Recently I entertained the parents of a childhood friend who had just come off a 15-day tour of Italy and were spending a couple extra days in Rome. After finding out that one of my favorite restaurants had closed its doors forever and successfully schlepping them from San Lorenzo to Campo di Fiori, which by the way is always such a bust and please avoid it, we toasted the sunset at my favorite bar, atop the Radisson Blu near Termini. Coming from the chaos of Rome’s historic center the silence up there is deafening, there’s always an in-season berry at the bottom of your Prosecco glass, and the previous day’s rain brought the most spectacularly clear view of Rome’s surrounding hills and mountains I’ve seen in all of my nine years of living/being in Rome. Which happened to be nine years precisely on that day.

Click on the photo to see a bigger version.

This blog, which celebrates the life I live, and through which I hope to inspire others to live lives worth celebrating, has been neglected. I’d like to tell you why.

As you may remember, I turned 40 in December of last year. There were a lot of things I wanted to do this year that didn’t happen, and a lot of things I did do that didn’t turn out like I had planned, and it was a crushing blow to me. To be blunt, I’ve not been very happy. That combined with a ridiculous amount of work that I can’t seem to get ahead of, the stuff I have done needing to be “saved” for WhyGo France, and the fact that I’m at my wit’s end with technology, have resulted in my absence here.

Now, let me tell you why none of it matters and I need to get over myself: I’ve actually done, seen, eaten, drunk and experienced some of the most incredible things this year. And I’d like to tell you about it by giving thanks for just some of the people who have made my 40th year one that is indeed worth celebrating.

First, I give thanks for my friend Alison. Every Friday this summer she was my date to Montpellier’s Estivales, a locally-sourced food and wine festival held on the Esplanade that was one of the most civilized, charming things I’ve ever seen. Although we were often joined by other friends, many times it was just her and me, sitting under the stars, eating yummy treats, and talking about everything and nothing. They were like mini-vacations, and I’m thankful for the effort she made to come out week after week, even when she was exhausted.

Next, I give thanks for my American peeps: during three separate, remarkably different trips, together we discovered and rediscovered just how amazing France can be. Specifically, to Howie and Lydia, who shared my childlike glee in the tides of the English Channel coastline; to Rich, for being as bowled over by Mont St-Michel as I was; and to MK and Bern for one of my most cherished days of 2011, which we spent doing absolutely nothing in two countries.

I also give thanks for my dear friend Marco, who has always opened his home to me, and this year was no different. I thank him for making me eat my vegetables, for making even the most mundane moments seem like an adventure, and for continuing to make Rome a magical place where all my dreams can come true.

Of course, the rest of my Gay Mafia deserves my heartfelt thanks as well for always, always treating me like a doyenne. Whether it’s Luca and Alfio indulging my fascination with language, Alberico asking for (and patiently listening to) my advice, Giovanni meeting me in Paris on a whim, or Vincenzo and Leo deferring to my preference for badly-lit, down-home Roman restaurants, they always find ways to let this weird foreigner feel like she’s one of the gang.

And I am thankful for my dear, sweet Cal. His love of consistency and habits knows no bounds, but time and again this year he’s juggled his rigid daily schedule so that I could follow through on last-minute, hare-brained travel plans. And whether it’s a crack-of-dawn departure or a much-delayed arrival, he’s always my faithful escort to and from the train station.

There are so many others to thank as well – Paul, for that epic day in Paris; Fi, for dragging me out of the house every week against my will; Jess, Katie and Sean, for their confidence, patience and help in making the France Travel Guide the best it can be; Mel, who let me into her life and makes me feel unstoppable; and my parents, whose unconditional support and youthful curiosity always have me striving to make them proud.

Finally, I’d like to give thanks to My Very Best Friend In The Whole Wide World, Dew, who I get to spend a whole week with, the last day of which is my 41st birthday – the perfect ending to a damn good year. It was the email she sent me with her flight details – and my hysterical, joyous sobbing upon reading it – that made me realize I’m lucky, loved, and thankful to the people in my life more than they can ever know.

I first flew to Paris on TWA flight 800, which some of you will remember had been thoughtfully renumbered sometime after it went into the sea off Long Island. I was traveling on Famous Designer‘s dime to Semaine du Cuir – the leather and suede exhibition where I was to meet vendors I’d known only via phone and fax (hi, I’m old), and hopefully pick up some new sources.

