It wasn’t about being a good cook, but understanding what good food was.
Venice, Italy. Wine, siestas, pasta, canals, lagoons, romance, shall I go on? Italians seem to know what’s up. I feel like they’d put red wine in their cereal and I’m not above that.
This graf I see is the death of graf. It no longer moves. It is no longer moving. Stationary frescoes. Crippled trains. This graf stares back like the eyes of corpses in the catacombs dei cappuccini. For what is a parking garage, after all, but a mausoleum?
Five course meals are a must have at some restaurants. A few restaurants we tried to frequent would not let us dine if we didn’t order at least three courses.
Rome is my absolute favorite city in the whole world (so far). I don’t know what it is that draws me in, but nowhere else seems to compare.
Every country has its peculiarities, and it’s not until you’ve lived there for a while that you begin to see and understand them. As an American living in Italy, I’ve had a year to watch the people around me, and there are definitely things I have noticed.
It’s funny how each culture has a different way of handling food. To some it is a necessity; to others, it’s a show. To the Italians, it’s an art.
Because we think it’s cool to be different, we embraced the weird stares from fellow tourists and got down with our cheesy poses. Then we ate pizza and drank lots of wine. Or was it the other way around?
I discovered the difference in “vacationing” and “traveling” in ways I never have thought before.
“Don’t worry about what has happened in the past. Let it go. Live in the present guided by instincts and feelings. Our minds may change with age, maturity, and life itself but our hearts don’t — they only expand with emotion.”