Where is the City of Love?

Mapping out my emotions on the world's capitals d’amour

Where is the City of Love? Paris, I hear you say. Obviously, it’s Paris?

Paris is a popular choice. The origin of the word romance comes from the 17th century old French: ‘Romanz’. Dr Google will return Paris as the first result. It’s definitely a sexy place. The fashion is classy, it’s acceptable to drink early in the day and your macro-nutrients are eighty percent saturated fat; everything feels decadent. However, the Eiffel Tower looks like a telephone mast. The subway is filthy and scary. The people are unfriendly and rude. It is the city renowned for The Moulin Rouge and mistresses. It’s romantic foundations stem from a nineteen-twenties artistic movement which we thank for many of today’s pieces of writing, respected sculptures and highly contagious strains of syphilis. Many of Paris’ historical love stories have something of a mercenary nature. I’d really call it ‘The City of Lust’. It’s interesting to me that picturesque Monmartre, a place historically founded on turbulent passion and erotic underbelly tourism, has now become the number one spot for live-laugh-love-monogamists to take their engagement shots for Instagram. 

By that vein, if we follow in the footsteps of a city built from the ashes of revolution through art expressing freedom, I wonder if in 150 years time we might be saying that progressive Berlin is the City of Love? Albeit there’s less gold-encrusted renaissance ceilings and more breeze-block architecture but there is a type of romance within the political graffiti and the techno. A strong sense of community and liberal activity forms the late night electronic drum beat of this city. I write this post from a hotel room in Berlin. I am here on a third date. (Yes, you read that right.) I fervently constructed a plan to go on holiday with someone I met at a birthday party a month ago. To my surprise (and delight), both of us followed through. Right now, I would say there is something incredibly romantic about Berlin but that’s easy to state as I don a luxury hotel robe and adorn over a handsome six foot four bearded fella sporting nothing but a towel. Ask me in 3 weeks time if I still feel the same. 

If I stop thinking with my loins and with my frontal lobes, I know Berlin could never take the crown. There’s too many dodgy hipster haircuts. The weather is too much like Britain. Plus, so much of the history relates to morbid dark pasts and subsequent wartime hangovers. The German language is incredibly curt. There may be something slightly sexy about being direct and efficient but, for me, fluidity and accidental chaos are important for my amatory ideals. I enjoy the poetic lilt of Latin-based languages and the randomised, obdurate entropy that you regularly find in countries like Italy. 

When I asked friends for suggestions on their most romantic cities, spots in Italy were a common theme. Gdansk, Buenos Aires, Salzburg, Santorini, Madrid, Rio de Janeiro and Tallin were also thrown out as alternatives. Answers related to places where people felt most connected to their loved ones or had an unexpected shared sense of adventure — be it platonic or romantic. One friend had the audacity to say the most romantic place she could think of was Ealing; it was where she fell in love. I told her, firstly: look up the definition of a city and secondly: you are categorically wrong — nowhere in zone 3 should be a contender. 

London though, could be a City of Love. I’m in love with it, anyway. I understand why people hate it but I adore it. It is a beautiful place of juxtaposition. It is filled with historical monuments next to skyscrapers named after things you might find in your kitchen. A diverse range of comedy, music and fusion food is available on every corner. Yes, it’s expensive, people are awkward and travelling a few miles takes large amounts of time. I think, whether by choice or not, deciding if someone is worth the commute is romantic: you have to regularly take stock of your feelings. I know there is a high probability I’ll eventually make the expected shift to a residential town or village in order to afford a larger house and be closer to nature. (This is on the proviso it’s within London commuting distance; the irony is that it’ll probably take me less time to get to the office).

A charming countryside pub is picture perfect rom-com material. Often, the move to the suburbs is made once someone settles down with the love of their life. So, why don’t we talk about towns or villages of love? These have history, can be of great beauty and may have stood the test of time. Many love birds inhabit them. We don’t give them the label because towns and villages feel comfortable. They are unfussy. There is no sense of strive; they feel too complete and content to be romantic.

