An Italian Love Story
My love began in Rome.
Seduced by his depth, expertise and energy, I fell hard. He was much older than I was but I didn't care. Every step he took filled me with glee, every meal he brought me to felt like it was either made of history, or we were making history. Next came Amalfi. Every night, I'd stared into her deep blue eyes, feeling the love expand in my chest.
"There's no need to hurry," she'd whisper, as she cooled off the bubbling intensity with plates of vongole and glasses of chilled white.
When I told her I couldn't stay, she gracefully bid me farewell as I boarded the train to
Napoli.
I felt her absence immediately, no longer grazed by her saltwater perfume. Instead, it was replaced by Napoli's intensity. He motioned me closer, and I got to know his daring gazes, dark mood swings and affinity for danger. With every misstep, he'd always apologise with deep-fried dough filled with gooing cheeses and rich sauces. Like an addict, I stayed until his chaos finally drove me out.
A year later, I met my love again in the South.
Palermo
was young, charming, and had an old soul, filled with multitudes and dark secrets. We swam together, sang together and rejoiced in the pleasure of sleepy small towns, raw， shrimps and langoustine-filled raviolis. He faded into the night after a day of adventures. A free spirit at heart, it simply wasn't meant to be. But that doesn't stop me from daydreaming about an alternate life where we meet longevity.
13 months later, I disappeared into dark carrugi of
Genova.
There, I met him. We skipped through the piss-stained alleyways as he navigated the maze. Genova was charming...but shy, unused to outside attention. I adored him but needed a warmth that he couldn't give me—
So I returned home, flipping through her many faces before landing on
Venezia.
I had my doubts. She was the prom queen, popular with the masses, and I... preferred my love out of the spotlight. It didn't matter, though; I fell head over heels for her, infatuated by the way her eyes glistened above the water. After a week, I asked her to come home with me. She sighed, disappointed, and disappeared on a passing gondola. I learnt from my mistakes. A month later, I went far away from the crowds.
Bologna, like me, was obsessive about food.
She warned not to associate her with the spaghetti, and taught me all the things that she should really be known for— mortadella, tortellini, lasagna. We sipped on Americanos during aperitivo and flirted until dawn in Piazza Maggiore. She was outgoing, smart, with an appetite for good food.
With her, it suddenly made sense. Learning the language became instinctual. We spent a month with our hearts tangled, and on my last night, we drove up San Luca, admiring the gleaming city from above. I picked up the courage to bid her farewell, but instead, she turned to me, with a smile and said,
"Quando ti rivedrò?"
"When will I see you again?"
