The Truth of a Wanderer

When losing a little bit of yourself can make you a better person.

I found myself wandering this earth by fluke. No wealth, no inheritance, no miracles disguised as luck — just a strange twist of fate that allowed me to move, to see, to feel.

I was never meant to travel. I was meant to stay, to follow the quiet rhythm of an ordinary life. But something — maybe curiosity, maybe destiny — pushed me beyond the horizon.

The world revealed itself not as a map, but as a pulse — alive, unpredictable, intoxicating. I’ve walked streets soaked in centuries, tasted food that told stories, and met eyes that spoke entire histories without a word. Each encounter left a trace, small pieces of myself scattered across continents.

But every journey begins somewhere. Mine began with love.

My mother, Anna, was gentleness made human. A woman whose only complaint against the world was its relentless mosquitoes. My father, Michele, was a craftsman of life — precise, tireless, a quiet storm of fairness and forgiveness.

From them, I inherited both the dream and the discipline — the courage to wander and the patience to understand.

I was born in Canada, from Italian roots that refused to fade. Half of me still smells like espresso and old stone; the other half, like rain and maple leaves.

Between those two worlds, I learned something sacred — that identity isn’t a place, it’s a journey. You lose a little bit of yourself in every chapter, and somehow, that loss makes you whole... (part 1)