a villa or a million dollars, but everything I have makes me happy.”

He lives that— everyday of his life. And I was lucky enough to watch his happiness unfold alongside him. I got to be a passenger as he drove me through what it means to find value in the little things and truly understand la dolce vita.

~

The third season of “Emily in Paris” is airing at the end of this year. You bet your ass I’ll be watching it— binging it— when it comes out, but this time, I won’t be envying Emily’s life in Paris as much as I once did. And that’s because “Taylor in Bellano” never quite made its debut on Netflix, but it sure as hell stole the show.

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