Italia

I remember the mountains, how excited we were just by the sight of them. The man who sold us sweet, ripe tomatoes from Sicily. The thick, cold gelato that melted and ran in the heat of Milan. The smell of cow dung and ripening crops over the blue, darkened fields when we rolled the windows down, turned the radio off and listened to the grasshoppers on the quiet country road. The feel of the algae-covered, slimy little pebbles on the bottom of the lake that made us both squeamish, quick, quick, further in, deeper so we can't brush against them with our soles. Dipping in heels, shins, thighs first, taking a breath when it reaches the waist, then submerging with a screech and soon forgetting how cool it felt going in.

The enclosed hobbit hole of a room with plaster walls like meringue, the whirr of the fan in the night... Hitting our too-tall heads on the too-low door frames, swearing.

The cherry on the top: stumbling across horses on the final day, younglings really, long thin legs, not ready for riding yet. A random hike through a dense, humid patch of forest and finding a bunch of them in an enclosure kicking up terracotta dust, huddled together and curiously watching us approach. The bravest of them comes to say hello. Soft, soft snout against the palm. 

And you, of course, telling me over pizza and Peroni: 'I'm buying what you're selling.'