In early September, my partner, our dog, and I moved to Rome.

It’s such a simple sentence to contain so much: months of waiting and of frantic action, of intense excitement and of fragility, the sense that it could all fall apart and that this thing we’d been acutely hoping for could fail to materialize. Throughout it all, there was a sense of unreality: was this really happening? Were we truly planning to pack up all our possessions, leave behind our flat and our friends and our lives, and move to Italy?

We’re here now, but in many ways the sense of unreality remains. Our first week, as we explored different neighborhoods and searched for apartments, we kept turning to each other and saying, “We live here!” It was and remains a way to ground ourselves, to claim this new space and place.

One of the other ways is through food. It exasperates me sometimes, how I need to keep caring for this body of mine, providing it sustenance three (at least) times a day, but it is also a way to anchor myself in the present. Nothing makes you feel reality like needing to go to the grocery, or cook a meal, or eat it.

We’re staying in an Airbnb as we look for a more permanent home. While the kitchen is perfectly adequate, it’s a bit small and sometimes challenging. The stove burners are finicky. The refrigerator temperature was set too high and kept freezing our salad greens (if you’ve never had frozen arugula, there’s a reason for that: it isn’t good). There’s only one cutting board and little counter space on which to place it.

Befitting the space, the meals we’ve prepared have been simple: faro with sautéed eggplant and tomatoes, pasta with broccoli rabe and spicy sausage, fish curry with rice. Still, it’s enough to nourish us, and to allow us to act—until we truly feel—as though we’re at home.

* Originally posted on social media on 22 September 2023.