Before I left, I asked the designers for direction in choosing samples to bring back from the show. I will never forget their responses:

• “I’m thinking…sherbet.”
• “Bring me back beautiful things.”
• “I love horsey leathers.”
• “I want the Marc Jacobs jacket that’s at Barney’s.”

Fashion people aren’t like you and me.

But I digress.

It was my first really long flight, and I was flying First Class. I was shown to my seat, my things were whisked away, and as I settled in I found myself among the In Crowd – devastatingly glamorous men and women, titans of industry, and some serious old-school, old-money types. Champagne was served while we queued up on the tarmac. I ate well, slept like a baby, and awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing over the intercom and a freshly made omelet. It was all quite civilized.

On the return trip, though, we were informed that the flight was rerouted to Boston instead of JFK, and the In Crowd turned ugly. They berated the in-flight staff – as if they had any control over this apparently dire situation. Among their indignant comments:

“I’M A TWA STOCKHOLDER, AND THE BOARD WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS.”

Classy.

I was thrilled, frankly. I’d just been to Paris for the first time, I was flying First Class, and the reroute meant I wouldn’t have to return to the office upon my arrival. And I was rewarded for my bliss: every so often a flight attendant would collapse into the empty seat next to me, we’d split some chocolates or a glass of champers, and we’d bitch in whispers about the other passengers.

It was on this flight of the damned that they served what was by far the most memorable meal I’ve ever had on a plane: an entire, enormous smoked salmon on a rolling tray, complete with garnish, and of course more Champagne. Yes please!

The fact that an entire, enormous smoked salmon had somehow found its way onto an airplane was not what made me remember the meal; it was the couple across the aisle from me. They were probably in their 70s, and French, and impeccably dressed, and had brought on board two decent-sized black poodles who rested quietly at their feet.

As the stewardess made her way down the aisle with the entire, enormous smoked salmon, she respectfully asked Fabulous French Lady if the dog currently sitting on her lap could be sent back down to the floor. “BUT OF COURSE NOT,” Fabulous French Lady screamed in her Fabulous French Accent:

“MY DOG DOES NOT EEEAT FROM SE PLATE!”

The stewardess said she was sure the dog had only the best manners, but she did not want to tempt it unduly with an entire, enormous smoked salmon drifting directly past at nose height.

“BUT MY DOG, HE DOES NOT LIKE SE FEEESH.”

That was it. The stewardess lost it. “Well, then,” she said loudly, “I guess no one on this side of the plane will be getting the salmon today!” And she marched that fish right back up one aisle and down the other.

The First Class Cabin erupted into chaos. Fabulous French Lady and her dog were berated by TWA Stockholders and the rest of the In Crowd. The flight attendants stood in the front, arms crossed, looking like they had Centre Court seats at Wimbledon. I couldn’t stop staring at that entire, enormous smoked salmon.

Finally, and with outward disgust for the unwashed masses in First Class, Fabulous French Lady ohlalalalalalalala’d her precious pooch back to the floor. A cease-fire was called, and a tense lunch service resumed.

When it came time to serve me, I asked the stewardess where they stored an entire, enormous smoked salmon. Without missing a beat she said, “On the wing” and winked at me. My laughter, a heretofore unheard sound in First Class, won me dirty looks from the surly In Crowd. I guess I just didn’t fit in.

There are these weeds in Rome – I’m sure they’re in other places too, but I’ve only ever seen them in Rome – that have long stems that look furry, but they’re prickly. If you grab them without thick gloves it feels like your hand was dipped in acid for about two minutes, which is a long time when your hand feels like it’s been dipped in acid. During those two minutes you’re running to wash your hands and then you’re washing your hands and you can’t think of anything else except the blinding pain. And then the pain subsides and it’s hard to remember how badly it hurt.

This is what homesickness feels like, except the blinding pain is inside you so there’s no washing it out; you’ve got to ride it out until it subsides. And when you’re fully ensconced in a life that’s thousands of miles from the aforementioned home, you pray it does subside because the alternative – a tailspin into abject unhappiness followed by the crash of an enormous life change – is unthinkable. In the meantime, your existence is pulled apart as you go through your life here while your heart and soul are there.

