The first time I went to Paris, I asked my parents why they had raised me in Italy. I was genuinely concerned about their mental health. Since my first steps on Rue de Rivoli, I had this idealistic vision of myself writing in the shade of Oscar Wilde’s mausoleum, running to a revival of Cyrano de Bergerac, living in what seemed to resemble a Jacques Demy microcosm. “You’ve seen too many movies,” they said. Maybe… Movies allowed me to dream big. Without them, I’d probably be lost in some law school.