So you moved to Italy. Very cute.

You came for the Dolce Vita.

Sun on your face,pasta in your belly,a photo with an Aperol – that was the plan.You told your friends: “I’m starting over.”

Now it’s been three weeks – and the Wi-Fi still doesn’t work.You’ve been to the post office four times and each one felt like a social experiment.You need a tax number just to exist.Six photocopies of your passport – for what, exactly?And everyone takes a break right when you show up.

Italy isn’t rolling out a red carpet.It’s rolling its eyes. And taking a nap.

But here’s the thing:You slowly start to get it.

You stop asking why everything’s slightly off.You learn when to fight,when to shrug,and when to just quietly sip your espresso.

You feel weirdly proud when you find good tomatoes.You know which bar makes the best cappuccino.You start calling it “my piazza” – even if it’s not yours yet. But soon.

This isn’t the Italy from a brochure.It’s the real thing.Messy.Slow.Beautiful in its own chaotic way.

And one day,it will feel like home.Not because it was easy.But because you earned it.