A few things should be noted about homesickness:

• It’s not the same as missing a person or a place, although missing can turn into homesickness if not kept in check. If you’re missing someone, get in contact with them ASAP. If it’s a place you’re missing, do whatever you can to have the place you’re in overwhelm you.
• It’s not the same as home pride. I cry like a baby whenever I hear the National Anthem over here, but it doesn’t make me want to take the next plane to America.
• It’s not the same as negative culture shock, at least as far as expats go. While culture shock is a very real thing, it makes you more pissed off and disconcerted than anything else. Homesickness makes you ache.
• It’s dangerous to mistake nostalgia for homesickness. You can’t bring back the past, even if you go back to the physical place.
• It’s always a big freaking surprise. There’s no predicting it, which means there’s no avoiding it.
• Its trigger is inconsistent. You can look at a photo or listen to a song or watch a movie or hear from someone back home a million times with no homesickness; then it triggers a crushing weight of homesickness; then the next time you’re fine.
• It’s out of your control. Although I’m not sure why you’d want to, theoretically you could work yourself into a lather missing someone through conscious effort. Homesickness is more like actual sickness, like a cold – you’re feeling fine and all of sudden, “Dammit, now where did this stuffy nose come from?”

This past Sunday, Fabulous Cousin sent me a gorgeous photo from his phone of my hometown beach, and wrote that he was having dinner with my parents later on. I wanted to be there so badly! I miss my beach, and my family, and those long late summer afternoons around the table or out on the porch. I miss people dropping in all the time for coffee. I miss the heavy, salty air at night and listening to the sound of the waves from my bed. But I’m not homesick.

I miss Rome as well, although not as strongly because I’m there so often. But there are times, especially in the summer, when I wish I was walking with Marco along the aqueduct to Luca and Alfio’s house for a rooftop dinner, or exploring some hidden corner of the city with Leo and Vincenzo.

New York, though. New York is my Achilles’ Heel of homesickness. Right now, in fact, I’m having a nasty bout of homesickness for New York and it sucks. And this time, I’m blaming the gays!

Of all the things in this world that don’t affect me directly, there are two I consider personal “hot button” issues – education and gay rights. I actually can’t even defend them at length, because after about 30 seconds I get so worked up I start crying. A couple weeks ago was Montpellier’s Pride parade, and I cried through the whole thing. And don’t get me started on scenes about education in The West Wing; I’ve watched that show so many times, I start with the waterworks in anticipation of the dialogue I know is coming. Frankly, it’s embarrassing; but I won’t apologize.

All this is to say that I woke up on Saturday to the news that New York passed a gay marriage law. Yay! I watched the speeches from the floor of the State Senate, and yes, I cried when a woman yelled THANK YOU in the silence that followed the cheers that followed the vote count. I was so proud of New York. And as I clicked through the many photo galleries of celebrations, I wished with all my heart that I could have been there to join in the party.

But I didn’t feel homesick until I saw a photo of the Empire State Building lit up in rainbow colors. BOOM. A part of my soul detached, traveled over the Atlantic, and settled itself somewhere between Bar & Books and Corner Bistro. A picture of movie night at Bryant Park, which usually brings back happy memories, instead made my heart hurt. I often imagine “Empire State of Mind,” a great anthem performed by Alica Keys, being played before a Knicks game at Madison Square Garden; this time it was as if New York itself was reminding me of my roots, and calling me back. Even the sound of an American police car siren on a show I was watching hit me like a punch. And the show wasn’t even set in New York! Ridiculous. Stupid homesickness.

And then, this morning, it was gone. I’ve returned to sanity, and a strong desire to have fun right here – at this home, my home. Here and now.

Just let me listen to this song one… more… time:

My father is the original foodie. He’s not the most verbose man on the planet – I’ve always maintained that he says five things a day, and they’re all hilarious – but he lives to eat, and doesn’t mind telling you all about it. Whether it’s the crappy excuse for a hoagie he had in New Mexico in 1981, his much-adored pescatore recipe or the latest “chow-down” with my parents’ friends, he can recall almost every meal he’s ever had with an impressive clarity and describes them with sometimes overwhelming passion.

In fact, sometimes he’ll call me simply to talk about food. I’ll know food is going to be the topic, because he starts with my name instead of “Principessa,” which is how he starts when he’s just calling to chat.

“Chris. It was pastine soup weather today. Oh man, was it good.”

“Chris. Your mother’s gravy was a hit again this year.”

