Hi!
Here, you'll find the stories that I write for my monthly newsletters. I will continue to add to this page each month as they are released first in my newsletter. If you miss a month, or wonder what happened in the previous section..check here and get yourself caught up! Each section is about 1200 words in length, which translates into roughly an 8-10 minute read. Thanks for following along!
La Bella Vita pt. 1
February 2025
When I think about belonging, I think about the number of times that I have attempted to blend in and feel accepted. Perpetually an introverted fringe surfer with a deep desire to be liked and do well, I was always looking to be cozy with everyone: be a part of the group, welcomed in by the "mean girls" at school, or become "one of the guys" in the kitchen. On one very specific day, I was trying particularly hard to blend in and pretend that I really belonged. It was the day that the Italian police raided my place of work, searching for employee documentation from each person.
In the middle of a mid-week dinner service, we got a heads up in the kitchen that the Carabinieri had entered the building. Everyone in the room was instantly on edge, but not possibly more than me -- The Canadian Girl with an incomplete visa, without proper paperwork to be legally employed. The small kitchen of the restaurant that I had been working in for a few weeks had two entrances. One from the hallway that led guests from the front door, past the kitchen, around a corner, and out to the al fresco dining room. Another door on the opposite side of the kitchen opened into a small staff courtyard that connected to the rest of the restaurant. My Sous Chef, Marco grabbed my arm and swiftly escorted me out the back entrance of the kitchen, into the little courtyard, and down the hallway where he peeked around a corner, waiting for a clear sight. Once the officers were in the kitchen, he hustled me down a flight of heavy stone steps, that curved with the shape of the building, almost spiraling downwards. How apt. I looked around to see a room I hadn't yet been shown: the chilly antiquated basement that also acted as a wine cellar. Marco whispered for me to stay quiet and stay put. He explained that he wanted to keep me in the building instead of ushering me out the front doors in case more officers were outside patrolling the streets. And certainly I didn't look like I belonged in this posh, historic Roman neighborhood, with my pale complexion, black rubber clogs, and hair that was a mess from working all day in a hot stuffy room that is the industrial kitchen.
I had just landed in Rome a few weeks earlier, so eager to assimilate into this new environment. Act like a local. Walk and talk like a local. But all I wanted in this moment was to make myself completely invisible. I made an attempt at stuffing myself in an empty box, looking around for something I could cover myself with in case the officers came searching through every last corner of the building, for me.
Would I go to jail?
Would I be deported?
Would my family know?
I had fully prepared before I hopped on a plane and landed myself in this beautiful European country. I found an apartment on Kijiji with three other girls. Two from France and one from Lithuania. I took Italian classes and watched Italian TV shows to perfect my conversation skills. I got a visa and sent my resume to every top restaurant within the Rome city limits. But preparing for an interaction with the police and what would surely become the end of my time here was not on my prep list.
I waited in that cold, dimly lit — almost romantically so — cellar for what felt like ages. Looking around at the large stones that made up the walls and the floors and wondered how long they'd be here for. Finally, Marco came to get me and instructed me to change out of my uniform and into my own clothes. I thought I was being sent home to my roommates, where I'd go and instantly reach for a hot shower, probably finding nothing but a cold stream after one of them spent the night dying their hair and rinsing it with warm water until it ran clear. Draining the tank. Instead of being sent home, he put me at a table in the middle of the busy restaurant with a menu, and a glass of water, quietly cautioning me "mimetizzarti" -- try to blend in, or camouflage yourself. At the entrance of the restaurant were framed photos of the dapper looking owners with various celebrities who had dined here: Russel Crowe, James Franco, Madonna! I was 21, in my skater girl era, and had just evaded the police by hiding out in a wine cellar. Blending in, or looking like I belonged was not within the realm of possibilities for me at this time. I sat silently, seated beside an attractive man and woman who were enjoying a date night out, while my life was quietly blowing up behind closed doors. Marco filled the couple in on what was happening and they all had a little laugh together. Just another Wednesday in Rome, I wondered? A server came by often to refill my glass, while I pretended to be immensely interested in the menu.
Before arriving in Italy, I had secured a work visa. However, unsurprisingly, the Italian government functions differently from others and my visa was only half completed in Canada, with the other half of it needing to be done at my port of landing. Since arriving, I had spent weeks going around to every single government office. I went to one office that I was supposed to be at, only for them to tell me to go to a different office on the opposite end of this ancient metropolis. I’d arrive there and find that they only work on Wednesdays from some arbitrary time like 8:35-10:17am, and so I’d have to come back the following week. I took the train and the bus all over the city, spending hours and getting nowhere. Eventually, the father of the owner of the restaurant I had a job at offered to chaperone me around to a few different offices in his tiny, old Fiat. It felt like a Flintstones car. Small. Rickety. I was pretty certain the bottom was going to fall out if we hit the wrong bump. I was thankful for the help, and hopeful that today would be the day that the right public servant would solve all of my problems. But again, we went to several more offices unsuccessfully. They didn’t have what I needed, or I didn’t understand, or they didn’t understand, and the dad didn’t speak English so he couldn’t translate. I was completely defeated. I think out of desire to cheer me up and show me around, we finished the morning with visiting his friends who owned a wholesale produce store. We pulled up in front of a storefront that was like an urban fruit warehouse. Boxes, 8 feet high, of big, fresh oranges lined the sidewalks. Cases of persimmon and strawberries. Fresh fruits and vegetables as far as the eye could see, packed into this space in the heart of Rome, on a quiet side street that was shaded by the towering stone buildings from the hot October sun.
