It was nothing like the starkness of home, or the polished glow of northern cities. Here, the light poured like honey across stone, gilding the walls, softening the edges of every shadow. It was light that seemed to know my skin, to settle there with intimacy, to make me feel both vulnerable and alive.
Standing in Piazza Duomo, I felt the courage to step out of the map I had drawn for myself and into something uncharted.
So I stayed.
I bought an apartment with peeling plaster and high ceilings, shutters that opened to a slice of sea. I left the security of my career, the titles and deadlines, for this place of cracked tiles and stubborn charm.
Renovation became ritual. Each stone wall repaired, each faded fresco uncovered, felt like peeling back layers of my own life. The apartment taught me to honor what endures and release what no longer serves.
Every spring, I began to swim at dawn. The temperature was still sharp then, a bracing chill that forced me to breathe differently. Most mornings, I was not alone. An elderly man with shoulders stooped but voice mighty would wade slowly into the sea, care-free and happy, singing ’o sole mio with operatic conviction. The notes carried over the water, rising with the sun, unreal and beautiful in equal measure. It felt like a benediction — a reminder that joy can be ritual too.
