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Dearest readers, I’m writing to you from Italy––in our four-story cottage overlooking this little coastal fishing village on the coast. It’s dreamy, the whole thing, from the pasta and gelato in Florence to the long walks through Venice, and finally, the restful views in this pretty little town.

The honeymoon has been lovely, but while Italy is romantic and perfect and beautiful in every way, it’s come with countless anti-romantic moments––such as thanking Italians in French by accident and losing “shin splints” in translation, convincing someone my tibia was split in half. Don’t even get me started on avoiding the word “laxative” in an Italian pharmacy…

Austin and I arrived in Florence going on thirty hours of no sleep. You could say I was irritable and exhausted and very hungry—not to worry; I ate pasta for breakfast the next day, accompanied by wine. And I wanted to love Italian wine, but maybe I’m just a coffee girl through and through. 

Speaking of coffee, we strove for a coffee-and-pastry breakfast every morning in Florence and discovered the many cultural differences while ordering coffee. What do you mean vanilla iced lattes don’t exist here? All is well. Perhaps a cappuccino? On the second try, Austin’s coffee was delivered to our table, only to find that a caramel latte was drastically different than the ones we find in America. My cappuccino, though, was––let me try this in Italian––sorprendente. (Amazing. Flat out amazing. Dare I say that Italian coffee is better than their wine? Don’t hate me, Tryon…) 

Anyway, by the time we made our way to Venice, I was pretty comfortable speaking the little Italian I knew, which was just “yes” and “thank you.” I absolutely ordered every meal in English, only to follow up with “Grazie,” feeling pretty sophisticated and proud that I hadn’t messed up and thanked them in French or Spanish. Now, when they responded to me in full-on Italian, and I stood under their gaze like a deer in headlight? I quickly pled, “English, English!” 

Maybe I’m not as sophisticated as I think––Italy’s anti-romantics have proven that to me––especially the moment I got on a bus in Lerici and found that perhaps the NYC subway atmosphere exists on all public transportation––but let’s turn this column around and let me explain the way Italy looked outside of the awkward moments of M.M. Cochran.

Some beautiful things I mentally noted while under the Tuscan sun: 

People kiss here a lot—locals and travelers alike. They kiss passionately like no one is around. 

There is wine starting at nine in the morning, and though I do not love the taste of alcohol, I love the poetics of someone sitting at a café with a glass of wine and croissant. 

I’ve seen several beautiful women here, hair flowing in the wind, long coats over hoodies, and they manage a sense of elegance and refinement no matter where they walk. 

Michelangelo’s David is breathtaking, for which waiting in the rain is worth. For which sleeping on airport benches is worth. Everything I’ve seen, for which thirty hours of no sleep is worth. 

For which four airplanes, three countries, and a hundred trains later are worth. 

And while I haven’t felt homesick in the least, I’ve found myself looking forward to returning home with my husband––where I can drink classic American coffee again, cook cozy dinners after a day of writing articles for the Williamson Herald, and where the climate is just a bit warmer. 

One night in Venice, I called my mom and showed off my dinner of fresh pasta and vegetables, to which she responded, “I had a grilled cheese for lunch.” As funny as it was in the moment, here I am on the beautiful Gulf of Genoa, thinking, “Man, I could really go for a grilled cheese.”