April: Italian Romance Gone Wrong?

When we stop looking what will we find?

When I arrived in Rome for the very first time it was June 2022. I embarked on an adventure with a new friend, who had a spare ticket to Italy last spring. When she told me she was going to Europe for two weeks and needed someone to go with, I happily accepted the offer. I was nervous because we had only been friends for 3 months yet here we were, planning to go to the other side of the world. Risky it was but when I landed in Rome, I wasn’t expecting much more than yummy gelato

Rome was unlike anything I had ever seen. I was 27, in a miserable, dead-end relationship, and had recently started a promising, big-girl job. A lot was going on yet simultaneously I was bored and craving change. I figured this would be just what I needed to fill up my desperately empty cup. There I was, glancing at the Trevi fountain which I like many millennials remember from the Lizzie McGuire movie. This was my childhood dream come to life, right in front of my very eyes.

There was a time in 10th grade when my Italian class was supposed to take a trip to Italy. I had always wanted to go because growing up I was told I was Italian. I was raised in an Italian family with Italian culture and Italian traditions. What better way to connect to my roots than to go to the motherland itself? And didn’t they have really good pizza, pasta, and gelato galore? I drooled over my teacher talking about the vespas, the beaches, the lifestyle, everything. So it became my dream to see Italy but my 15-year-old self quickly grew disappointed after my father died which did not allow me to go.

Rome was big. It was bright. It was busy and beautiful. All of the shops, the spots, the destinations, the restaurants, the people, the history, the BOYS. Did I mention the boys? With their Italian accents and sun-kissed skin. Well, it only took 2 days before I found my Paolo right by the Trevi fountain, as did Lizzie. Well, not right by the Trevi fountain but sort of, it just makes the plot sound better.

My girlfriend and I went to a water park called ‘Hydromania” which is like a smaller and cheaper Splish Splash (for you folks familiar with Long Island). Nonetheless, we go in and spot a group of seemingly attractive boys but they were too far to tell. There was nothing to really look at and they seemed to notice us too. But the one in the middle... “The one in the middle is mine” I announced. They left so we left and forgot all about them as we parted ways from the concession stand. There in the wave pool, our three amigos had seem to find us again. They were doing flips, wrestling, and typical dumb boy things. My girl and I just wanted to scope the area for some hotties and soak up the Italian summer sun. Taking cute pictures is necessary when you're on a girls' trip and I had just the idea. “How about you ask those guys to take our picture?” I proposed. They were clearly checking us out, so why not, I thought. My friend goes up to “my guy” (the one I claimed from the concession stands) and he walks up to us. I was nervous and anxiously looked away, pretending to do something very important with my flip-flops. Then I looked up and I saw him, looking back, down at me. Wow, looks a lot better this close-up, was my immediate reaction. “Hi,” I shyly remarked. “Hey,” he said sheepishly. We took our pictures at the pool (might I add he took like incredibly good shots). “Thank you, what's your name?” “Mr. Noodle” (not really but for privacy's sake this will be his name “What?” “Mr. Noodle” “....” I attempted… “No, ____, but you can just call me Jeff”. Jeff…. I couldn’t understand much of what he said, but his sweet little accent was music to my ears. “Want to hang out with us?” he asked. My friend and I looked at each other, we didn’t have much better things to do, and that’s where Jeff and I began…

Jeff was 21, originally from Eastern Europe but his parents left him to move to the UK. He worked right by the Trevi fountain and was well-known on social media for it. He lived with his grandparents until he was 16 when they died. He’s been living alone ever since… My heart felt for him. So alone at such a young age. He must be lonely, I thought. He must feel abandoned, just like I do. I must be able to love him back to life… I wished.

In a matter of 2 months, I fell in love with a 21-year-old at the age of 27. This was definitely not how I expected things to go. We hooked up the first night we met, which I’d never done before (when in Rome, as they say). He picked me up in his cute Italian Cooper and took me to a rooftop view of the city. I looked up and at that moment I felt alive. I felt young and naive and wreckless, in the best possible way. It was impulsive, it was gullible, and it was everything I’d dreamt it would be. We kissed on the park bench and there were negative sparks. He held me and called me Lorena. It felt so nice to be hugged, touched, kissed, and admired. Even though I was just in a relationship, it was a while since I had felt a connection or any semblance of intimacy. Jeff bought us food at one of his favorite restaurants. Even though he makes significantly less money than I do, he paid. He seemed sweet, thoughtful, playful, and cute. He was growing on me. I invited him back to my place because I wanted to spend more time with him and see where the night went. He comes to my Airbnb, we go to my bedroom. He lays on my bed and I lay on top of him. I look at him, he looks at me. We stare at each other and we both start laughing. We know what we're doing but we don’t want to say it. “Would you like to have sex?” Yes, I’m very blunt. This tends to catch a lot of dudes off guard. I’ll save you the details but we went on to have the most ecstatic, mind-blowing, hot, passionate, sex I have ever experienced in my 27 years on this earth. I guess all it took was for me to leave the country and go to another continent with a man who doesn’t speak the same language as 6 years my junior.

