Three weeks ago, on April 1st, I walked into the condo complex I was going to call home for the foreseeable future. I had no plans. No agenda. No timeline. Nothing. It was just me, myself, and I for as far as I could see.
That day I noticed an attractive man doing yard work in his garden, directly below my condo. He lived downstairs from me.
April 2nd he came up to my condo for a glass of wine. His English wasn’t great, but that didn’t matter. Energy speaks in a universal language; I didn’t need to know everything he said. I felt it.
April 7th he asked me out for an aperitif and dinner in Colico, a town on the lake. Unfortunately, that night I had (what I thought at the time was an allergic reaction) so I had to cancel on our plans. He texted me twice (on two separate days) asking how I was doing. He let me know that if I needed anything, he would be there to help.
Knowing I came to Lake Como to be inspired to write in new lights, he wrote me, “I hope you describe me as good person in your book 😉”
“You’ll have to read to find out!” is how I responded.
Little did we know.
April 12th he invited me to his condo for dinner and wine. We spent 4 hours together hashing through the language barrier that kept the both of us on our toes. We might have been lost in translation a million times, but we laughed the night away. Somehow, 4 hours felt like 4 minutes.
April 13th he texted me and told me that he thought I was a “beautiful person” and apologized for asking me to repeat myself one too many times. I told him that I would repeat myself as many times as he needed— it was not a problem whatsoever.
April 15th he asked me if I wanted to join him and his friends for dinner and drinks. We went to the most beautiful spot at sundown, a restaurant on the water, and sipped our drinks in good company.
Later that night we ate dinner with 7-8 of his friends at another spot in town. I was facing the lake, watching the twinkling lights of the houses on the mountain illuminate the water. He sat beside me, inching closer and closer until our chairs were touching. Glass of red wine after glass of red wine, I lost count of how many times I glanced at him just to see him smile.
At some point in the night, he put his hand on my leg, and he didn’t let go. Although that was just the beginning, I thought to myself, “and that was that,” and rested my palm on his leg, too. It felt permanent— like closing the cover of a book you’ll never read again but nonetheless loved every word of.
When the night was over, we said our goodbyes to his friends, walked to the car, and got in. I didn’t even have my seatbelt on yet before he leaned over and kissed me. I can still see his face as he smiled before closing his eyes. If I could, I’d have that exact moment framed.
April 16th we lounged around together. Sweatpants and sweatshirts. Some good old Spotify and lots of Google translate.
April 17th was Easter. I ate dinner alone, enjoying my solo time. He texted me pictures of his time kite surfing after spending the day with family. He came home to me.
April 18th he invited me to a BBQ with his friends at his condo. I was taking too long to get ready, so he came up and told me to hurry because everyone was ready to eat. He wanted to wait until I was there before people were served.
After everyone left, we sat on the swing in the hot 70 degree sun and laid in each other’s arms. Feet propped up, beer fading from our bodies, I could have fallen asleep all night in that exact position.
April 19th I had another bad night breathing. I texted him at 4:30AM on April 20th and told him that I was struggling. He asked me two times if he could ask the neighbors to bring me to the doctors because he was at work. After my incessant “no’s” he insisted on bringing me to the doctors when he got out of work that night. I hate anything medical so I tried my best to talk down the situation. He knew I needed help. “This is not a choice,” was what he said, knowing what I needed even when I didn’t want it.
That day he checked in on me three separate times to see how I was doing. He told me he would be back home around 7PM, and we’d head to the doctors soon after. “I have to shower, but I’ll cook us dinner before we go.”
With gnocchi for dinner and strawberries for dessert, he showed up at my door ready for a night full of taking care of me.
He drove me to the doctors while I sat in the passenger seat thinking, “I come all the way to Italy just to fall victim to health problems and see doctor after doctor and put all of my fun plans on hold? Why is this happening?”
He called the number on the front door of the medical building at 9:30PM to register my appointment. We walked into the office thirty minutes later. He asked the doctor questions I didn’t even think of. Knew what medication I was taking and how much of each one. Before we left the condo, he had me sit down and explain it all so that he could understand.
There was one question I won’t forget the doctor asking me, “how long are you going to be here for?” Every other question that was asked, he looked over at me as I responded. I felt his eyes from my peripheral. But I felt nothing when this one was asked. His eyes stayed focused on the doctor in front of us as if looking away would keep the both of us safe from my answer.
I responded, “I don’t know. A few months, maybe,” knowing that a few months would fly in the blink of an eye.
~
We left the doctors with a new prescription and a new diagnosis. Although I had answers, he knew I was still unsettled during the car ride home.
