I have always adored Verona. Memories of summer vacations in the city, leisurely strolling the small streets (and occasionally offered free city tour by Italian boys), staying at a hostel managed by religious order (no mixed dorm and strict curfew), stocking up Fiorucci goodies (back when it was enjoying a brand revival), and importantly, being mesmerised by the opera at the Arena, of candles lit up at the first strike of the orchestra, just as the sun was setting.

How would the memory from my youth hold up to today’s reality? It has been years since I last visited Verona – during the early noughties, I travelled regularly in France and in Italy – as other travel opportunities took me elsewhere, to new countries and other continents. I was secretly afraid that I could not recapture the magic that I’ve built up in my mind. And, what if F doesn’t like Verona, after all the glowing praises I’ve bestowed?

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