Why I decided to leave the U.S. for Italy

From the very beginning, my experiences living in Italy have been colored by American politics.

The first time I hopped across the pond for a study abroad program in Venice, the year was 2016. We arrived in January, by which point Donald Trump was already careening toward his party’s nomination for president, which he would secure that May.

During our many nights out in the square, drinking Aperol Spritzes under a cloud of cigarette smoke, it wasn’t uncommon for locals to ask us about the rising Republican star. They’d usually say something like, “Is he really running for president? That’s so crazy!”

Crazy, indeed. It’s hard to remember now how surreal Trump’s first campaign felt. In response to our Venetian friends, we’d usually laugh and shrug and say, well, he’s not going to win anyway.

We all know how that went. I was back in Boston for my senior year of college that fateful November evening. I had gone with a friend to a Trump watch party as a student journalist, expecting to capture the scene of Trump’s loss. The venue closed before the race was called, but even before we left, the room took on a celebratory hue as it became clear he might really pull it off.

My friend and I got the news in the car ride home, hearing on the radio that Trump had officially clinched the presidency. In the deserted streets of Boston during the small hours of Wednesday morning, it all felt utterly fake.

But Trump’s victory, even once its reality sunk in, did not make me want to seek refuge on Italian shores. When I showed up for work at the public radio station shortly after Trump’s inauguration, I was roused by my colleagues’ calls to use our journalism for good. Now was the time to fight for facts, and I was eager to be a foot soldier.

I followed my journalistic passions to a newsroom in Albany, settled in upstate New York, and stayed for long enough to see Joe Biden unseat the orange commander-in-chief. I was on a hike the day the election was called, and we all got the push notification at the summit when our phones came back into network. We cheered and high-fived, staging a small celebration under the fire tower.

The aberration was over. America was maybe, just maybe, getting back on its feet.

By the time Trump mounted his third attempt at the presidency, I was back in Boston. We were all wise enough to know Kamala Harris was not a shoo-in, and yet, I still found myself somewhat shocked when Trump won again. The morning after, my roommate barged into the kitchen in tears, in a similar state of disbelief.

I couldn’t bring myself to work that day, and instead went for a long bike ride out to the shore, hoping to pedal away the pain.

I made my permanent move to Italy less than a year later. But I can’t honestly say it was primarily motivated by politics.

For one thing, I knew Italy’s Georgia Meloni stood for many of the same things Trump did. Plus, LGBTQ rights lagged behind, as far as I could tell; gays were still relegated to “civil unions,” and Meloni had banned couples from going abroad to seek surrogacy, something that was already illegal in Italy. Needless to say, Italy was not a super-friendly place for queer families.

I joked that, even if I was trading one right-wing leader for another, at least Italy would have better food and free healthcare. (Fact-check: True and true).

So, why did I suddenly decide to move to Italy last year, if not for politics?

The answer has a lot more to do with my long-simmering dream to try out life in the homeland. Because ever since my four magical months in the floating city, I’ve wanted to live in Italy again. I’d been scheming and sorting the details ever since.

As Trump went in and out of office, I spent six (6!) years working to get my Italian citizenship, enabled by the fact that my sweet Grandpa Joe never gave up his, even after settling in America. I finally became an Italian citizen in 2022, and got my passport a year later.

But still, I didn’t make the move right away. It was never the right time (babes, it’s never the right time). I had a house and a relationship and a life in the U.S., and was I really going to leave all of that behind?

Eventually, most of those things fell away, anyway. I left the relationship. I sold the house. Nothing was really stopping me from moving abroad.

What pushed me over the edge, however, was my attempt at enrolling in grad school. You see, in 2025 I was accepted into two MFA programs for creative nonfiction. I convinced myself that, despite already being a published author, a master’s degree would be my ticket to a long-lasting literary life.

I enrolled and submitted a deposit, but I still had this little pebble in my shoe. The degree would take at least two years, probably three, to complete. And all I could think was, “That means the earliest I can move to Italy is three years from now.”

You might be wondering, “Wait, Mike, if you were orienting everything around Italy, why not just skip to that part?” Well, yes! You would be correct. I spent a few months bargaining with myself (I’ll go to Italy in the summers! I’ll race to finish the degree in two years! Italy will always be there!) before getting really honest.

The dream had never really been grad school. But the dream had always, absolutely, been Italy.

So I kicked off a rather chaotic series of events: Withdrawing from the MFA before it even started, ending my Boston lease, selling a whole bunch of my stuff, securing an apartment in Milan, and carting a truck-load of remaining possessions to New Jersey. (Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the free storage space!)

Here I am, firmly planted in Italy, as America celebrates its 250th anniversary. It feels oddly correct to be so far away. I’ve never been very patriotic, and become less so with every passing day. (And with each new thing I learn about American history: Rebecca Nagle’s new podcast, First America, is mandatory listening.)

Italy is no utopia on the political front. Meloni is still in office, and just recently two queer Italians were murdered in separate fits of homophobia. It’s rather clear that I did not escape America’s worst impulses by moving to Italy.

It’s just as well. I’ve got the privilege (that not all queer and trans people have) to be relatively safe in either country. I want to help build a world where we are celebrated for our queerness, no matter where we live.

This week, I leave you with a photo from a recent hike above Lake Como.