By: Ethan Rogers

I love Darwin Del Fabro.

That realization didn’t arrive in a dramatic epiphany or a perfectly lit mirror moment. It came slowly and sweetly, in the middle of a Roman afternoon, somewhere between my second glass of wine and the quiet joy of being alone—but not lonely—for the first time in a long while.

I packed light. No fancy dresses. No performance. I even removed all my jewelry—which, if you know me, is a big deal. I wear a lot. Like, a lot, a lot, a lot. My hands are usually a whole event. But this time, I wanted something different. I wanted to meet the world without armor, without adornment. Just me. Honest. Bare. Curious.

After finishing the intense New York run of a play I wrote and performed—my heart, sweat, and soul poured into every scene—I hadn’t taken a summer break. On top of that, I was still healing from a series of surgeries. I needed space. I needed air. I needed something that looked, sounded, and tasted nothing like recovery. So, I bought a one-way ticket to possibility: four days in Rome, four in Florence, four in Paris. Just me, a suitcase, and a copy of Eat, Pray, Love—though full disclosure, “pray” didn’t make the itinerary.
(Unless you count tearfully walking through the Vatican as divine intervention, which… I might.)

Rome

Rome didn’t just welcome me—it grabbed me by the waist and spun me around. The city feels like a stage set that never wraps, all ancient history and espresso-fueled chaos, where drama is a birthright and flirting is practically a civic duty.

Within 24 hours, I was on the back of a scooter with an Italian man I’d just met, weaving through cobbled streets like we were in a 1960s movie. We ended the night at a jazz show facing the Colosseum, the music swelling against ruins that have stood for millennia. It was absurdly romantic. Completely unplanned. Utterly perfect.

The Vatican—despite my firm lack of religious affiliation—brought me to tears. There was a force, an energy, a silence that wrapped around me in a way no doctrine ever has. Maybe it wasn’t about God. Maybe it was about beauty. About feeling something ancient and bigger than myself—and realizing I was allowed to feel that deeply again.

Just as powerful, in an entirely different way, was a visit to the Keats-Shelley House near the Spanish Steps. It was quiet, nearly empty. No crowds, no fanfare. But as a writer, stepping into that small museum—the room where Keats died, the desk, the letters, the stillness—was just as holy. Maybe even more so. It reminded me that art, and the people who create it, leave traces in the air long after they’re gone. And maybe I will too.

Florence

And then came Florence.

If Rome is a grand opera, Florence is a whispered love song. Everything is closer, softer, somehow more tender. Every alleyway looks like it belongs in a period film. The food? Divine. The energy? Romantic. The men? Well… Florence added another lovely memory to the mix.

I came to Florence for Caravaggio and David, and honestly, I would’ve been happy with just that. Seeing Michelangelo’s David in person is like standing in front of perfection—almost too much for the eyes. And Caravaggio, with all his fire and shadows, always feels like a mirror to the parts of myself I don’t show at dinner parties. The museums left me full—and starving. So, I ran straight into a Florentine steak the size of my face. One night it was The Antico Ristoro di Cambi, warm and rustic. Another, I let myself go full luxury at the Michelin-starred restaurant at Villa Fiesole, with the whole city twinkling below me.

But what I didn’t expect was the romance.

I met him for a drink—at a pub, of all places. And yes, we started with beer, which is definitely not my usual choice. But it felt easy. Natural. We wandered Florence after that, hand-in-hand, stopping at nearly every street corner to kiss. Long ones. Sweet ones. The kind that makes you forget what time it is—or what city you’re in.

I went out dancing. I met kind, fascinating people. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years—not despite being alone, but because of it. Florence didn’t demand anything of me. It just unfolded, slowly, beautifully, like it knew I needed a place to just be.

If I had to pick a favorite, it’s her. Florence, with her quiet confidence and cinematic charm, stole my heart—and for a few unforgettable nights.

Paris

Paris, in all her glossy, cinematic glory, greeted me with… a shrug.

I arrived on a Sunday—heart still glowing from Italy’s embrace—and by Monday, the city felt closed. Literally. Museums were shut, and with them, something else: the ease, the warmth, the joy I had just rediscovered. Fashion Week hung in the air like perfume—expensive, exclusive, and just a little too proud of itself. At home, we call it cafona—when something tries so hard to be chic, it forgets to be kind.

I felt that in the way women looked me up and down, calculation in their eyes instead of curiosity. I felt it in the way men name-dropped as if their words were business cards. Paris sparkled, yes—but her sparkle felt cold. Beauty without warmth is just decoration, and I’ve spent too many years decorating my own pain to settle for that now.

And then—everything changed.

I want to be honest about something that used to make me uncomfortable to admit: I’ve always believed I could find beauty on my own. And I did. For years, I carried that independence like a crown—the proof that I could move through the world alone, unshaken, self-made. I never wanted to be the kind of woman whose story turned around a man.

But somewhere along the way, in the silence between triumphs, I stopped noticing how long it had been since someone made me smile—really smile—the kind that starts in the eyes and travels outward. It isn’t that I needed someone else to create my happiness. It’s that I finally realized I wanted to share it.

What changed in Paris wasn’t dependence; it was permission. The quiet permission to want warmth again, to want softness, to want to be met halfway. I didn’t need a man to give me a story—I already had one. But it turns out even the strongest stories can crave a heartbeat beside them.

As a writer, as a trans woman, I’ve built myself from language and willpower. But maybe beauty—real, disarming beauty—is what happens when you stop performing strength long enough to let life touch you. Perhaps that’s the true romance I was ready for.

It was the end of the third night. I didn’t roam the streets. I went downstairs to Thoumieux, the restaurant inside my hotel. I wasn’t alone. He was with me—blue eyes, ocean blue, not the kind you simply notice but the kind that stakes a claim inside you. They carried tides, depths, storms, and calm. Looking into them was like staring into a sea without end—a reminder that desire, like water, can dissolve even the walls you thought were permanent.

We hadn’t made a reservation, but the moment we walked in, the staff placed us at the best table in the corner, as if the city itself had been waiting for this moment to redeem herself. We kissed between bites, laughed as we fed each other forkfuls of French food, savoring it the way it was meant to be savored—intimately, playfully, greedily.

At the table beside us, a couple celebrating thirty years of marriage noticed. They lifted their glasses and sent over champagne—not just a toast, but a benediction. It felt as if Paris herself, through them, was raising a glass to us: love seasoned with time blessing love just beginning.

The waiters smiled, patient and kind. The room softened, its edges no longer sharp. And with it, Paris softened too—her cold glamour melting into warmth, her indifference dissolving into something almost tender.

Maybe Paris isn’t a city of instant love. Maybe she withholds herself until you’re ready—until you’ve been cracked open enough to notice the smaller miracles: the corner tables, the kindness of strangers, the ocean-blue eyes across from you.

Paris didn’t give me everything. But it gave me the clarity to never dim my light in rooms that don’t know how to hold it.

Or maybe, all I needed was a little romance to make the colors bright.

PS: I should admit—this was written before the trip was truly over. On my last night, Paris reminded me she always saves the best for last. I left exhausted, like I’d just played a championship rugby match—only this time, it was the kind of game you can’t wait to play again.

Credits

Photography: Shen Williams-Cohen @shendig27
Fashion: @dottttbass
Talent: @darwindelfabro
Hair: @alexandradiromahairmua
Make up: @el__debratto
Set Design: @ashleypalmerproject

Creative Production: @cassidy.ac
Photography Assistants: @danielmakesmistakes