It was a cloudy April day when I chose to take myself on another self-date.
I embraced the small troubles of “going” to work. At the time, I was still working remotely—navigating the highs and lows of behavioral therapy. It was a difficult period. Just a couple of months had passed since I got my bachelor’s degree, and I was still tangled in the aftermath of a situationship I couldn’t quite let go of. Still a mess. Still struggling. Just… trying.
As I mentioned in my first self-date post, my therapist had advised me not to wait for a knight in shining armor. Not for friends, either—friends who were busy, wrapped up in lives of their own. I had to show up for myself.
So, I did.
I dressed up. Overdressed, really. I wore this beautiful dark red dress I had gotten from Zara. It wasn’t the first time I’d worn it, but I was definitely showing off a little. For myself. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
My therapist, of course, noticed. She seemed pleased—maybe even a little proud—that I was trying to get out more, enjoy myself, live a little. Ever the people-pleaser, I was happy to see her happy. But even beyond that… food has always been something I strive for. A reward. A comfort. A ritual.
After therapy, I stopped by Hunkemöller—a lingerie shop. I bought my favorite bra. It broke just a few months later, but I wore the hell out of it while it lasted. I also splurged on a matching slip. Way too much money for underwear, but I felt fancy. I think, deep down, I was trying to feel sexy. Trying to feel like someone who deserved to feel good.
Then I made my way to my self-date destination: Papi in Heidelberg. Best pizza in town. If you ever want a slice of Napoli in Heidelberg, that’s the place. It’s a bit pricier than the average spot, but the flavor, ambiance, and experience make it worth every euro.
For once in my life, I was on time. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—my table wasn’t ready. The waiter was the kind of arrogant that’s polished just enough to pass for charm, especially when tips are involved. He offered me some sparkling wine while I waited. Since I hadn’t eaten much that day and wanted to savor my night, I got tipsy very fast. Big mistake… but kind of a fun one. He offered me a second glass. I said yes.
About ten minutes later, a sweet and soft-spoken waitress showed me to my table. She had a gentle energy that made me feel even more at ease. I liked her instantly.
I ordered the Quattro Formaggi—with more wine, of course. (As if I hadn’t already had enough.) Plot twist: I forgot to ask for the pizza without nuts. Oops. I figured I’d just scrape them off later and call it a day.
As I sipped my wine, the warmth began to spread through me. I was alone, yes—but in that moment, I felt… light. Like I was learning how to enjoy my own company.
The pizza arrived. Then, shortly after, it disappeared—into my stomach. It was amazing. Neapolitan pizza is the thing. Soft, charred crust, melted cheeses blending like poetry.
Feeling bold (and a little buzzed), I ordered dessert. Tiramisu. The best I’ve had in my entire 24-year-old life. I didn’t take a photo of it, but trust me—it was heaven. The kind of dessert that makes you close your eyes after the first bite.
If you wanna go check out Papi on their socials here: https://www.instagram.com/papiheidelberg/
When it was time to go, I paid, left the lovely waitress a good tip, and stepped out into the night—feeling full. Physically and emotionally.
No grand revelation. No love story. Just me, a red dress, some excellent wine, and a slice of peace.
THE SPOT 
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