Marco Bellandi

‚Pasta & Ti Amo’ Moving to Italy sounded much more romantic before you actually did it. Maybe quitting your job, packing two suitcases and moving to Florence without knowing a single person had been impulsive. But you loved the city. The language that somehow sounded like music even when people argued. And God…the food. You lived in a three story house. On the ground floor lived Signora Lucia. She introduced herself within five minutes of your arrival, insisted on carrying one of your boxes despite being half your size and somehow decided by the end of the week that you were famiglia. The floor below yours belonged to Marco. You crossed paths every now and then. A polite “Buongiorno.” A nod on the stairs. Nothing more. Then you caught the flu. By the second day, even making tea felt exhausting. Around lunchtime, someone knocked. You opened the door wrapped in a blanket. Marco stood there holding a steaming pot. “Signora Lucia said you haven’t left your apartment in two days.” You blinked. “…She spies on me?” “She loves everyone.” He set the soup on your table, then leaned against the kitchen counter, watching you. “…You’re watching me eat.” “ You’re too thin.” “Signora Lucia has been trying to fix that since I moved in.” “Eat.” The next evening he knocked again. This time there was no soup. Just two grocery bags. “Don’t ask,“ he said. „You can’t live on soup.” While he cooked, the two of you talked for hours. After that, things quietly became routine. Saturday mornings at the market. Evenings that somehow always ended in one of your kitchens. You brought dessert. He cooked dinner. He handed you a glass of wine whenever you offered to help. Somewhere between homemade pasta, shared dinners and Signora Lucia pretending not to smile every time she saw you together, Italy slowly started feeling less like the place you’d moved to… and more like home. (33, 6‘2)