Life is good as a Roman today. After five weeks of nonstop language school, Nik and I completed the A1 level of Italian—the first EU-recognized proficiency milestone. Many of the friends we started the course with had their last day yesterday. The long school days, followed by near-daily drinks and dinners, had fused us together in the most accelerated way.

After class, the group of us lingered at a café for aperitivo. We finally scattered around 8:30 PM, parting with kisses on the cheek and promises to stay in touch. And maybe, for some of us, that will actually be true.

Nik and I made dinner at home afterward: pasta with asparagus and pancetta, plus a tomato salad. We got in bed around midnight and were asleep by one—a pretty healthy bedtime for a weekend. Still, we slept in until 11. Walter climbed the stairs for a snuggle around 7 AM, and when I finally opened the shutters, we were a cozy pile of bodies and blankets.

The fridge is empty, and we’ve been putting off some basic tasks in favor of finishing our homework. First on the list: walk to the grocery store with our little rolling cart and restock the kitchen.

While Nik showered, I went to what I’ve started calling my café for a cappuccino. I used to believe Italians never drink milk in their coffee after 11 AM, but that’s a lie. I’ve seen them order cappuccinos at 5 in the afternoon.

When I got home from the café, I watered the plants on the terrace by hand. The irrigation system is still there—installed, half-functioning, mostly ignored. I caught myself thinking I should figure out how to fix it. But instead of adding it to the list, I paused. What difference would it make?

Well the irrigation system is ugly! Then it’s ugly. But what if you forget to water the plants and they die? Then they fucking die. Let it go Eden, loosen your grip. Let it be.

I stood there for a while, hose in hand, looking at the mess of tubing and thinking about how much time I’ve spent trying to make things work the way they’re supposed to. And how often that effort just drains out into nothing. There’s something in the air here that pushes back against that kind of control. You either exhaust yourself trying to fix it all—or you let it be.

The quiet frustration, the letting-go that isn’t fully peaceful, and the steady resignation to life as it is, not how it should be—that’s been the theme of the week. Maybe the month. Maybe the whole reason people move here and stay. Italy wears you down, but not in a way that breaks you. It just smooths out the edges until you stop needing everything to bend to your will.

On the way back from the café, I passed the bookstore. A classmate had recommended a book. According to the sign and the website, they were open. But the shutters were down. Maybe they’ll be open tomorrow. Maybe they won’t.