A few days after the grande, private Fiat tour of the city, and a week after the police raid, I showed up to work. Marco met me in the changeroom and said "mi scusa" -- I'm sorry. "This is just too dangerous. We can't risk having you work here and receiving a fine. Or worse." With a level of pain and sadness in his eyes that only an Italian man can conjure, he handed me a stash of bills for the hours I had worked up until then. He apologized yet again, and let me go. Without proper paperwork, fluent Italian, or knowing anyone local in the city, I was without a job. Without a job, I couldn't afford my rent. Sure, I had saved enough to get me through the first few months. But not the year that I had planned on being here for! I had worked so hard to get here. I was supposed to be "one of them!" I was not willing to turn around and go home at this point.
La Bella Vita pt. 2
March 2025
I let my roommates know that I would be moving out earlier than originally planned. As in 10 months earlier. I was about to become fully immersed in the Italian culture.
On a cold, rainy day in November, my friend and soon-to-be-neighbour Nico came to help me move out. We loaded my too-heavy suitcases down a few narrow flights of stairs and into his old blue 2-door Jeep. A Jeep with a broken gas gauge that required keeping track of how far he’d driven since the last fill up so he’d know roughly when he was getting close to empty. We drove out of Rome and headed South to my new home: a small 2-bedroom apartment that I would be sharing with my boyfriend Jose and his parents, in an ancient little town called Genzano di Roma.
Genzano di Roma is about 30km south of Rome and is part of a cluster of towns in the region known as the Castelli Romani. Genzano sits at the rim of Lago de Nemi, a volcanic lake roughly 5km in diameter. The Pope’s summer home isn’t too far away in Castel Gandolfo on a neighbouring volcanic lake, Lago Albano. The cobblestone main street is full of shops and cafes, each offering their own variety of cheeses, pizza a talgio, Aperol Spritz, fresh pasta and sweets. It is broken up by the town square and fountain in the centre of town, where little old ladies hang around to people watch and gossip. Genzano is in the Lazio region of Italy and is best known for a festival they host every June called Infiorata – “decorated with flowers”. Infiorata dates all the way back to the 1400’s. Over the span of a few days, the original main street is turned into a carpet of artwork created from flower petals. Cases of freshly picked flowers and herbs are brought in and stored out of the summer heat in the expansive network of tunnels beneath the town. Teams of people work throughout the night and day to turn their own section of road into a painting of sorts, depicting various religious scenes. The festival concludes at the end of the weekend with a procession through the artwork. They begin at the top, which is also the entrance to an important church in town. After the religious leaders complete their passing, all of the small children in town race from the top to the bottom, stirring up all of the flower petals and signifying the end to the festival. Genzano di Roma is a special little town with deep history and tradition.
My new home was on the main floor of a low-rise apartment building, in a neighbourhood of buildings that looked nearly identical to each other. All 8-10 units, beige concrete walls and terracotta shingle rooves. The windows all had steel shutters over them that served both as a way of keeping potential intruders out, but also prevented us from baking inside as they blocked the hot summer sun. The main floor apartments had small concrete yards, while the upper levels had little balconies where cigarettes were smoked and laundry was hung. Our apartment was within steps of the front door to the building, and Nico lived directly across the hall with his brother Simone and mom, Maria. We were a 10-minute walk from the bustling centre of town. Jose’s parents welcomed me into their home – although maybe his dad more than his mom. Day by day, my Italian was improving but I never felt ‘Italian enough’ for her. Which shouldn’t be a surprise. Because newsflash: I’m not Italian at all. Giuseppe always had a smile on his face and laughed when I didn’t understand something he rambled on about. I can still hear his rough cackle when I think about it. Daniella always seemed to look frustrated, moving with quick aggressive motions wherever she went, often yelling at the shaggy yellow whining dog to shut up, and chain smoking like it was going out of style. They were my new family, and we lived closely together, sharing their 900 sq ft., single floor home.
