It’s that time of year when the girlies—delirious from transitional weather and emotional instability induced by 47-degree mornings—ignite the group chats.
“Where can we go?”
“Somewhere warm.”
“Somewhere not here.”
The air is confused. My wardrobe is confused. The forecast is playing hard to get. The weather is as noncommittal as a fluffy-haired finance man who “doesn’t like labels.” Meanwhile, my bedside table has become a small apothecary of antihistamines and unmet potential.
Naturally, I’ve been cheating on the present with the past.
As I casually refresh Google Flights (purely for sport, obviously), I find myself drifting back to a land far, far away… where the carbs were fresh, the wine was reckless, and the men made direct eye contact.
Italy.
It is the year of our Lord 2025. I am days away from defending my dissertation—oscillating between intellectual powerhouse and girl who might cry in the Publix parking lot. Graduation looms. The future is foggy. My bank account is anemic.
Every spare dollar from my deeply unserious part-time paycheck has been funneled in preparation for a two-week pilgrimage across northern Italy. Milan. Florence. Bolzano. Rome. I had an itinerary so organized it could’ve passed peer review.
What I did not have?
Any idea that I was about to enter my full cinematic era.
You know the one. Wind in the hair. Gelato in hand. Vespa-adjacent. A soundtrack swelling somewhere in the distance.
Yes. That Lizzie McGuire moment.
As I would soon discover, this is, in fact, what dreams are made of.
What? You thought my city escapades began in Manhattan?
Silly girl.
I was flirting with fate in Florence long before I ever swiped downtown.
Exhibit A: Bolzano
Several days into our Italian escapade, I did what any exhausted, altitude-high, prosecco-softened woman would do.
I surrendered my Hinge to Madison.
Her credentials? Impeccable.
Just eight hours earlier, Sarah and I were crouched behind the iron gate of our hotel like Victorian widows, watching Madison get whisked away by a man named Maximillian for “a quick tasting” at his vineyard.
Babes.
He did not have a vineyard.
He had vineyards. Plural. Rolling. Endless. The kind that require generational wealth and an accent to maintain. As we stalked her location like responsible friends, it became clear Sir Max was less “small-batch hobbyist” and more “accidental Tuscan oligarch.”
And the pectorals.
Even under the cloak of night, they gleamed. Michelangelo himself could not have carved such symmetry. When she returned flirty and flustered, I knew it wasn’t from the Sangiovese.
Thus, I ceded my swipes to Miss Keith in hopes she might secure me my own Renaissance man.
—
Fast forward: one day on the slopes, one irresponsible serving of champagne (fine, several), and the girlies had established a full glam headquarters inside our hotel bathroom to prepare me for Andrea.
Blonde. Blue-eyed. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass—or at least a few ski slopes.
Clothing flew through the air. Three suitcases disgorged their contents in sacrificial offering. Ski chic? European ingénue? “Accidentally breathtaking”?
First impressions in Italy feel less like an introduction and more like destiny auditioning you. I needed to look… castable.
I had barely escaped my ski pants when the notification buzzed.
“Ciao bella. Here.”
Here?
Here where?
My mother had explicitly forbidden nocturnal wanderings with foreign men. I have seen Taken. I understand Liam Neeson’s skill set. And yet. There are only so many moments in one’s little life when a man in an all-black Porsche materializes and invites you to parade through the Italian countryside under the promise of a kiss.
I chose cinema. Sue me.
After prancing through the town square (thank God I wore flats), we ducked into a dim little bar that smelled faintly of citrus and poor decisions.
My Italian may be non bene, but I quickly understood Andrea’s local ranking by the parade of slender, luminous women who drifted past our table to kiss both of his cheeks.
Once? Fine.
Twice? Cultural.
Six times? Concerning.
Perhaps it was the Aperol blooming in my bloodstream, or perhaps it was pride beginning to itch at the back of my neck, but once we politely eliminated the bar’s spritz inventory, I quickly accepted his invitation to continue to dinner.
At his place.
Now.
I know what you’re thinking.
But by that hour we had crossed the Rubicon of good judgment and were somewhere deep in the province of “let the story write itself.”
