She felt at ease anywhere in the world and that evening, after a late flight coming into Rome, was no exception. She had walked that very cobblestone street many a time before when she had lived there many years back and she loved returning to it, walking the route she had often taken to by bread in the morning or to go out for a drink at night. She loved that familiar feeling of having lived in a place and it never failed to come to her, no matter how long it took her to go back.

The full, velvety flavour of the Rosso di Montepulciano enveloped her tongue and she took her time to savour it. Her senses came together to create a full emotion – joy and excitement, mixed with sweet nostalgia. In evenings such as those, if such a thing existed, she flirted with her own self.

She looked around the bar, at couples sharing a late meal, at friends hanging out and at the few empty tables the left unspoken promises in the air. She was alone herself, but did not feel lonely, rather the contrary, maybe she took energy from life around her and that was enough. Sometimes, it was that simple.

She had known loneliness in her life, but had never felt alone in her travels, never even felt much of a need to meet others that travelled – although invariably, it did happen – reading, writing and getting herself lost in unknown cities, towns and villages had always sufficed. Travelling presented a world of possibilities and stories, of old Italian ladies who dressed up, full make-up and all, and enjoyed a good bottle of wine and a slow meal, including dessert. She imagined them widowed, a grandmother or a shop owner who could not afford to retire, but for the time it took them to get ready and go out for lunch, they were only Adele, Daniela or Giulia.

She had lived so many lives, been to so many places, called so many cities, countries and even regions her home. With every language and culture she had learned, she had tricked life itself.

She had true friends in more countries than she could count with her fingers and no country ever failed to awaken in her the curiosity to stay, each culture as fascinating as the next. Her travels, the people she had observed, the monuments she had visited, the local movies she had watched, had all seemed to nurture her writing, her pen and paper had no borders, she was simply one of those writers who needed movement, the sounds of a busy morning café, the music of a loud Italian bar, the laughter of children, all around her there were endless sources of inspiration. New ideas flew the more she moved, the more she saw, with each new face, a landscape, a shared smile or foreign tears, a story waited to be born.

Imagining the lives of others had not made her afraid of living her own life, but it had made her pickier, she had seen so much of everything – of love, friendship, success, serenity –, she had created so many wonderful lives that she could imagine her own nothing short of extraordinary.

She had used many words in her lifetime, but she knew she would always fail at describing the type of love she sought, but she knew in her heart that, by instinct, she would know how it would feel, the day it would happen.

Looking around the bar, the glass of wine now empty, after all those years, the travels, the books she had written, she was still hopeful that her one true love existed and that one day she would finally live it.