In general, people move to cities for hopes and dreams. Cities claim the title because of a feeling you’re part of something bigger than your being. It’s grounding yet inspiring to feel comparatively small and insignificant. Cities are designed to make people feel on top of the world (though often they leave you broke, broken and with a mild to severe alcohol dependency). There is intimacy to be found in sprawling sensory overload. The hustle and bustle of a city brings opportunity for love affairs. A place you can never complete is romantic. Knowing you will never scratch the surface leaves you lusting; longing to go back and discover something new. You find satisfaction in digging out nuggets of treasure within the trove of the city’s contrasting neighbourhoods.

New York is regularly framed as the place to fall in love in films: surplus meet-cutes; expansive parks for romantic strolls nestled between construction sites; ample serendipitous run in opportunities to the incessant backing track of car horns. You can never explore every nook and cranny even if you conform to the city’s habit of never sleeping. When I visited New York, I was so encompassed by the buzz of American dreams that I felt as if I could walk into The New York Times building and demand they employ me with zero commissioned pieces of writing to my name. Everything feels possible when you know it isn’t possible to do it all. I immediately saw versions of myself play out in a future world on every street corner. This is another big factor in a City of Love: self-applied optimism. I think that’s why people love Paris so much: they fall in love with a version of themselves. (A person who can make a breakfast of cigarettes and a black coffee look chic and eat a confit duck leg at nine p.m. and not so much as even dive into their bag for a packet of Rennie’s before going to bed.)

Italy is the most romantic country in the world. I visit every summer. My family has Italian heritage so my love is, in part, a result of ancestral bias. Objectively, it is firmly on the love map: the country has at least four major contenders for the City of Love. Rome, is a beautiful buzzy behemoth of culture. Monuments dating back to before Christ pop up all over the city as vespas wizz down cobbled side alleys and trendy students hangout near old Roman ruins. Venice is a honeymoon haven. There’s a reason people have gondola rides on their bucket lists. Florence, dripping with classical art and charm, has the long standing feel of an old world town, is small enough to wander in a day, yet not without hugely impressive structures. (It’s a little too buzzing with panama-brimmed Chianti aficionados for me, but it is beautiful). Verona is the foundation for one of the world’s most famous love stories: hundreds of people a day flock to see the iconic balcony of Romeo and Juliet.

I wrote a letter to Juliet in Verona just last month. I asked for strength with my fertility concerns, the desire to experience a genuinely deep feeling for someone again and the courage to pursue my real true love (writing). Walking into the thespian-famed courtyard, I got tingles all over my body. There was something moving about people sending off their hopes, questions and wishes together from the same historical location. (The less romantic part: I tried to volunteer to answer the love letters — Juliet’s secretaries ghosted me; I nearly got stranded near Lake Garda in a major hail storm attack; plus, as a solo traveller, nowhere would serve me Verona’s signature ‘risotto all'amarone’ due to a minimum two person serving.) Despite this, I’d still say Verona is a City of Love. Maybe not the City of Love, but one of mine. This is due to it’s alignment with my love of writing. Something about Verona felt right in my soul. I explored alone, but I felt excited to return with someone some day.

On a city break in Italy, you might trot round and see the sights. Some of the romance comes from art and architecture which has stood the test of time. The real beauty is in existing here. You can find a designer fashion store in a Roman-Empire listed building. A coffee shop full of sweet nonnas and nuns doesn’t take anything but cash. They won’t serve your cappuccino with oat milk. They don’t do takeaway. (Don’t even think about asking for a flat white.) Nobody is typing away on a laptop in a cafe because the wifi is too unreliable. The shops shut at lunch. An aperitivo spot is frequented at same time every day by a man who shouts down the phone; nobody complains he is ruining the vibe. Families late night stroll with their ice creams. Restaurants close for a random day in the week without prior communication. It’s the perfect amount of inconvenient. Italy’s unapologetic way of life is what creates the country’s romance.

A City of Love is anywhere that can fill you with hope. A place which makes you a tiny bit nervous whilst also putting you at ease. A place which makes you feel grateful for the little things and excited by the big ones. A place which helps fulfil a part of you that feels closest to your inner truth. It’s romantic not to have everything easily at your fingertips. A place with a gentle amount of resistance makes everything feel worth it; it feels fun. You are forced to pause. To sit. To stroll. To strive. To sip it all in. The magic and the madness of it all. Much like falling in love. 

Anywhere that has stood the test of time is romantic. But the real test of a City of Love is: can you go there alone and fall in love with the version of yourself you become?