I have been accused of having a mistress, and her name is Italia.
It was love at first sight when I met her, though it was clearly a spring/autumn romance: I was 19 going on 20; she was millions of years old.
I was just starting out in the world; she was the embodiment of worldly.
Everything she offered fascinated me: her attitude, her food, her cities, her countryside, her bodies, her cars, her hills and valleys, her seas, and her wine. Oh, her wine!
She had me at buon giorno, and still does. In fact, she has me at buona sera, buona notte, and especially buon appetito.
I can’t take my eyes off of her, and I can’t quit her. As a matter of fact, I don’t even try.
Like any long term romance, some of the bloom is off the rose. She regularly frustrates me, angers me, saddens me, and downright pisses me off. But our affection is so deep that I always forgive her, and never after very long.
I talk her up any chance I get. I even changed careers to be closer to her, and have spent a small fortune on her. I bring my friends and family to meet her, even perfect strangers, and she always does it right.
Would you be my next excuse to call on her? Please?
Clockwise from top left: Venice (Bridge of Sighs), Rome (from atop St. Peter’s), Florence (on the Lungarno between the Uffizi and Ponte Vecchio, Ponte alle Grazie to my back), Anagni (my ancestral town)