Before moving to Italy, I had not only sent my resume to every fine dining establishment in Rome, but I had also gotten the contact information for a few different people with restaurants in other parts of the country. I was confident that sharing an apartment with my boyfriend’s family was going to be a temporary situation and was extremely eager to get a job and get my own place. I searched through my email for the contacts I had made back home, desperate for someone to offer me work. Within a week, I was on the train to Florence to interview for a position at a literal castle in the Tuscan countryside. An Estate that rents out rooms, vacation apartments, and makes their own wine and olive oil. I arrived to sprawling early winter views of mist covered vines, rolling hills, and a restaurant on site. It was an expansive, yellow concrete building with 20ft high ceilings, an enormous hearth in the kitchen, a courtyard for gatherings. Everything of grand scale. Because I was travelling from quite a distance for the interview, the owner provided me with a room to spend the night. Not long after arriving and being shown around, I was made aware that my interview would be to make the family dinner. I’m not classically very good at thinking on the spot, and with very limited supplies, I made one of the most abysmal meals of my life. The potatoes were burnt. The chicken was dry. It was edible, but I was embarrassed. Thankfully, the family didn’t seem too phased and instead of focusing entirely on the food, the conversation switched to my legal status for working as they handed my Passport around the table. I was assured that I could indeed have a job in the kitchen, but that I would need to get my paperwork figured out. “We’re just in too touristy of a destination to risk anything. In the busy season, the police come through here often, searching for documentation. Get your paperwork sorted and we’ll hire you.” Maria explained. Another promising job opportunity, and another time that I would be defeated by the system.
The ride from Florence to Rome felt like an eternity, but I eventually arrived back at my new home. The thing about small towns, especially small towns in social cultures, is that everybody knows somebody. Sometimes that can be overbearing, but other times it can be helpful. Lucky for me, it came in handy more than once. The owner of the jewelry store in town also happened to be a bouncer at a lounge in Rome. And they were hiring servers. I had gone to school for culinary. I spent a year working at the Hilton Amsterdam, getting hours of credible work under my belt. Serving cocktails wasn’t my idea of a dream job, but it was a job that I was being offered, and so I reluctantly took it.
Latte Piu was a strange place to spend my weekends. A cocktail bar inspired by the movie Clockwork Orange. The owner, my boss, was an eccentric man in his mid-40’s who didn’t seem to like me very much, but regardless, continued to hand me cash at the end of every shift. The space was dimly lit in the shade of purple. Provocative paintings and furniture, and naked mannequins filled the room. One head server was in charge of taking orders, while another server, Lorella, and I quickly floated from table to table, delivering patrons their drinks. Lorella was bubbly and outgoing and clearly in her element, while I spent my nights anxiously trying to remember who got what one of the 200+ cocktails on the menu. Trying not to spill any pink martinis on my white jeans – it happened once. Trying not to converse too much with the guests. Trying to stay out of the way when the nightly entertainment began. The Nightly Entertainment. Each night, the owner put on a show of sorts. The first at 11pm, and the second at 1am. It involved blaring classical music over the speakers, while a woman wearing nothing but a thong, stilettos and a huge feather headdress walked through the lounge carrying a very large candle. She would be helped up onto a platform where she stood stoically, while the owner roller skated around like he was performing for the Olympics. He was dressed in a black bowler hat, gloves, and a white outfit with black suspenders. Eventually he rolled around to pick up a squeezy bottle of lighter fluid in one hand and a flame in the other. In tandem with the music, he shot streams of fuel onto the marble bar, igniting them into 2ft flames. This went on until he drained multiple bottles, exploding them seldomly, skated back around the room, helped the model off of her platform, and the lights went dark. It was such a bizarre experience to work there, and I was thankful when a new proposition at a bakery closer to home popped up. The bakery was getting the rights to a pizzeria in a busy park for the summer and they needed staff.
Before moving to Italy, I had not only sent my resume to every fine dining establishment in Rome, but I had also gotten the contact information for a few different people with restaurants in other parts of the country. I was confident that sharing an apartment with my boyfriend’s family was going to be a temporary situation and was extremely eager to get a job and get my own place. I searched through my email for the contacts I had made back home, desperate for someone to offer me work. Within a week, I was on the train to Florence to interview for a position at a literal castle in the Tuscan countryside. An Estate that rents out rooms, vacation apartments, and makes their own wine and olive oil. I arrived to sprawling early winter views of mist covered vines, rolling hills, and a restaurant on site. It was an expansive, yellow concrete building with 20ft high ceilings, an enormous hearth in the kitchen, a courtyard for gatherings. Everything of grand scale. Because I was travelling from quite a distance for the interview, the owner provided me with a room to spend the night. Not long after arriving and being shown around, I was made aware that my interview would be to make the family dinner. I’m not classically very good at thinking on the spot, and with very limited supplies, I made one of the most abysmal meals of my life. The potatoes were burnt. The chicken was dry. It was edible, but I was embarrassed. Thankfully, the family didn’t seem too phased and instead of focusing entirely on the food, the conversation switched to my legal status for working as they handed my Passport around the table. I was assured that I could indeed have a job in the kitchen, but that I would need to get my paperwork figured out. “We’re just in too touristy of a destination to risk anything. In the busy season, the police come through here often, searching for documentation. Get your paperwork sorted and we’ll hire you.” Maria explained. Another promising job opportunity, and another time that I would be defeated by the system.