Décollage horaire

Hello! We're back. And being home feels sort of sweet but we're also sad and in denial and a bit disorganized and brutally jet-lagged. The expression in French is "décalage horaire," but LP calls it "décollage horaire," and hates it even more than we do since he can't rationally understand it. "Décollage," by the way, means take-off, as if on a plane. Anyway, this explains the hurried middle-of-the-night post and the absence of pictures for today, sorry about that. I will have them tomorrow, and obviously because how-could-it-be-otherwise-in-this-wonderful-country they're gorgeous.

As soon as we got there and exited the craziness of the Fiumicino airport, Italy still felt exactly like it did the few quick times I was there almost a decade ago: like we may have accidentally stumbled upon the greatest place on Earth, not *just* because of the landscapes but also because people seem to have somehow "gotten it," how to live well... The country was even more painstakingly beautiful (and authentic) than any cliché ad could ever paint it. From the rolling hills in Tuscany to the Cinque Terre, where we had to repeatedly pinch ourselves, to the mountains, the lakes and the cities, we were smitten. People were warm, and friendly, and helpful. Children seemed to be sacred, and family a super-important value. Although I've traveled around Europe, I'm not sure I had ever seen such a level of care put into keeping places not just tidy but really attractive and picture-perfect. It seemed like every woman was beautiful, and everyone was well-dressed. Every restaurant we walked in welcomed us even with our child, and the food... Time after time, both simple and delicious, the pleasure always renewed...