I am selling my things, packing up and going back to Italy. I spent three glorious months there, eating, sleeping, and riding on the back of the bicycle belonging to a handsome Italiano. And it really got me. Italy is a king among men.

I returned to California two weeks ago, pretty much kicking and screaming. There are things to be done here in the homeland that cannot, unfortunately be done through the shared technologies of Internet and phone. I need to sell my car, manage my things, and say my goodbyes. I need to uproot myself, this time with the intention to stay for a significant amount of time. I am going on a journey. A journey that will involve eating all of the spaghetti al pomodoro that I can find in Italy and perhaps, in time, find the best love.

It began almost four months ago. I was preparing to go on a study abroad program through the local community college to be in Florence, Italy, learning Italian. I was excited to be traveling abroad again to expand my mind. I had done a three-month stint in Brasil, learning Portuguese and falling in love. After two and a half years of a lovely (though long-distance) relationship with a Brasileiro, in which I traveled to Brasil four times (he couldn’t get a visa to the U.S.), we called it quits. Mutually and amicably, though incredibly sadly. Country borders and visa restrictions make love a very difficult pursuit (as does a lifelong fear of real commitment). It was difficult, but I believe things happen for a reason, albeit a reason that may not be clear at the time.

My mind had been awakened by the program, by studying a new language in the country where it is spoken. Wanderlust was ignited. And in time, after living with one foot constantly out the door (of wherever I was), I was finally feeling done with the beautiful city where I went to college and that I called home for 6 years. So with this sense of moving on, I set out into the world, toward a boot-shaped haven to try again. And two days before leaving, I got sick. A cold, I thought. I boarded the airplane with a patchwork group of students, heading towards the same program, but with different fates.

I felt terrible on the trip, though excited. I sat next to a man whose pores were frothing with alcohol. We used a really great airline company, with luxury all the way. But I just focused on calming my churning insides. We landed in Munich, and went on to Florence. Wine was served as a complimentary beverage on the plane, and though I couldn’t fully enjoy it, I felt like a whole new world was opening up to me. When we finally landed in Italy on Sunday night the 8th of June, we were exhausted and happy. And we had no idea what was in store for us except the magic of possibility.

We took vans to our arranged accommodations, preparing to arrive at school at 9am the next morning. I was living with a new friend whom I had taken Italian 1 and 2 with, though we really, barely knew each other. We lived above another student from our program, and a few doors down from “the ladies”-the name we gave to the little triad of a woman, her daughter, and granddaughter. The street was lined with trees and on the top of a hill. We couldn’t see much however, night having that effect on vision. But we packed into our places, perhaps a little worn for the wear, but excited to be starting a new chapter of life. I was coughing up a lung, so to speak. Very, very exhausted, and very sick, I walked into my new lodging for the next month with my friend Capelli Rossi (C.R. for short). It was a great apartment with two big rooms and a kitchen, and a bathroom that had a showerhead stuck to the wall in the middle of the room, blocked from the sink by a worn shower curtain that didn’t go all the way to the floor. The shower drain was in the center of that floor, and the toilet was on the other side of the makeshift shower.

We went off to our respective beds to catch a wink before starting school. I set the alarm on my watch, for a bright and early 7am (and feared oversleeping). Luckily (?), I coughed all night, and managed to only get some sleep the last couple of hours before dawn broke and found me wide-eyed and ready. As the sun shone into my huge window (screenless), I saw the light, so to speak. Illuminated by day, the area we were living in was even more beautiful than the previous night had been. We were situated directly across from a very green garden of a beautiful home. I was in the room directly above the street (our own street in Italy!), and therefore caught all of the street noise, which I love. As a Leo, I like to be in the mix of things, seeing who’s coming and going and calling up to the window. As a deep sleeper, I opted to take the noisy room so C.R. could sleep soundly in the room at the back. Morning in Italy is glorious. That morning in Italy was life-changing. C.R. and I both felt it. It felt like home.

We walked to school, stopping along the way to gather up our fellow students (and neighbors). As we reached The Ladies’ apartment, we knocked on their street level kitchen shutter, as we would almost every morning for the next month, and found them in pajamas enjoying breakfast, and not ready (also, as we would find them every morning for the next month). So, accompanied by our new friend, the Car Salesman, we mapped our way to school. And we were like kids in a candy shop, grabbing on to every experience as if it were the last of its kind, and devouring it with a gleeful relish. Look at the street! Look at that tree! Wow! A fruit and vegetable stand! Look at this day! We’re in Italy! I was, of course, coughing horrendously through this, barely taking the time to breathe, but even so, it was magnificent.