“How can I help? What can I do?” is what he asked as if any of this were his problem or his responsibility. He called his friend who was a doctor and reexplained the situation. He wanted a second opinion so that I’d feel more at ease.
“I don’t want to go to another doctor,” I told him after being instructed to see a specialist.
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow. We’ll see what we should do.”
“We”? God, that two letter word never sounded so reassuring. It hung in the air like a suspension bridge between him and me, closing in on the moat I’m normally isolated by.
We got back home around 11PM that night. He told me to go upstairs and get in bed. He showed up ten minutes later with a cup of chamomile (I was going to say tea, but he was adamant that it was not tea) and Vicks Vapor rub. He laid beside me and said he wanted to stay until I fell asleep so he knew I was okay.
It was 12AM. He asked if I wanted him to stay. “What makes you feel more comfortable? If I stay or if I go?”
How could I ask him to stay? If I did, I wouldn’t be meaning just for the night.
He kissed my forehead, told me to get some rest, and said he’d fill my prescription after work the next day. Moments later, as I laid in bed with my bedroom door opened just a tad, I wondered if he’d turn off the lights before leaving. “If he turns them off, that’s silent code for, ‘I don’t want you to have to get back up.’”
I watched from the crack of my bedroom door as each light in the condo turned off one by one. The front door quietly shut, and I smiled to myself in my room.
“I come all the way to Italy to fall victim to this softness. That is why this is happening,” is what I answered myself with.
~
3 weeks. 3 weeks is all it took.
From the first “ciao” to assisting me medically, I couldn’t wrap my head around how in just 20 days, we had gone from strangers to, “We’ll figure this problem out together.” From, “Do you want to have a glass of wine with me?” to “Do you want me to make you a cup of tea to help you fall sleep?”
~
I was hesitant to post this. Hesitant to share something so vulnerable because it’s so soon. So unknown. So much could go right. So much could go wrong. So much could just be exactly this... whatever “this” is.
Yet I know that in my hesitation lies my answer.
I have asked myself to keep showing up, honestly. To keep knocking down these walls I’ve built so high for no reason. I don’t know where I learned that I have to hide or “keep safe” my favorite moments in life— these little glimmers of authentic being in all that they naturally are— but I don’t want to adhere to that anymore. I don’t want to hold back what I so deeply and passionately want to write about and share for the sake of inclusivity and resonance with even just one singular soul.
I don’t give a royal hoot about all the garbage that only looks good to other people yet feels empty on the inside. I want to talk about what looks good and feels good. What looks mediocre and feels fucking incredible. What looks painstakingly horrendous and feels awful. What numbs our bones and feels just as liquidated to our veins.
I’m not here only to write about the good. I’m not here just to write about the bad. I’m here to write about whatever the fuck I want, and I want to pay as little regard to the “socially acceptable guidelines” as I possibly can while still being a fully functioning member of society.
So, today I choose to show up, honestly. To continue writing from a place of truth. To let someone else cover your media feeds in “looks good, feels empty” and to assume the vulnerable role I know I was meant to play.
Because it may seem completely incredulous that the girl who booked a one-way flight to Lake Como, Italy by herself with no plan or agenda, just so happened to find herself in a rendezvous with her downstairs neighbor, but I have said it a million times before and I’ll say it a million more, your intuition knows far better than you ever will.
Everything I have become in the last two years of my life is only because I have stopped listening to what people think is best for me and started listening to my intuition— the voice in me that constantly competes for airtime.
Had I leaned back and let that voice be overshadowed or let the crowd convince me that coming here with “no plan” is rather irresponsible and a “waste of time”, I would have never met this man.
But I suppose I don’t have to worry about that anymore. I was never not coming here. I was never not going to meet him. This was always meant to happen.
~
Be as delusional, far-fetched, and unrealistic as you can possibly be. Dream up the craziest ideas, and write down the goals that make no sense.
“I’m going to cure cancer.”
“I will be the next President.”
“I’m going to be the first human on Mars.”
And please— I beg of you— follow your intuition. Your dreams will make room for you, but you have to make room for your dreams, too.
~
Lastly, I want to add that I have not a single clue what’s coming or what’s leaving. I don’t know how long this nourishment will last. It may come crashing down, it may take flight, it may just be what it is today… none of that is the point, though.
The point is that I have written down my own goal:
“The world will hear my voice, even if they don’t know my name."
And that starts with being brave enough to share what I feel so compelled to share. In all its beauty and all its ugly. With fear by my side. With hunger in my heart.
This is my story.
P.S. I know you’re reading this. I know you won’t understand everything I’m saying, but all you really need to know is… sì, sono felice😌
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