I have never been so relieved to see a set of keys in a plastic box in my entire life. Three flights, one extremely questionable hire car, and a sat-nav that apparently thought "Praia a Mare" was somewhere near Naples meant that by the time I actually found the place, I had already driven past it twice, reversed into a lemon tree, and developed what I can only describe as a spiritual connection with the clutch pedal.

The mishap, though. I need to tell you about the mishap. Somewhere between Lamezia Terme airport and the A3 motorway, I had convinced myself that I was the sort of person who could navigate Italian roads with panache. I had even practised saying "scusi" with appropriate hand gestures in the mirror at a petrol station. What I had not practised was opening a bottle of water while driving, which resulted in me wearing most of it, followed by a frantic search for tissues that ended with me accidentally activating the windscreen wipers for a solid four minutes in direct sunshine. The lorry driver behind me found this hilarious. I saw him in the rearview mirror, absolutely howling.

By the time I wound down the coastal road into Praia a Mare itself, I was damp, slightly hysterical, and genuinely unsure whether I had remembered to pack any actual clothes or just twelve pairs of socks and a guidebook to Sicily. The town appeared gradually, pastel buildings stacked against the hillside like someone had tipped them out of a bag and decided that was probably fine. The sea, when I finally glimpsed it, was that particular Mediterranean blue that makes you slightly angry at your own country for not having colours like this.

Finding the property was another matter entirely. The address made perfect sense on paper. In reality, Italian streets have a charming relationship with numbering that I can only describe as "conceptual." I circled the same roundabout three times, each pass revealing some new detail I had missed: a florist, a man selling melons from a van, an elderly gentleman watching me with the patient expression of someone who has seen many hire cars come and go. Eventually I abandoned the vehicle in what I desperately hoped was a legal parking spot and walked the last bit, wheelie case rattling behind me like a small aggressive dog.

The property itself sits in that sweet spot where you are properly in the town without being overwhelmed by it. I let myself in with the keys from that blessed plastic box and stood in the hallway for a moment, just breathing. It smelled faintly of clean linen and, I want to say, lemons? Possibly I was still traumatised by the tree. The living area opened onto a balcony, and stepping out onto it was genuinely one of those small cinematic moments. The sea spread out below, the island of Dino sat there looking smug about its own beauty, and somewhere in the distance I could hear what I later learned was the evening passeggiata beginning to gather.

I had planned to unpack methodically, perhaps make a cup of tea, behave like a functioning adult. Instead I stood on that balcony for twenty minutes wearing my water-bottle-dampened shirt, grinning like an idiot, watching the light change on the water. The hire car still had a twig in its bumper. I had no idea where to buy milk. My Italian consisted largely of food words and apologies. And I already knew, with absolute certainty, that I was going to love every chaotic minute of this.