It was as if I’d lost my hearing for two months. The minute I stepped beyond the arrivals hall of Milano Malpensa and heard the frantic chatter of “pronto” into cell phones and the whizz of an espresso machine, followed by the ‘clink’ of a porcelain cup, I realized Italy had been my one true love. 

I left him for another love two months prior. With a packed van I drove away from alpine skies, cappuccinos, nights filled with laughter in courtyards stained with red wine. Days of discovery in the beating sun. Warm smiles from the frutta e verdura shop ladies, pinching my cheeks as I set off with my loot. 

I had come to Italy with a brave heart, and I took that brave heart along in support of another. Twelve hours later, there was Barcelona. No familiar faces, no whizzing espresso machines with perfect crema, no more Italy. It was two months of heartache pounding the streets with my eyes closed and my ears plugged. Two months of placing myself somewhere I always knew I didn’t belong. Two months of sharing my newfound passion for vino, olio, and the like–but falling on deaf ears. Two months of failed coffee dates with new friends. Two months of darting into cafes advertising panini, hoping to breathe in a few seconds of familiarity. Two months of my real relationship crumbling, while my spirit hitched a ride. And when it all fell down, Italy was waiting. 

I boarded the plane less than 24 hours after one love ended and another love began. It was a love and appreciation for everything I’d built, the people I’d met, and the person I had become in the past year–finally able to be realized. 

I fell in love with my city, Torino. I fell in love with his language, Italian. I fell in love with all the faces that weren’t familiar, but smiled back at me nonetheless. I fell in love with a place that felt like home and opened its door for me. 

I walked off the plane smiling, when I thought I would cry. I had nowhere to live, but I had Italy. 

And I could hear again. Every word performed with passion, every crinkle of a leather jacket worn by a perfumed man walking past. Every ambulance screeching through the streets. I sat in the airport cafe with a friend and we drank cappuccinos. We laughed and cried. We stained the tavolo with red wine that night. The fruit and vegetable ladies welcomed me back with the pinch of a cheek, just as they had months before. 

My friends and I sat in the piazzeta on a chilly Sunday night and sipped our spritzes. I was home. Home was Italy. And I loved him.