Pasta and Scheduled Sex
It was the third time that we met again. Three times in six years. The first was in December 2019 in Mexico City—a meet-cute brought to you by a Delta Airlines error, a day of museums, and a night that started with a simple conversation that was impossible to end. We talked for six hours, a connection that led to an exciting night of lovemaking. As I cuddled in his arms, I innocently promised him that I would, one day, meet him in his hometown: Milan.
As years passed by, we kept in touch through short messages of major life updates and Instagram stories. We were both world travelers on a budget; we didn’t care for luxury, but we valued the same things. In 2023, we met in Taipei. There was no romantic agenda—just the simple, rare desire to reconnect with a person I could talk to about anything. We traded Michelin stars for night market stalls, eating on plastic stools and walking along the Tamsui River. It was surprising that neither of us initiated a kiss, but it wasn’t disappointing. Our friendship had become a space devoid of judgment, a multi-continent bond that felt special precisely because it didn’t need to be performative.
In April 2024, I started my four-month “Crash Course of Europe.” I reached out to him to fulfill my promise. He was in Milan until mid-August and offered to host me. So, on August 13, I took the night bus from Nice to Milan, arriving at the butt-crack of dawn at 5:15 AM. Even though I’m a seasoned traveler who can handle public transit, he insisted on picking me up.
As world travelers on a budget, we both knew that the best memories aren’t bought; they’re found in hole-in-the-wall spots and shared stories. So when I arrived in Milan at 5:15 AM, exhausted from a night bus, I wasn’t looking for a luxury hotel. I found a well-kept apartment where he’d moved the bed to the only room with AC just for me. It was the ultimate luxury: thoughtfulness.
As we chatted, I realized that five years later, we were still evolving in parallel. We still wanted the same things and thought the exact same way. He looked at me and said the very thing that started our friendship: “You’re my mirror.”
I laughed. Some things shouldn’t change. After a couple of minutes of silence, he cut to the chase.
“So Mia, you are traveling a lot. Are you still single?”
“Ummm, yes.”
“Okay, then.”
He hopped out of his sofa bed and into mine. I laughed, not expecting the platonic streak to break so suddenly. “You know we’re not in a hostel dorm this time,” he whispered in my ear. “We can be as loud as we want.” I smiled, and thus began the most unexpectedly fun lovemaking, now with the privilege of privacy.
After a long nap, I told him I didn’t care about touristy things—I just wanted the best pasta in town. I expected a hidden trattoria; instead, five minutes later, we pulled into a multi-story residential parking lot.
“The best pasta in town is my mama’s pasta,” he said to my quizzical look.
I laughed in disbelief. As a traveler who values a “grandma recipe” over a Michelin star, I was deeply touched. It was a dream come true: a seat at a table where the tomatoes were from the garden and the bread was baked that very morning. Inside, I was greeted by his parents—a picture-perfect Italian couple. His dad, short and handsome; his mom, the undisputed boss of the house. Neither spoke English, but the hospitality was universal.
We sat outside their cozy home. His mom brought out homemade spaghetti in tomato sauce, topped with basil from her garden. The first bite brought tears to my eyes. It was what pasta should be: simple, fresh, and light. I slurped up every bite, using the bread to soak up the leftover sauce—the scarpetta. Then came the garden salad, the sautéed eggplant, and the breaded beef. My wine glass was never empty, thanks to his dad. It was a culinary experience in unison with the heart and mind.
When asked by his mom if I liked the food, I didn’t have the Italian words to express the depth of my happiness, so I simply got up and hugged her. She laughed and hugged me back. Language is overrated when pasta this delicious is involved.
We helped clear out the table, said goodbye and returned to his apartment with our bellies full and happy. Once we were back at this flat, he turned to me.
“Eh Mia, do you know the Italian custom of what comes after food?”
“No”
“Good food should always be followed by good sex”
I laughed out loudly! This Italian man sure knows how to get what he wants. “Is that so?”, I said laughing and pulling him close to me, “then that is what we will do”.
The next 36 hours were a whirlwind of bike rides, aperitivos, and what I now consider the “customary” post-pasta activities. Milan was nothing like I expected, but it was the best introduction to Italy: delicious food, loud friendships, lazy afternoons, and a “mirror” who keeps showing up in the most unexpected coordinates.
Until next time, Ciao M.
Mia
© Dear Dhuniya 2026