I’d been living in Carrara, Italy, for a year and a half. 42% of the population is over 55, and only 7.82% of the residents are foreigners — mostly Romanian, Albanian, African, and a small handful of Brits. So, as you can imagine, meeting English-speaking suitors my age was… a challenge.

I was diligently working on my Italian lessons, but let’s just say it wasn’t my strong suit in the dating game. My last relationship ended in 2018 (see: The Magic Man), and I strongly felt it was time to get back out there — before I became too comfortable sitting at a table for one, starfishing in my king-size bed, and booking holidays solo.

I gave dating in Italy a shot, but honestly? It was a disaster.

The first date wasn’t terrible — we actually went out twice, and it was fun. Until it wasn’t. As I was boarding a train to head home, he suddenly launched his tongue down my throat with no warning, no warm-up, just full-blown shock on my side. I nearly choked and almost missed my train. I’m not a teenager, and apparently, the passionate Italian “romantic” wasn’t quite my long-term vibe.

The second date was with a man who lied about his height, and conveniently forgot to mention his smoking and drinking habits. I’d driven an hour to meet him, only to find myself literally looking down on him — and on his cigarette-stained clothes. I politely declined his invitation for a 2nd date at the end of the evening.. He slammed the car door and drove off in silence.

And then… the final straw. A distressed artist who spent our entire first date listing, in excruciating detail, every diagnosis his therapist had ever given him. He followed that up with a passionate rant about how much he hated people from Liguria — and then broke down the flaws of Italians by region. I finished my Aperol in 3.5 minutes flat and spent the rest of the evening calculating how long I needed to wait before it was polite to escape.

So, needless to say, I decided to explore the landscape, food, and art scene of Italy far more than its men — which, in hindsight, seemed like a much better use of my time.

I got fit. I got healthy. And I became really good at spending time alone — a skill I’d never truly finessed until then. In fact, it became something I started to treasure.

Many of my adventures from that season of life are scattered across the pages of this blog — from The Pulse of Paris to travel with tashels. Each one a little love letter to the freedom, flavor, and unexpected joy that comes with choosing yourself.

I’d been sent home from work for a minor medical procedure — surgery to remove a cyst on my ovary — and was officially signed off duty for a while. That meant I was housebound, not quite in pain, but with limited ability to move around freely.

So there I was: couch-bound, comfort-dressed, with plenty of time to watch romantic comedies and, inevitably, think about my ovaries. It struck me — maybe it was time to start dating again.

So, I did what every self-respecting modern woman does in a moment like this: I (re)downloaded Hinge and Bumble — apps I had downloaded and deleted at least a dozen times that year alone. But this time, I made myself a promise: set up three dates in quick succession and just get back out there.

So I began exercising my thumb, swiping left, occasionally right, making instinctual judgement calls on who looked promising and who… didn’t. It didn’t take long before I had three dates lined up over four days. Apparently good practice for people with my attachment style (yup! years of therapy).

I’d been doing a lot of work on myself since my last long-term relationship — the kind of deep, uncomfortable, transformative work that doesn’t come with fairy lights and bubble baths. And for the first time in a long time, I felt genuinely ready to open my heart again.

That relationship had taught me a lot. About love. About boundaries. About what I would no longer settle for.

So, with a cautiously optimistic heart, I wondered… could I attract an emotionally available man? Lol. Every woman’s dream, right? Forget Prince Charming on a white horse — I’d be happy with a grown man who’s been to therapy and knows how to hold space without freaking out.

Date One was great. We chatted for ages, and I genuinely had a good time. It felt more platonic from my side, but the guy was really great — kind, articulate, emotionally intelligent. And yes, the conversation definitely veered into emotional territory (cue silent cheer of hope!). Progress.

Date Two wasn’t quite as promising. He was open, sure, and definitely not afraid to discuss his feelings. Unfortunately, he was also not afraid to discuss his ex-wife — a lot. I felt for him, truly. But it was clear this wasn’t going to roll into a second date.

And then there was with a man who had a gorgeous profile picture. Greek, charming bio, intriguing answers — the kind of profile that made me pause. I broke my usual rule with him: we ended up chatting far more on Hinge than I normally allow before agreeing to meet.

And then… he went quiet.

Grrr. Another one bites the dust?

But then he messaged — he’d just moved back to Cape Town and was setting up his apartment. Reasonable enough. I forgave the radio silence (mostly) and agreed to meet for dinner. He still seemed super interesting, and I was curious.

By the time Saturday evening rolled around, I wasn’t feeling great. The fatigue from surgery was still lingering, and I seriously considered cancelling. But something in me was intrigued. He was the date I’d been most excited about.

So, I fought the urge to crawl into bed, pulled together a cute outfit (approved by my sister, of course), and made my way to Bree Street — to one of my favourite sushi spots, Tomo.

I stepped out of the car feeling strangely unphased about how the evening would go. I wasn’t pinning anything on it. In fact, I was just happy to be back in the buzz of the city — the music spilling out onto the streets, the hum of people on a Saturday night, the comfort of familiar cobblestones under my shoes.

I walked down Shortmarket Street and slipped into the corner entrance of the restaurant.

The waitress greeted me with a smile and a small nod, then led me to a table tucked away at the back, nestled under a bookshelf. It was warm, intimate — and glowing with candlelight.

And there, lit up by that flickering flame, was the smiliest face I have ever seen.

This was the man I was meeting? Wait — does this even happen?! He was (is) gorgeous.

As he saw me, the smile got even bigger, he stood, gave me a hug and I sat down opposite him. From there, the conversation did not stop. The waitress came over to us at least ten times before I finally ordered a glass of a favorite local wine. We kept chatting, sharing stories, laughing, this felt so good. so easy. The waitress came back to tell me there was only 1 glass of the wine I had chosen, without even thinking or consulting my date, I said, “It’s fine, we will share”. She walked away and then I laughed and said to Pantelis, “I am sorry I didn’t even ask”, he laughed and he said, “I loved that.”

I don’t remember eating the sushi. I don’t remember sipping the wine. What I do remember is the waitress quietly approaching our table — gently asking if we could settle the bill because the staff were all gathered at the entrance, ready to go home.

I do remember walking back to my car in a kind of daze, the night warm around me, the city still humming softly. I remember the kiss — passionate, new, and exciting.

And I remember driving home, smiling and thinking:

“Wow… what was that?”