Arriving at school, we excitedly chattered with our fellow students, finding out who was living where and with whom, and how the first night had gone. Then we proceeded to our Orientation, where we took a placement exam to see what level we should be in. I was in bad shape, hacking and gagging and trying not to be rude while the director was speaking. And then I saw a beautiful man. I commented to our group leader about this man, as a side note. After finishing the orientation, we went off to begin a city tour of the most famous sights of Florence, which is packed with history, art and beauty. The tour ended halfway through, due to the sheer exhaustion of the students, and also my near-death coughing fits. C.R. and I went with our group leader, whom I shall call Capelli Grigi, and had lunch at one of her favorite restaurants in Florence.

Time is different in Italy. There is a distinct quality about it, as it moves more slowly than in America. There is time to savor. Time to chat with friends over a nice meal, or glass of wine. Time to sit at the top of the city gazing out over the bridges at sunset. Time to enjoy forming words, speaking a language. It is a marvelous thing. And over time, we fell more and more deeply in love with that strange country, shaped like a boot.

The first Friday, we were standing at the information desk at school after class as I waited for C.R. to get the information she needed. The director approached, whom I shall call Cazzatore, and tried to assess if I was waiting at the desk for help. “No, I’m just waiting,” I said. I’m not sure exactly how he knew who I was when he mentioned my name, but that was all of the help I needed to spur me towards a flirtation. Then, as we were chatting, it was revealed that we both had stayed in Brasil for a significant time, and he spoke Portuguese as well. Excited, by what I considered a sign, I left school and C.R. and I prepared to go to a little dessert party that Capelli Grigi had organized with some of her Fiorentini friends. At this party, I enjoyed great company, hacking coughs and excitement about this new man.

A long, leisurely weekend followed, which I barely made it through, wondering what to wear that Monday, when I would most likely see Cazzatore again. The excitement was palpable as I walked with C.R. to school. I decided that I ask him to come out with us, and after classes had ended, I remained in school, hoping to see him, with the guise of studying until closing time. Hours later, and about 20 minutes until the school closed, he appeared and I asked him to join some of the students for a soccer game and some beer. He agreed.

Aside from the concern that perhaps he was gay (had I even asked? How rude to assume!) when he showed up with another well-dressed Italian man he introduced as his roommate, the evening went very well. At the end of it, I had deduced that he was indeed straight, single and exceedingly charming. He offered to walk C.R. and I home, and when we reached the apartment, she went inside and we did not. The beginning of something that is puzzling, wonderful and unique.

The month went by too quickly, recovering from what I found out was bronchitis, eating spaghetti everywhere we went (for some reason I craved the hearty simplicity of spaghetti with tomatoes), taking beach trips, riding on the back of a bicycle built for one, and giving in to great fun. As the time neared to leave Italy, C.R. and I realized that we couldn’t. Not yet. It wasn’t just the guy. It was the country, the people, the essence of time. Everything about it felt like home. So we made the decision to extend our stay. She would stay for another month and a half, and I for two months. We set the wheels in motion, a very difficult thing, considering I had to move out of my room back home, pack and move my stuff and get things taken care of from abroad and with the generosity of friends and family. I couldn’t have done it without C.R., and all the people who pushed me to chase the dream, no matter how difficult it was to do.

Three months seemed like a second, and a lifetime. Three months of laughter, joy, working odd jobs, eating spaghetti (it still hasn’t gotten old), and enjoying life. And yet I had to come back to the States. There were and are things to be done. I came back, kicking and screaming, but I came back. I was ready to turn around and hop the first plane back to my boot-country the second I landed. I am ready now. I still have two months until I am set to depart. I need a visa, some money and to know that I am closing the door to this past properly. I don’t know where I will end up. I don’t know if love will last. I don’t know if I will find the best spaghetti or love in Italy. I don’t know anything more than I want to do this more than I have wanted anything in my life before. And I am making it happen. I will go back to Italy, with a couple of suitcases and the intention of living my life every second the best way I know how. I am taking a chance, going out on a limb and ready to have adventure, whether I should fail and return, broken and scattered or move on to better things. Is the most important decision I will ever make? I want to live in Italy. I will start with 6 to 9 months and go from there. Life will take me where it will, and I will pack my bags, get on that plane, and let it.