The first time I went to Italy, I was five and distinctly recall swimming on a pebbly beach in my underpants. A glorious, glorious feeling. We should swim in undies more often. I also recall desperately wanting to touch a litter of stray kittens but being forbidden to do so by my parents, who have long lived by the motto that most things can give you rabies. We broke the news, relatively recently, to Mum and Dad, that our family friends who we were travelling with let us touch the kittens under their watch. Success.
The last time I went to Italy, I was 22 and spilt red wine all over myself in Bologna, got stuck in a freak rainstorm in Florence, stayed in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere in Tuscany with eight bottles of wine and sun so hot it shrunk our washing, and revelled in Rome. With two of my best girlfriends and a suitcase full of 5€ H&M dresses.
The next time I’ll be in Italy will be tomorrow. We’re road-tripping down to Lake Garda and I am unplugging from the internet for the week. And wearing only floaty dresses to maximise eating/drinking capabilities.
Bis übernächste Woche