“Do you want to come over now?”
It was 10pm at night and I thought, for sure, my last minute, wine fueled plea for attention would be met with reasons why it was not possible.
“Yes. Where are you staying?’
“Trastevere,” I immediately began to question my decision but when in Rome, right?
“I’m going to shower. I can be there by 11:30. Is that too late?”
It usually would have been too late but this was Italy. Everything runs late.
We had been talking for months but hadn’t actually met. He had tried but I hadn't adjusted to Italian culture and refused to acquiesce to his previous attempts at last minute plans. We don’t do that in the US. American women consider it disrespectful and lazy. In Italy, while it might be lazy, it is certainly not meant to be disrespectful.
Most things in Italy are lazy, chaotically unplanned and a bit wine-fueled, so I figured my own last minute request meant I was starting to fit in.
The truth is I had called him because I was feeling a bit melancholy and needed a distraction. I was acutely aware of all my unhealed relationship trauma and, while I had no intention of subjecting him to any of it, I needed something meaningful that night. Or maybe, I needed something meaningless.
I strolled Trastevere’s lively, cobblestone streets to kill time. Rome was coming back to life after lockdown and the streets were buzzing with excitement and tangible relief. Some normalcy had returned for everyone and the collective exhale was palpable.
My phone buzzed, “I’m here. Need to find parking.”
I made my way down the stairs and to the alleyway outside my apartment. Standing in front of me was a tall, light haired, well dressed Italian man. I wasn’t expecting him to be so tall. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered.
A kiss on the cheek, the right and then the left and I immediately felt comfortable with him.
“Finally, you called,” he said playfully. “I was thinking you had forgotten about me.”
I didn’t realize it at the time but this was the beginning of my indoctrination into a crucial lesson in Italian dating culture. You see, nothing in Italian dating culture makes any sense until you grasp this one, fundamental fact: in Italy, it’s not the men who are in charge. It’s the women.
I didn’t realize he had been waiting for me to call him. I also didn’t know and would not find out until much later that he had traveled an hour to see me that night.
“What would you like? Would you like to get a drink?” he inquired.
Italian men cater to women.
“Sure a drink sounds good,” I replied, still unaware of the need to give him some direction.
“Do you have a place you like?”
“No, I’m not too familiar with the area yet.”
“OK, I find one for us.” I linked my arm in his and off we went down the streets of Trastevere.
We talked for hours that night. We spoke of the impending war in Ukraine, cultural differences and lockdown in Italy. I liked that he was capable of deep, intellectual conversation. Somehow, in spite of the language barrier, he was easy to talk to. He was Roman, born and raised. A well dressed, Italian Libra. I felt very American in my jeans, Keds and simple navy, cashmere sweater.
He had lost his mother to cancer and I had lost my grandfather the same way. We bonded over our mutual tragedy.
As we strolled back to my apartment, I was acutely aware of two things: 1.) I was comfortable with him. Perhaps too comfortable. 2.) I was wholly unprepared to catch feelings for anyone. I had gone seeking distraction and what I had found was connection.
That night when he kissed me deeply and passionately in that Trastevere alleyway, I felt something inside of me began to heal. His hand grasped my neck, as if to say, “you are mine and nothing else exists in this moment except for us” and every inch of my body agreed.
Italian men may be lazy, chaotic and never on time but they are experts at being in the moment. In that cobblestone alleyway he kissed away every worry and anxiety I had, grounding me fully into my body and into the moment.
And I let him.