Also, he had a terrace. And I was in desperate need of a breeze and a carbohydrate.
—
In Manhattan, dinner on the first date is borderline matrimonial. In Bolzano, apparently, it is entirely reasonable to materialize a four-course meal in the blink of an eye.
He cooked.
Porchetta, glistening and indecent.
Tiramisu, airy and suggestive.
More spritzes than medically advisable.
Hand-rolled cigarettes curling into the alpine night.
I wish I could recount the entirety of our escapade, but the evening dissolves into a hazy montage of laughter, terrace air, and me pretending I understood far more Italian than I did.
At some point, I reappeared—like a disoriented duchess—back in our hotel room. Sans Andrea.
Alas, arrivederci.
—
I would have slept until Florence had I not heard my name being spoken like an incantation.
I cracked one eye open.
Sarah stood over me.
Behind her? Two Italian men. Not one. Two.
“This is Alberto. And this is Jacopo… Jacob.”
Now.
One can attempt to prepare for life’s many twists.
But waking up in coordinated pajamas, hair feral, dried Aperol crystallized on my cheek, to find two of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen standing at the foot of my bed?
That was not on my 2025 vision board.
“We found them outside”, Sarah explained.
Of course you did.
Who am I to question divine timing?
—
As it turns out, Alberto and Jacopo were not merely ornamental. They were charismatically charming gentlemen of the highest caliber.
I had hardly registered the sunrise before we were clinking espresso doppios in a desperate attempt to outrun the champagne we apparently kept running into.
Where had the time gone?
I anxiously eyed our train ticket.
Five minutes.
One mile.
Three suitcases.
Cobblestones engineered by medieval sadists.
Under normal circumstances, I am serenity embodied.
On this morning, I was a throbbing headache with a passport.
But before panic could fully take hold, Alberto and Jacopo quietly paid the forgotten tab, hoisted our collective baggage like Roman heroes, and guided us through the labyrinthine streets with expert precision.
We arrived with seconds to spare.
As the train doors slid shut, I watched them standing on the platform—sunlit, steady, impossibly composed.
Italy, it seems, does not believe in subtlety.
Neither, apparently, do I.
Exhibit B: Rome
After successfully securing an Italian oligarch with a few princes to spare, Madison’s confidence in her matchmaking abilities began to significantly outpace her logistical judgment.
Which is how I found myself in a crowded Irish bar in the middle of Rome, slowly circling the establishment like a nervous gazelle trying to avoid an accidental summit between the two men she had, apparently, promised my hand to.
Luckily, it did not take long to eliminate contestant number one.
After refusing to sit with my friends, I ended up paying the tab myself just to escape his grip, which (shockingly) kept trying to pull me outside like a suspiciously determined fisherman.
Freedom secured, I called a cab.
That’s when Andy appeared.
“Are you… Brucie?”
For a tan, hazel-eyed, curly-haired Roman policeman, I can be anything you want.
He was polite enough to let Madison and Sarah trail behind as we made our way, naturally, to yet another Irish bar.
Perhaps it was the badge. Perhaps it was the fact that they were exhausted from refereeing the musical chairs of men Madison had orchestrated. Either way, the girlies decided I was perfectly safe in Andy’s broad, capable hands.
After all, Madison had secured herself a date who was waiting in the queue.
I had somehow traded a Porsche for a cop car. But at least this time I wasn’t behind bars.
Not quite my Lizzie McGuire moment.
But close enough.
—
As it turns out, having the law on your side comes with certain perks.
With a brief flash of lights for dramatic effect, we arrived at the Roman ruins.
Which ruins, exactly?
Who’s to say.
After midnight, all Aphrodites start to look the same.
I was preparing to embark on an archaeological expedition through the park, high heels in tote, when suddenly I was quite literally swept off my feet.
And once again, I could not help but notice the bulging trap muscles that had apparently become my handlebars for the evening.
What in Zeus’ name do they put in the water there?
I’m sure Andy was giving a very informative tour. Truly. A wealth of Roman history was probably unfolding before me.
