Leaving on a Jet Plane

(Peter, Paul and Mary, 1969)

A year ago yesterday, Tyler and I left KC to rendezvous with Ron in Milano for a three-week trek through Italia. Our first night, we stayed in Parma, home to both the famous cheese and ham. We walked to a lovely restaurant and dined al fresco. It was there I made my first "I'm a dumb American" blunder. After our bread had arrived I asked Ron if I should dip my bread in the balsamic vinegar first or the olive oil. He gently pointed out the balsamic vinegar was actually the wine he'd ordered. In my own defense, it was in a squatty little carafe, not at all like the one we bought at Pottery Barn. The food was really divine. Tyler and I both had white rice with spring pea sauce and pancetta and Ron had rabbit, I think. We finished it off with some parmesan cheese. Not a big fan. Love the stuff grated on just about anything, but popping in a hunk of it is SO less satisfying than a double dipped chocolate cone from DQ. Italians aren't big dessert people, although tiramisu and profiteroles are pretty tasty. They tend to like their sweets in their pastries. Ron and I found a wonderful tiny bakery in Castelnuevo Beradenga, just a few miles down the road from our villa (doesn't that sound wonderfully pretentious?) We hit it a couple of times a week and brought home sackfuls of melt-in-your-mouth morsels to have with the morning shot of adrenaline.

The coffee is sta-RONG! I always had mochas, but Ron aways bellied up to the bar and once had a triple espresso. Actually it was a single - he just had three of them in a row. He would stir his quarter inch of black gold and then hand the spoon to me to lick. I thought I'd eventually get used to that bitter, slightly grainy taste. But, nope. Didn't happen. Made a face every time.

It's hard to believe that it's been a full twelve months since we were there. Ron opened our last bottle of Italian wine tonight and we're on our last bottle of olive oil we brought back. We have little reminders of our travels throughout the house. I have to say, though, that a half an hour ago I was sitting on the patio with Ron (watching bats again) and he said - for at least the hundredth time this year - that life doesn't get any better than this. And he's right. Italy was fabulous, but we have a pretty nice villa-ette, wine stateside isn't that bad, I make a mean pesto and grilled chicken pizza, and I can make a fool of myself just as easily here as I can abroad. And it's so much cheaper.