“Chris. We did a Sharon Chen’s run last night. Mehdi had like 900 crab legs.”

“Chris. Your grandmother made gnocchi. I think I hurt myself.”

For Father’s Day, then, I thought it fitting to post a picture of my father doing what he loves best: eating dinner. If you’ve ever been a guest in my parents’ home – and there are legions of you – then it may come as a surprise to see my father eating anywhere other than at the head of that enormous marble table in their dining room. But when it’s just us we each eat when we’re hungry, which for my father is right after an early shift.

He works in a grocery store, so he calls the house each day to see what he needs to bring home for dinner (even if we’re eating at separate times, we usually eat the same thing). Well, wait. First, there is a discussion about what to have for dinner that he starts in one of three ways:

1. “What am I bringing home.” He has no idea what to have for dinner, and is praying my mother and I have thought of something, which is unlikely.
2. “What do you think of this.” He’s been mulling over an idea all day, and is ready to spring it on me.
3. “Put the water on.” We’re having pasta.

This last one, much to the chagrin of my carb-averse-but-pasta-loving mother, happens a lot.

For those aforementioned legions of you, what he’s doing in the photo should be obvious: he’s putting some fried hot pepper seeds on a bowl of pasta.

My father’s hot peppers are legendary. He fries up seeds and flakes in olive oil until they almost burn and no one can breathe, then transfers them to a container. Actually, several containers:

• The main jar at home
• Another jar at my aunt’s house in Florida, where my parents spend the winter
• Smaller jars at various cousins’ and friends’ homes throughout the tri-state area
• Several orange prescription bottles for pasta emergencies while dining out

While it’s true that I have many of my mother’s mannerisms, I am my father’s daughter when it comes to food.  I’ve inherited my father’s love of pasta and, within the last 10 years or so, his affinity for these hot peppers. However, I’ve never had them in my own home. But when I was in Rome earlier this year, I found a huge jar of seeds and flakes that were begging to come home with me. Since then they’ve sat patiently on the shelf until it was warm enough to have all the windows open while frying them up.

Well, that day has come. I’ve fried up those bad boys, and drained off the oil into a bottle. (It’s the hottest oil I’ve ever tasted, holy crap.) The seeds and flakes went into a Bell jar. And on this Father’s Day, even though I’m thousands of miles away from my father, I’ve felt the call and I’m going to put the water on.

So. I got a Eurail pass in the mail this week, courtesy of my France Travel Guide peeps at BootsnAll. I’m super excited to start using it. Since it’s good for 15 days over two months – and I can travel on as many trains as I can during each day – it’s going to take some planning to be able to visit as many places as I can this summer. I envision long, fun days of hopping on and off trains, running around gorgeous towns and cities, and then heading off to the next place on my list. BLISS.

I’ve definitely got to get to Lyon and Toulouse. Bordeaux and Biarritz are also on my list. There’s also a ton of tiny towns I want to visit. I have a huge map of France tacked to my wall above my desk, and right now it’s looking more like a menu of delicious, multi-course meals of travel. REALLY excited.

At the end of summer is an epic road trip with Melanie of Travels With Two and Mike of Vagabondish. It’s the first time I’m traveling with other people who write about travel for a living, and I’m psyched for that dynamic because we all come at travel form different perspectives. Also, they’re both awesome and hilarious. I’ve been put in charge of vacation home rentals and hotels in a couple cities, and Mel’s handling the rest. It’s going to be so much fun, I can barely wait!

This, of course, is coming off of an epic road trip I just took, with a friend of mine who came over for my Jubilee Year following my 40th birthday. We met up in Paris and visited Normandy, Brittany and the Loire Valley. Chateaux were seen, amazing meals were eaten, and we never got really, really lost. I’m trying to figure out my editorial calendar at WhyGo France now based on everything I learned and discovered, so I can’t post a lot about it here for now – but I reckon that by next week I’ll at least be able to show you some of the outstanding pics I took.

And that was after a whirlwind couple of months that started with an MK girls’ weekend in Nice, some quality time in Rome with the Gay Mafia, and a quick jaunt from Paris to Normandy with a couple of friends to see the American WWII Memorial.

What I won’t be doing this summer, sadly, is heading back to the States. I had two great summers there in a row, and the summer before that I was in Rome. It’s time to stick closer to home, and take these shorter-distance, daylong jaunts. Also, for goodness sake, I live in the South of France! I’m going to the BEACH!

