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In May of last year, I hopped a last-minute solo flight from Toronto to Napoli, Italy, where I then took a local bus to a train which carried me down the coast of the stunning Tyrrhenian Sea. I hadn’t realized the old metal commuter cars filled with only locals would carry me away to a village that would end up being a thread by which I re-stitched the fabric of my life, and a place I didn’t expect to find myself: Tropea. I had heard of the Amalfi but no one had ever uttered Calabria to me; I hadn’t known this tiny town in southern Italy, a place located just above the toe of the boot before crossing to Sicily, not only existed but was where Italian families went for holiday. A friend of mine purchased a condo in Tropea a few years prior to my visit, which she knew about because she is European and much more privy to off-the-beaten-path destinations we Americans oft miss. I arrived at the station nearly everyone arrived through (avoiding spending an exorbitant amount of Euros for car travel from Napoli or the nearer Lamezia airport), and as I embraced her I took in the beauty of the run-down station, the tagging on the walls of the buildings sprayed in Italian slang. No taxis to be found, we rolled my suitcase a distance down bumpy stone streets from the top of the steep hill to Piazza Ercole, both dodging cracks in the sidewalks and whizzing-by cars driven by local youth. Upon arrival, we drank a local specialty, aperol spritzes, as I walked the wrap-around porch of her air-b-n-b rentable apartment; here I took in my first views of the quaint tiled rooftops of this beautiful place and the vibrant blue Tyrrhenian, decorated by the wispy fingers of smoke from the active volcano Mt. Stromboli in the distance. I inhaled deeply, listening to the lapping waves kissing the white sand shores. The fiery orange-red sun set beyond the horizon; I could almost hear the ocean sizzle as it disappeared. Over the next few days, I fell in love with this place time had seemingly forgotten. Here the buildings sagged and cracked as if on purpose. Only Italian iwas heard spoken in the streets. The piazzas were filled with benches filled with locals, the shops busy enough to stay open but empty enough to allow me to merrily drift from one incredible piece of pottery or shelf of local delicacies to the next unbothered. We wandered down narrow alleys sprinkled with trattorias covered in rich jewel-toned flowers and twinkle lights, a place I can only describe as being what I think all honeymooners seek. One alley led to another, which then broke open to hidden piazzas, where we marveled accompanied only by local sun-bathing cats. Music from violins and accordions filled the sea-salt-soaked air as we stopped in cafes for meals so simple yet decadent my heart sang with every bite; freshly-caught octopus and fish; fragrant garlic, basil, oil and mozzarella; handmade faleja smothered in sweet red onion and njuda, a dish I had learned to cook in a class with Franco and Marianna in the tranquil olive grove-lined hills above town. I gorged myself on astoundingly affordable meals, and topped as many as I could off with prosecco or homemade limoncello and gelato. And then the jewels of Tropea: Santa Maria dell-Isola, a monastery that sits mightily above her shores, and the red and yellow umbrella dotted white sand perfect beaches that cushion her from the sea. The combined view of the monastery and beaches below caused me to weep upon first viewing. I spent five days waking up to drink mouth-wateringly delicious cappuccinos and eat fresh seafood from my favorite cafe on the beach called Lido L’Osai. I beached amongst the still-gorgeous Italian nonnas and their grand babies, baking in sunshine and floating in the Tyrrhenian. I wandered to hidden caves so beautiful my soul came alive again. And when I left, bags packed with limon-scented olive oil, jars of njuda, and bottles of bergamot perfume, I thanked Tropea for the beauty I didn’t expect to find there, in her or in myself.