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“Capodimonte?” I offer up my middle name like it’s an envelope of cash New Jersey supers are offered in exchange for first dibs on a nice apartment. Signora Strazza is not impressed. Conor and I follow her up the stairs to the third floor. She fishes for a key on a ring of them she wears around her wrist like a charm bracelet. She unlocks the door of apartment 7.

The furnished studio apartment is a large attic room, decorated to Signora Strazza’s aesthetic. The walls are painted the palest blue, almost white. There’s a prim double bed in an alcove, neatly made with a white coverlet. A set of French doors, propped open, leads to a balcony overlooking the piazza. The organza sheers catch the breeze and flutter inside the apartment like wings. I brush them aside and go out onto the terrace. The view of the town in the last of daylight rolls out like a priceless Aubusson. The town square is empty, making it easy to see the artful pattern of the inlaid stonework that extends to the edge of the piazza.

“Lei piace?” Signora Strazza asks from behind me. “Satisfactory?”

I nod. “Grazie mille, signora.”

Back inside, Signora Strazza shows me the galley kitchen, the alcove, and the bathroom; she’s chattering about the amenities but I’m not listening. My eye is focused on the terrace. The light. The air. The local color of piazza living. This apartment would put the memory of my cellar room behind me for good! And the high-rise in Hoboken? Keep your Hudson River and the Manhattan skyline; I’ve got the mountains, the sea, and Renaissance architecture.

“Ho un appartamento più grande da offrire nella porta accanto,” Signora Strazza offers.

“Signora Strazza says there’s another apartment, a one-bedroom available. Do you want to see it?” Conor asks.

“No. No. I love this. I’ll take it! I want to live here.” I turn to Signora Strazza. “Perfetto!” I assure her.

She shrugs. She leaves the key to apartment 7, my new home, on the dining table.

Before she goes, I offer the bag of chestnuts. “Castagne. Per Lei.”

She takes the sack as a smile crosses her lips. “Grazie, signorina.”

“Prego.”

Conor closes the door behind her. “The chestnuts were a nice touch.”

“Who’s the family in the garden?”

“That’s her son.” Conor shrugs. “I just met Dalia and Alice for the first time with you.”

“Married? Too bad. He’s cute,” I tell him. “I’m starving.”

“Me too. I know a place. Settle in. I have a couple of calls to make. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

The first thing I do is place my passport in the cupboard in the kitchen. Before I snap the leather sleeve shut, I open it and look at the circular red stamp awarded to me upon my entrance to Italy. I have arrived.

I lift my suitcase onto the bed in the alcove and unzip it. I hang my good jacket, dress, and coat in the closet. I take my toiletries into the bathroom. I’m glad I bought the good stuff at Nordstrom’s autumn blowout. A fresh start begins with self-care. (Thanks, Dr. Rhoda.) The last time I bought this many new toiletries was when I packed for Rutgers. I line up the pretty containers on the glass shelf over the sink as if they’re on display in a posh boutique. I run the bath. Steaming-hot water pours out of the faucet and into the four-legged white marble tub.

A stack of fresh white towels is folded on a stool next to the tub. I return to the main room to finish unpacking. Shoes on the rack in the bottom of the closet. New undergarments and pajamas in the bureau. Keeping things simple will be the foundation of my new Italian life.

I place the snacks in the kitchen cabinet. I take my phone into the bathroom and set it on the shelf. I need a clock. Instinctively I go to dial my mother’s number, to tell her that I landed safely. I remember they’re on the Island, so I text my sister and brother instead.

I’m here. Carrara. Bellissima. All is well.

I slide the phone back onto the shelf and undress. I sink into the hot water in the tub. Every muscle in my body releases its tension after the long flight and drive from Milan. I wash my hair and rinse it. I run my fingers through my clean hair. Hallelujah. My hair agrees with the water in Italy. The soft water soothes me. The tub is so large, I practically float in the bubbles.

I wanted a marble bathtub like this my whole life. I will write in my journal later, but while I’m partially submerged, I remember when Bobby Bilancia found our first apartment.

“You’re gonna lovethis place.” Bobby picked me up on January 9, 2020, and carried me through the front door of apartment 3 before he gently placed me on the floor.

“Is itusor what?” He was giddy and spun around. The Shore Drive complex on the outskirts of Lake Como was for the newly married or nearly buried.

The empty apartment smelled of fresh paint. The front door opened into the living room, which I would not have chosen. The galley kitchen to the right of the living room was small and seemed like an afterthought. Bobby put money down on the rental; evidently, every newlywed on the Jersey Shore saw this apartment, and there was sure to be a bidding war.

“Let’s see the bedroom.” I followed Bobby through the living room to the back of the apartment.

“Most important room in the house,” he teased, taking me into his arms.

“It’s not a house; it’s an apartment.” I sounded like my mother, who believes nothing, no matter how significant, is good enough.