Knowing my readers as I do – many of you personally – I know you’ve all got plans as well. Where are y’all off to this summer? Tell me everything!

Tune Hotels operate on the Ryanair model: Charge a low base price, and then make the customer pay for “add-ons” normally considered a given in civilized society. And you know what? I’m OK with that. I’ve used Ryanair and easyJet to skip my way across Europe on a budget. If you’re going to charge me a 99 cents to fly to Sicily, I’ll gladly fork over 20 bucks to check a bag if I need to do so.

And, in Tune’s cheeky little promo video, they ask the question: If you haven’t used a hotel’s sauna or gym, why should you pay the same price as someone who did? Again, I’m on board with this. If it means that I get a perfectly fine hotel room for dirt-cheap, let someone else pay to exercise while on vacation – a foreign concept if I ever heard one.

There’s also the other side of the hotel coin – luxury hotel “perks” like pillow menus and duvets made from the gossamer wings of angels. Could you charge a little less, maybe, and not make me suffer the embarrassment of discussing the finer points of a lavender scented pillow with a perfect stranger?

Now that we’ve gotten the diplomacy out of the way, let’s take a look at what Tune Hotels is really offering. Since I’m eurotrash, we’ll use Tune Hotel’s Westminster, London location as an example.

First, their tagline: “Five-star beds for one-star prices.”

According to that same promo video, the first half of this ambitious manifesto appears to be true: They’ve gone and bought beds from the same bedmaker that supplies unnamed “five-star hotels.” Their thread count is an impressive 250, if you’re into that. Also, although I’m not sure if this is measurable, they also have the same water pressure. And, really, those are good features in a hotel room at any price.

However, they literally mean that just the beds are five-star. They’ve placed these five-star beds in a one-star hotel. Because the last time I checked, an 8-sqm room (86 sqft) is not five-star. Neither is having to kneel on the toilet to use an airplane-restroom-size sink. Also, I don’t believe there are any five-star hotels in the world that offer 11 windowless rooms.

Which brings me to the second half of the tagline: one-star prices. (I’ve converted all prices to USD, because otherwise this is gonna get confusing.)

To continue with the Ryanair comparison, a flight from Rome to London on June 16 will run you $38.85. With the stupid nickel-and-dime fees, the total base price is $85.78. The next lowest fare I can find is Alitalia, for $227.30. That’s a savings of $141.52, or 62%. Even if I got all the Ryanair add-ons, it would still run more than 50% less than the next cheapest fare.

The thing is, a plane is a plane. It’s not like Alitalia is going to offer you something more spectacular than Ryanair. You get a seat on a plane that takes you to London. Boom.

But even with all the many variables in choosing a hotel, Tune just doesn’t make sense – and certainly not for the hype.

The cost of a Tune Hotel room, with or without windows, on June 16 is $131.43. This is what they consider a “one-star price.” And, looking at other one-star hotels in the Westminster area of London, it’s about on par: On Expedia, the Park and the Corbigoe are both $103; the Wellington, $133. No big savings there.

Then we get into the Tune add-ons.

On Ryanair, it’s relatively easy to avoid the add-on charges – extra baggage, travel insurance, getting a text message about your flight. With Tune Hotels, not so much. Here is a screenshot of the add-ons I’ve chosen to make the Tune comparable to the other one-star hotels of equal or lesser value in the same area of London:

This brings my total to a whopping $181.41, putting it well above the price of a comparable one-star in the area. And, no; there is no gym or sauna in the Tune Hotel to opt in or out of. You’re opting out of maid service and towels – which, the last time I checked, were included in the price of both my hotel room and the room of the person who uses the hotel sauna and gym.

The amenities they do include, like CCTV, 24-hour reception, security guards and the fact that you can enter the hotel without needing a special access code, made me wonder what it would be like to stay in a tiny, windowless room with no comforts at a heavily secured facility. Unfortunately, to find out I’d either have to check into a Tune Hotel, or commit a crime.

The question remains, then: Who is falling for this?

A lot of people, if their site is to be believed: They’ve just welcomed their one-millionth customer (all hotels in the chain combined, since 2007).

But perhaps the question should be – what kind of a person thinks this is a deal?

