Baby don't you break my heart slow

So, you've seen "Under the Tuscan Sun."

(I make this assumption, by the way, because EVERY random stranger I run into who discovers that I live in Italy makes the completely asinine observation, "oooh, just like Under the Tuscan Sun!")

You know the scene where she meets the guy, has the whirlwind romance, then leaves only to return and find that maybe "he just wasn't that into her"?

That's the classic American Girl/Italian Boy ill-fated summer romance story. He wines and dines and kisses her, her heart runs away with her head, and she believes there's more there than there is. When she returns, he's in someone else's arms.

And every now and again, the story goes the opposite way.

He was beautiful and kind, with eyes you could get lost in and curly salt-and-pepper hair. They met at a classical music concert. He spoke (absolutely) no English. He seemed to understand her still-somewhat-broken Italian. He took pains to help her with verbs. For the entirety of a week, they were inseparable. He whipped up amazing pastas in her kitchen. They watched the full moon rise together, drinking much too much Brunello. They broke wine glasses and laughed. He read her palm and told her mysteriously to be careful of her ankles. He called her "bella," often, touching her cheek as if she were a porcelain doll. He read to her from persian philosophy books, in Italian, taking pains to explain the allegories when she didn't understand. It was by all measures the perfect first week of a relationship.

He insisted on driving her the two and a half hours to the Rome airport when she had to leave. She said she would send postcards, and she did. He sent text messages, full of kisses and wishes.

And towards the end of the summer, she returns. Only, it's not the same.

Because she has realized:

That it's sexy to be talked to in Italian, but not so much to feel like you're not actually communicating meaningfully.

That kisses should feel more like the opening act of a ballet and less like the opening shots in a battle.

The importance of a shared reality.

That her life's rules exist for a reason.

That the game really can change overnight.

That drawing something out when you know it's going nowhere is the worst combination of cruel and lazy.

That sometimes the fairytale doesn't look like you expected it might.

The difference between Mr. Right Now and Mr. Right.



And precisely two full moons later, she makes her own pasta, opens herself a bottle of wine, and drinks a toast in the solitude of the waning summer sunlight. To waiting for Mr. Right. And she quietly hopes that the socialized Italian medicine system has effective treatments for a broken heart.

He'll bounce back. It's what Italians do.
And she ... she will practice being alone but not lonely. It seems to be what she does best.