I’m not saying what I did was right. I don’t condone this behavior although I am guilty of it. But I don’t regret a single second of our encounter that night. Because at that moment, with this stranger, I felt empowered, I knew what it felt like to have pleasurable, mutually enjoyable intercourse rather than feeling continually objectified and exploited. Sex that lacked consent. Sex driven by fear, power, obligation, and manipulation. For the first time ever, this person showed me that sex can be equally beneficial for both parties. After, we lay in bed talking until the sun came up. We cuddled, laughed, and cried. He showed me his family, and I learned about where he grew up. He told me about his first heartbreak. My head was on his shoulder, lying naked and completely bare next to him, but I didn’t feel exposed or vulnerable. I felt safe. I felt protected. I felt like this could potentially be a problem.

I saw him every day until I left Rome. Leaving him was incredibly hard because I had no clue if or when I’d ever see him again. Long story short, we stayed in touch, he’d call or text every day and we’d video chat on WhatsApp for hours. He started strong, but as life would have it, he began to fall off as soon as I began to fall in love. He told me he loved me over the summer but I’d slowly learn “Tkam Xhan” is the Albanian way of saying I love you (like a sister). So here I am, falling for someone who only cares for me like a sibling. I fell hard and I fell deep. At this point, I was long gone from a toxic relationship, feeling thankful that’s what it took to finally end the abuse. Now my only issue is the man I’m in love with lives 10 hours away via plane on the opposite side of the world. At some point, things got lost in translation and I assumed he and I were in some sort of long-distance relationship. (He had no clue).

I had planned to visit him in September but after a fight because of TikTok, my trip was canceled 2 days prior. I returned in December, looking to convince him that I’m the one he should cherish forever. By this point, all the red flags could’ve painted a blood bath. There was a part of me that saw the warning signs but confused them with butterflies. He wouldn’t call, he wouldn’t answer texts, he’d disappear and block me for days, sometimes weeks. He mentioned how he hates women and that all girls are sluts. He never wants to be in a relationship again. He doesn’t need anyone but himself. I clearly heard, but I clearly ignored

When I went on my last solo trip I was desperately seeking. Looking to find God knows what. A part of me was missing. I felt empty. I thought the answer was to get as far away from my old life in New York as humanly possible. So I went back to the beginning, where it all started In Rome. Countless fights later and after being left alone on New Year’s Eve, Jeff shattered my heart in a matter of 4 days. He told me he was never in love with me after I confessed my love to him. I left on New Year’s Day with my heart to my knees, knowing if I had an ounce of self-respect in my body, I’d never let that boy see, touch, or hear from me again

Do I think I found what I was looking for on my solo trip? Yes, I do. I think I was looking to find joy, beauty, magic, wonder, inspiration, and awe. I got it all, the connection, the friendship, the love, just not how I originally pictured it. I found the healing but not without the pain, grief, loss, rejection, humiliation, and shame. The strength, courage, and resilience I discovered inside were on the opposite of the loneliness, defeat, regret, and agony. It started with a broken heart in an attempt to find love but ended with me finding the bravery to finally love myself

Now I’m on another flight to Europe, heading straight to Rome. I’ve realized that the purpose of this next voyage is not to seek but to discover. I don’t want to search but instead to find. To attract, rather than chase. To go in with an open, curious mind and allow myself to receive. I’ve been looking for something my entire life, but when does it end? When do I stop begging for crumbs, when do I quit running after people, places, or things that are the bare minimum? What happens when we let go of the need to “get” or achieve something outside of ourselves and pause? When do we allow what wants to find us, to fall into place?

I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, the fighting, pulling, pushing, resisting. I thought I knew what I wanted but what I wanted was not always best for me. I saw the rejection and the nos and the ghosting as signs I wasn’t good enough, something must be wrong with me. And so I felt something was missing inside I could only fix through the outside. But what if everything is falling apart so that better, more aligned things ultimately come together?

As for Jeff, we went through a rough patch of no contact where we were both blocked on each other's phones for weeks. I cried every day for 2 months and swore I didn’t know how I’d get over him. Every song, person, and place reminded me of what could’ve been. Yet here I am, 10 months later and I can truthfully say the feelings have diminished. I’m done waiting for his texts, hoping he calls, staring at old photos, asking myself why. They’re all deleted and the space he occupied in my heart is now open for the possibility of something new. To hold love for the relationship I am cultivating with myself. I still care for him and he might always mean something to me. But the desire to convince him of my worth or trying to get him to see my value has disappeared. We are civil and maybe one day we can be acquaintances. Last year, he was the focus, today my concentration is me. It took a brutal lesson to learn that all along what the universe wanted me to pay attention to was not some boy or job or even some destination. It was trying to get me to uncover all that was in myself. It never had to be bought or changed or won. While I was looking out there it was always here, inside me; eagerly waiting to be found.