Chances are, we all know someone who would think they were getting one over on The Man by staying at a Tune Hotel. They’d make their lives one huge inconvenience for some perceived savings – when in fact, they could pay an equal or lesser amount and have the basic amenities offered in any decent hotel.

It reminds me of a person I once met who wore his frugal traveling ways like a badge of honor, and had the horrifying stories to prove it. He was staying in possibly the seediest hotel in Manhattan – and after our dinner together, during which he did a fake wallet-reach while we all put in extra to make up the balance of the check – took what had to be a $25 cab ride back to said hotel, even though we stood not 50 yards from the nearest stop on the most efficient, cost-friendly public transit system on the planet.

I guess it’s all about what you think is important while on vacation. To me, the hotel is everything. I don’t need five-star luxury, but I want it to be a nice break from being at home (where I do have towels, but have to pick up after myself). For some, maybe a hotel is simply somewhere to pass out at the end of the day, and traveling throughout the destination in luxury is more important.

What do you think? Am I totally off the mark on this one? Is Tune Hotel singing your tune?

So, I have been going online to see what I need to look like for my trip to Europe. I have already transitioned from full coverage foundation make-up by Kevin Aucoin to tinted moisturizer by MAC so that I have the Parisian nude look. Also, I am working on reducing my pores. And, I am going to buy lots of black clothing although I hear Scott should purchase brightly colored pants for Italy. Additionally, I have to find very expensive shoes. Any other suggestions?

-In which my very best friend in the whole wide world prepares to visit me. AND I LOVE HER FOR IT.

• Lady in the front seat of the bus who loudly explained the entire route to her cell phone caller. PYRAMIDE, COLOSSEO, LIBICANA, PORTA MAGGIORE, I’M GETTING OFF AT SAN LORENZO, YES, YES, RIGHT THERE, RIGHT. She was probably 75 and had her hair did and fabulous sunglasses and carried an orchid plant the size of a small child and an enormous foil-wrapped chocolate Easter egg.
• When a young woman next to me answered her phone and began talking loudly, an ancient woman started matching her in volume while speaking to the front seat lady about how rude it is when people speak loudly on the bus. Her tirade included such gems as, IN MUSSOLINI’S TIME YOU WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ABLE TO TALK ON THE PHONE LIKE THAT.
• Then a tiny nun got on and started speaking over this din to the driver, in the most high-pitched voice I’ve ever heard: DO YOU KNOW THE SANTA SOMETHING PARISH? DO YOU GO THERE? CAN YOU TELL ME WHERE I NEED TO GET OFF THE BUS?
• Front seat lady joined in: I’M GETTING OFF THERE, IT’S IN SAN LORENZO, I’LL TAKE YOU.
• Tiny nun: OH THANK YOU BECAUSE I AM NOT FAMILIAR WITH THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
• Ancient woman: HAPPY EASTER.
• The niceties went on for quite some time.
• There was a girl in the seat across from me with a canvas bag that read: YOU ARE MY STIFF HELL in big letters.
• Will start incorporating this phrase immediately into daily discourse.
• While getting my new scheda for my Internet key, the lady at Vodaphone who has now seen me like four times finally asked me outright, What the hell do you do on the computer? I explained to her that I work online. She was like, yeah but 5 GB a week? I found this the perfect time to school an Italian on what it means to “work online” and how the Internet works in the rest of the world.
• She was impressed and said, I want a job like that! I said, hold on, I’ll be right back.
• I then went to the edicola and bought this month’s Cosmo and showed her the article I’m in (which was about working virtually – and how you can, too!).
• Her boss offered to buy us all drinks. I said, no thanks. She said, But if you don’t it will bring bad luck. I said, OK a peach juice then.
• A waiter from the cafe around the corner brought us a tray of cookies and coffees and my juice, and we chatted for a while.
• I KNEW THAT ARTICLE WOULD PAY OFF.
• In peach juice, apparently.
• The Coop was packed with entire families buying everything they need for the next four days.
• If you’ve got that many people in your family, nonna can stay home with little Francesco and you can leave the rest of us in peace.
• I had to schlep 10 kilos of sausage and fresh mozzarella (long story) to three different tabacchi to buy mezzi tickets, because it’s the end of the month and no one has any.
• Hipster juggler in the middle of the street at a red light.

I’m in Cosmopolitan Italia this month!

They put Beyonce on the cover, though.

Look at and/or download a PDF of the article by clicking here.