Unfortunately, the language barrier, and my inability to focus on anything other than his shoulders, made it difficult to absorb the educational component.
We could have been wandering through the Seven Wonders of the World and I would not have noticed.
The only thing I remember is his uncanny ability to alternate between “Brucie” and “bella” in between stolen kisses under the Roman sky.
I wish I could say I gagged writing that.
But sadly…
It really was that romantic.
—
After a night that could have been written by Shonda Rhimes herself, complete with multiple romantic leads, questionable transportation, and at least one dramatic lighting situation, the girlies and I awoke to the final night of our Italian tour.
Our resources were…limited.
Pockets empty. Dignity dwindling. Electrolytes nonexistent.
Naturally, we did what any intelligent, worldly women would do.
We wandered the streets of Rome until we found a dive bar.
A pizza or two and several glasses of wine later, the neon haze and €2 specials felt like divine intervention. The kind of place where the floor is sticky, the lighting is criminal, and you can feel your immune system negotiating with God.
Unfortunately, after fourteen days of sustained Italian indulgence, our wallets were beginning to resemble historical artifacts.
Thus.
I approached the bar and batted my eyelashes to the best of my ability.
After a round or two of something called porno shots (no further information available), meant to keep the table sufficiently lubricated, I struck up a conversation with the bartender.
Our only hope.
Even through the post-pizza haze, I could tell Gian Marco was a sight for sore eyes. Tan. Blue eyes. Tattoos. Suspiciously symmetrical. The kind of man who looks like he might casually lean against a Vespa in a perfume commercial or more likely ruin your life during a summer fling.
What we discussed remains unclear.
But somewhere between several under-the-counter tequila shots and an alarming amount of eye contact, he produced a ring and proposed.
“I finish work at 2:45,” he said. “I show you the city.”
It was 11 p.m.
Our final night in Rome.
And I, a woman of great emotional restraint and personal discipline, immediately decided I would wait.
Gian Marco could have told me he got off next year and I would have stayed seated at that bar like Penelope awaiting Odysseus.
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
But I was prepared to fall in love in one.
Sadly, despite the mysterious beverages I continued sending to Sarah and Madison from across the bar, I could see the night beginning to fracture. Surrounded by a cackle of Dutchmen (?), they had already begun organizing our next move.
I swore to Gian Marco that I would find him in this life and the next.
We sealed our pact with a shot and a cigarette rip.
The night was not over.
—
After being forcibly removed from the presence of the love of my life, I reunited with Sarah and Madison outside, where they had secured transportation to our next location.
Piggybacks.
To public transit. Not quite a park, but it’ll do.
Yes. They had acquired a Dutchman for each of us.
Sadly, I could tell the sweet little Dutch boy was unlikely to carry me back to Gian Marco when the clock struck 2:45.
But hope is a powerful drug.
My mother always says the Lord protects children and fools.
And that night we were both.
At some point we disembarked.
Perhaps this was our stop.
Perhaps the ticket agent was beginning to suspect that three American women and a handful of Dutchmen had no earthly idea what they were doing.
The truth will never be known.
Suddenly: strobe lights.
We had arrived to every Euro club you’ve ever imagined. Multiple DJs. Bottle service. Visibility approximately two feet.
Sarah and I took one look at each other in the bathroom mirror and reached the same conclusion simultaneously.
We must leave immediately.
One deeply humiliating €70 Uber later, we collapsed back into the sanctity of our hotel.
The next morning I woke to our flight notification.
And seven missed calls from Gian Marco.
In hindsight, I learned several important lessons in Italy.
First, never let Madison run your Hinge. Or maybe do?
Second, always say yes to a terrace.
Third, if a bartender named Gian Marco offers to show you Rome at 2:45 a.m., you clear your schedule.
Italy, it turns out, is a place that rewards appetite—in food, in wine, in romance, in stories that sound slightly unbelievable when you tell them later.
I may have returned home with an empty wallet, a mild Aperol dependency, and one unfinished love story in a Roman dive bar.
But if that’s the price of living a little?
Consider it paid.
Until next time my loves!
xx, B
I’m so glad this video lives on…
47?! You mean 27?!