What foreign girl doesn’t want to be tossed around by an Italian stud upon arriving in Italy? My memory echoes an Airbnb pasta instructor directing us to pull the fettuccine like hair. This is a country that screams passion, and this isn’t a story about avoiding double texting and pretending to be busy.

When I arrived in Florence for a master’s program, I thought I could leave the worst behind me—the worst being the time all of us were trapped in our apartments and dating our four walls. 

My hunt began on the dating apps. I obviously swiped yes to my first contestant, Lorenzo, and his dreamy day trip to the hillsides of Fiesole. The chemistry came down to me sending a pic of his license plate to a friend for security measures and dragging out a mediocre conversation about his nonna as we awkwardly looked off at the hillscape. I moved on when he kept sharing his unsolicited shopping sprees (like dude, it’s gross and unsustainable that you bought five Levis jeans and a bunch of sneakers) and extended invites to his place strictly in the middle of afternoon—when his parents weren’t there. Mamma mia.  

I thought things would be more promising with Matteo the sk8er boi. Sparks flew as we strolled along the Arno and sat down for a spritzino. He forcefully insisted I eat a panino too, and, as I began telling a story, he got up mid-sentence to signal that we should continue our walk. Bossy. 

At this point, I was seeking less-sleaze, more ease and some intellectual stimulation. I met a Swiss architect for coffee on the terrace of C.Bio. The equation of sunshine plus exchanged opinions and ideas was telling, but I just couldn’t quite connect with his jacket, sweater and scarf in the blistering 30-degree heat. My desperation let it slide as we ended the faith-restoring date. 

We met again later on in the week to pick each other’s brains, but I was disturbed to find him sizzling in similar layers. As I sat down, I jokingly acknowledged his attire but received an uncomfortable reaction. We finished our coffee, and I ran out of that courtyard never to know the layers of this person for better or worse. 

I thought I’d danced with every shade of man child, that is, until I met Riccardo. Charmed by his humor and flair for film, we had a fantastic first-date scooting around the hills of Florence—and yes, I completely enjoyed the stereotype. A good time is a good time. As soon as we split ways that day, we couldn’t stop texting each other. My excitement for the next time waned, however, when he kept postponing our meeting. A super empath from my own chronic health issues, I was reassured when his seemingly sincere reasoning was a book dropping on his head and triggering vertigo symptoms. Who knew? Towards the end of our eventual second date–a month of buildup later–I went in for a kiss. A kiss with vertigo was not our forte, but we surpassed it. Countless excuses of unavailability and uncommon illnesses later, I wasn’t being met halfway. He was clearly there for a good (and dizzy) time, not a long time.

So I checked out for the summer and took a break from swiping… Until I opened up the first of many links sent by my Buddhist mother; it was a guided meditation on fostering internal female and male harmony. Bappity boopity. Maybe it was that, maybe it was the thorough crying session—either way, this was my recipe for finally meeting someone special.