Everyone has a story about how they ended up in Italy. Some were in search of love, food, wine, art, or all the above and much more. In January of 2020, I moved to Rome to work as an au pair for a family of three children in Roma Nord. I quit my job, sold my belongings, and took off to live with a family I had never met, in a country where I didn’t speak the language. Three weeks in and I was regretting my very impulsive decision to attempt life somewhere new. I felt under qualified (to be in charge of children with whom I didn’t share a language) and overwhelmed (by the neverending quirks of the Italian capital).
But, on my third Sunday in Rome, I went for a walk down via Flaminia, through Piazza del Popolo and across the river into Trastevere. I stopped for una birretta at a hole-in-the wall dive bar and met eyes with a stranger who changed everything. Over a pint of freshly tapped Kellerbier, he told me he was from a town in Northern Italy. His curly hair stuck out from a baseball cap, not very Italian of him. One beer led to a glass of wine and then another and another, until we ended up at what would become our favorite wine bar on Vicolo della Scala. Sitting underneath a canopy of string lights, the night was fueled by Franciacorta and conversation that seemed to never end.
Fast forward two months and I had formed this beautiful, strange, little life. The stranger from the beer bar became The Boyfriend, and after that night, Rome came alive. In the evenings, we would set out and explore the city, stopping in every wine bar we stumbled upon. Mosto when we were in my neighborhood and Latteria di Trastevere when we were in his. We would limonare in Piazza di San Cosimato and watch the kids play calcio in the square; a farmer’s market by day, impromptu soccer field by night. On an evening in February, we raced against time to watch the sun set over the Tevere from Giardino degli Aranci. We stayed until the streetlamps flickered on and the early glow of night turned the sky from purple to blue before finally showing its stars.
We took day trips to Bracciano and Florence, where I introduced him to an American-style brunch at Ditta Artigianale. In stark opposition to his typical Italian breakfast of wafers or bread dipped in milk, eggs Benedict was a major game changer. We hosted dinner parties for our new group of friends in his tiny apartment. I attempted to make bistecca alla Fiorentina in the smallest kitchen ever built for two girls I met in language class (a journalist from Brazil and an actress from Prague) along with The Boyfriend’s roommate, a photographer from Rome. All five of us sat around the table built for two and drank Amarone and shared stories, in English for my benefit. The euphonic sound of five different accents comforted me, reminding me of the irony that two months ago I had regretted my decision to come to Rome and now there was no place I would rather be.
We strolled down the ancient stadium of Circo Massimo, post afternoon spritzes, and talked about what the future would look like for an American like me with an Italian like him. Maybe I could apply to grad school somewhere or he could come to California for the summer. We had a trip planned to his hometown in a few weeks’ time. He wanted to show me where he grew up, take me on a cicchetti crawl in Venice, and introduce me to his brothers. I was looking forward to drinking beer that they brewed in their garage and eating his mother’s famous lasagna at Sunday lunch.
And then, suffice to say, March 2020 came, and everything changed. You can race the sunset, but, eventually, it goes dark. Standing in an alleyway in Trastevere, I booked a last-minute flight back to California, unsure if at any moment the borders would close between countries. On our last night together, I suggested a nightcap at one of our favorite wine bars. The nervous energy was palpable in Mosto, a sort of collective feeling that this freedom to enjoy a simple glass of wine on a Friday night may not exist tomorrow.
The next morning, The Boyfriend drove me to the airport; both of us remained quiet, unsure of what the future held for us, for Rome, and for the world. I landed in Los Angeles on March 7th, and Italy went into “lockdown” on March 9th. In two months, I felt as though I had found what I had been looking for, in life and in love, and, within two days, it was gone.
Morning cappuccini together at the bar were replaced by video calls with a nine-hour time difference. His voice on the phone was the only reminder of life before a time that was chaotic and uncertain, with news, rules, and outcomes changing every day. As border restrictions became more concrete, the fate of our relationship remained in the balance. In the heat of the pandemic, it seemed as though our two countries’ borders would be the last to reopen to each other. How long would this go on? Months? Years? It’s heavy weight to carry on loving someone without being with them. I know that the burden of loving me was heavier than the burden of losing me. And on a night in August, over the phone from 6,000 miles away, he let me go.
What if I had stayed? What if we had more time? One more month? Two more weeks? Would that be enough? My mind raced through the hypotheticals. It’s impossible to expect someone to hold on to you, when they are on shaky ground–even worse, a shaky world. I had to come to terms with the fact that life, this new version of life, had to go on, even if it was the life we didn’t choose for ourselves.
A year and half later, I came back to Rome for grad school, like I had originally planned. Nothing had changed, except for me, and us, and the world. Even though we had broken up a year ago, a small part of me believed that if he knew I was coming back to Rome, he would make his way back to me. On the plane ride, I daydreamed about our reunion, and what it would be like. Would it be awkward or like no time had passed? I pictured him meeting me at the airport where we had said our goodbyes. But he wasn’t there. He never came back to Rome–or back to me.
I don’t blame him. I blame the storm that took us in opposite directions. In the end, I experienced Rome in exactly the way I wanted to, but in the way I never even thought possible: through the eyes of the people who lived there; through glasses of wine, and spaghettatas, and long bus rides with my head on his shoulder. I felt as though I had the chance to learn about Rome and Italian culture without the aid of Instagram and viral reels and influencers, but by real experiences that cannot always be documented. Not even the storm can take that away from me.
