During my year of travel, I found myself in Boston for two days. It happened while I was almost over convincing myself I liked my job, and just before I was planning on leaving the US entirely for an ocean front apartment in Panama…despite wiggling myself out of yet another long-distance Panamanian situationship. That last one was bad. Mid Lawyer, as I like to call him, really did a number on me (if you’re not familiar with my lore, you can read that here).

As my plane landed in Boston, the story I was telling myself about the kind of ambitious man I needed was that he’d always have a mix of superiority and insecurity, a Napoleon Complex at 6 feet tall. It made the contrast between the humid ocean air and the frigid Boston winter all the more jarring. I was feeling down on love, and down on life, so I turned to Bumble—my go-to for travel dates.

Work had brought me to town to do what I had been doing for far too long, to talk to people about October 7th. It was different now that the war had ended, now that the hostages were back. Over the past two years, my life had focused on telling the story of October 7th as it unfolded. It was still fresh, still felt like a developing story. But the war had ended. Families buried their loved ones, and the world needed to think about writing a second draft.

Italian Doctor and I met on that short trip. He was an oncologist finishing up his two-year research fellowship at Harvard and moving back to Napoli in just one week. I laughed at the odds of our short story even happening. You could say he was just the medicine I........

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