"It was about a boy. A Roman boy, for whom I'd moved to Italy and had lived with for two rocky years. It was not a good relationship, and I was not my best self in it; something about existing entirely in his world, identifying as a full-time stranger, made me feel weak and destabilized. Though I kept telling myself this was what I wanted. In retrospect, I liked the optics of us, two reckless artists in lust, more than the reality:"
"The worst part was, it was he who broke up with me, on top of the Spanish Steps no less, declaring he wanted to be alone and no longer believed in love. It was brutal. Saddest of all, it ruined my love affair with Italy, where for two years I'd ridden my vintage bicycle from market to market, napped on tapestries at Lago Martignano, and actually gotten paid as a writer to pick caper berries in Pantelleria or shop for porcelain ashtrays at the Ferragamo Museum."
"Before running home to New York-sad, embarrassed, defeated, a wreck-I had an assignment to complete. I was supposed to write about Borgo Egnazia in Puglia, the luxurious seaside hotel that has been attracting celebrities and other beautiful people since 2010. I've never missed a deadline in my life, but after taking an hour-long flight from Rome down to Bari, there I was, soaked in Negronis, weeping in the piazza, sobbing by the bougainvillea, and hysterical in their hamman."
A woman left Italy ten years earlier with a suitcase full of olive oil and tears, vowing never to return. She had moved to Italy for a Roman boyfriend and lived two rocky years feeling like a stranger in his world. He broke up with her on the Spanish Steps, declaring he wanted to be alone, which shattered her and soured her love for Italy despite earlier joys—riding a vintage bicycle, napping at Lago Martignano, and writing about local life. A family trip to Puglia and Ischia later helped heal those wounds and rekindle the love for Italy.
Read at Conde Nast Traveler
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