I always knew Switzerland wasn't for me and took off on adventures when I was 19. Being abroad meant freedom, magic, travel, a new life. Then I hit my head against the low door ceiling of my Peruvian host families' house while handing over the chocolates I brought from home.


It was the start of a series of awkward being-abroad-moments. Like accidentally burning down my hired van in Australia, along with all my footwear. Or fainting from anxiety only seconds after telling the camera man that I really enjoyed the skydive over San Francisco. 

Then, in 2013, I moved to Rome, Italy. You know, just to complicate things a little. 

The wine, the TV programme. The men and the hand gestures. Public transportation and Italian drama. You love it, you hate it. You don't understand it. It can all drive you insane.

Then I take a deep breath and call out to an imaginary person in my head "raaahh Italians". No one ever answers. But it's the perfect opportunity for a glass of wine. 

I'm a journalist and content writer and pour beers in a pub, but really all I want to do is write a book and make this heavenly liquid they call wine somewhere in the countryside. 

Sometimes the thought of having to sell my scooter is all that keeps me in Rome. Other times I'm convinced I can't be anywhere else.