I’m sitting on the beach with my mother’s cousin, Flora, and we’re watching the waves rush towards the shore; rush away from the shore; rush towards the shore; rush away from the shore. My toes are in the sand and I smell salt rising from the sea; sunscreen rising from my skin. It’s almost sunset, but the sky is still light and in the distance, a group of young men is fishing at the water’s edge. They cast their reels into the waves. They shake them in anticipation. They draw back empty hooks.

“You know,” says Flora. “Summer season will be over soon.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I’m going back to Rome this week. All the other tourists will be leaving, too.”

“I suppose they will.”

“This part of town will be empty and sad. You’re on the outskirts, you know. It’ll just get worse in the winter – gray and cold and isolated. Only the locals will be left, and they’ll all be in city centre. The centre is far from where you live.”

I fall silent and look out at the waves. We’ve had this discussion before. I don’t like this discussion. It’s a dose of reality that I’ve been avoiding, preferring to bury my feet in the sand and stare down at a public transportation schedule that shows three pick up times; make multiple trips on my bike to the supermarket; dig through websites to find the best way to get from this beach town to any of the larger ones in the region.

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The city in which I now live is small enough that I can cross it by bicycle, and small enough that I already know where to find things I need. I’ve got my butcher, I’ve got my fish vendor. I’ve got my cosmetics emporium. I know where to get household stuff and I know where to find tea. I am absolutely delighted to find that groceries here are much cheaper here than in Dublin, as are meals in the event that I do choose to eat out of doors. There are upstairs neighbors who have offered to help me with anything I need, and a sea full of aquamarine waves to cool me off when it gets too hot. There is very little – if any – violent crime. There are no sharks in the sea. Eight days in, and it appears that the living here on the Italian beach will be easy.

Too easy.

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Before I left Florida last month, my mother gave me a pair of shoes. I took one look at them and knew without a doubt that Diego would have something to say when I got back to New York. Sure enough, he did.

Hey, sis. Why does mom think you’re joining a convent?

Har, har, very funny, Diego.

No, really, sis. ‘Cause I mean… those shoes….

Okay, okay.

I brought the shoes with me to Latina. I wore them to the beach yesterday.

Somehow, they seem to fit in just fine over here.

And Diego doesn’t know everything.