My first flat was a tiny attic apartment that I rented in an old palazzo in a quiet quarter of Florence. It came furnished with a vintage wooden dining table and chairs, and a blue Ikea fold up sofa. My view was terracotta rooftops. There was a hole in the wall that sold shawarma in the alley below me, and a few minutes down the road stood the beautiful Santa Croce cathedral. We’d gather at my tiny flat, five or six students from our language school, and drink wine that smelled like vinegar, and play gin rummy for hours and hours. Sometimes, one of us would whip up an arrabiata in the galley kitchen, and we’d all take turns to wash up. Within a week of moving in, my little flat was everyone’s flat. To this day, I think of that place. My first home away from home. My first glimpse of independence. Where lifelong friendships began. Where we laughed, and shared stories and wished it could all last forever.