“You are on your own now, good luck,” said my Italian driver as he dropped me off from the airport at my host family house.

I thought I didn’t need his words. I had been living in Isla Vista for a year.  I hated my tiny bedroom, my shared bathroom, freebirds, and my open relationship. I was ready to move to better things.

So I left for Europe to study Italian over the summer of 2012.

I now lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment in the downtown area of Rome. I shared the room with five other students, including one bathroom. A curtain separated my room from the rest of the living room.

A retired Italian model, our host mom, lived in a modern apartment upstairs with her son.

She would come down every afternoon to smoke cigarettes and complain about our dishes, laundry and criticize the housemates who were not present. My roommates always ran to her like lost puppies. They offered her water and cigarettes and agreed to her every demand.

I was the only one who complained to her face about the obvious problems like the lack of Internet, air conditioning and the fact that we all shared one house key.

I couldn’t believe I was paying for this.

After one week, she yelled at me for not responding to her call fast enough. I was used to freedom at my own place back home and I wasn’t about to accept her queen bee behavior.

She called my mother and told her I was drinking and hooking up with strangers. I never expected such a lie.

The morning after, my host mom told me I was not allowed to live there anymore. I moved to a small room in a retirement house in what I call the Italian version of Isla Vista.

Old people danced outside a church to Italian music while marijuana was being sold just a block away. I didn’t have many commodities, but my commute from school included driving through the Colosseum.

I had found my freedom.

After a night of clubbing, my Columbian friend spent the night at my place.

“I can’t believe you are surrounded by all these creepy people,” she said. “Come live with me!”

I found myself packing again. My afternoons were filled with cappuccinos, pasta, chain smoking and sharing secrets.

It only took two bottles of wine and a lot of singing in Spanish before I was kicked out. Her landlord had clearly said he didn’t want a loud visitor.

I was back at the retirement home. My old room wasn’t available anymore, so I found myself in a different wing, sharing a communal bathroom with old men who, judging by the look of them, might as well have been criminals.

Luckily, I quickly bonded with a Spanish boy in my school that lived in the building. He let me shower at his place and we shared dinners, taxis, drinks and jokes.

It felt like home again.

I was scared to go back to sharing bathrooms. I begged him to stay but he had to leave for a job in Barcelona. The bright side was that I only had one more week in Rome and rooms with personal bathrooms were available.

After about two months and too many energy drinks, my body was ready to go back to California, and by California, I mean Whole Foods.

The morning after my 14-hour flight, I woke up in the fetal position next to my mom. West beach shined from my window.

I will never take this for granted again. I was finally home.