That time we went to Italy

In the morning, no one spoke of the urinating. That’s one of the difficult things about marriage. It divides you in ways that other things don’t. The fact is that my sister and I would have laughed over the frequent bathroom breaks if not for spouses, but there we were, pretending as though I hadn’t spent half the evening looming over their sleeping forms and cursing at the darkness. Though, to be fair, one does not usually talk of urine at breakfast.

          For breakfast we have espresso and coffee. At that point in time in my life I’d never had coffee. I’d always found the taste too strong and was waiting for enough of my taste buds to die off before I took up drinking it. One of the difficult things about being a guest is that you can’t turn your nose up at breakfast like you can otherwise. I don’t eat oatmeal at home because it tastes like exactly what it is, meal, a term generally used to denote a poor texture. And yet, serve it to me for breakfast, maybe throw in some blueberries, and I’ll probably tell you that I’m taking a bite out of heaven because I lie fairly frequently, often without meaning to.

          I love coffee now, and I learned to love it on that trip, but I suppose, more specifically, that morning. Many other moments in my life have followed a similar trajectory: fear or distaste followed by pleasure. For instance, for years I didn’t talk to women only to discover that it’s surprisingly easy, in large part because they tend to listen better than most men and are generally more empathetic and have similar interests as mine including 19^th century novels, the Pride and Prejudice series done by the BBC and Ryan Gosling.

          I hadn’t thought of it in quite that dichotomous of a way before: the difference between night and dark. And yet, there was a life before I enjoyed a coffee and a life after I enjoyed coffee, which began that morning. I’d always found the taste to be bitter and strong, though I quickly learned by watching my Italian brother-in-law that copious amounts of sugar poured into thimble sized espresso cups can make the experience far less bitter than I’d first supposed was possible. At times, I wondered if the cup had enough room for all the sugar he was adding.

          Afterwards, we had cookies that we were to dip in coffee. Having espresso and coffee on the same morning cured me of my distaste, though the coffee was cut rather heartily with milk. I treated the first few sips daintily, like a woman of proper 19^th century upbringing should, fearing that the rush of taste would leave my tongue stricken as it always had before. But it didn’t. In fact, it was pleasurable. And that’s how I learned to love coffee. A similar introduction to roller coasters ended with me nearly throwing up and the girl I was with requesting that I sit out the next ride, so I’m not saying that it’s always wise to toss the baby bird out of the nest in order to make it fly, but it’s not the worst idea.

          In the afternoon, we’re taking the train from Bologna to Florence. My sister is sad because she wants us to stay with them for longer, but I couldn’t abide staying with anyone for more than a week in a foreign country. There is too much of the world left unexplored. And though I’m usually partial to red wine and conversations that last late into the night I also feel a pull out towards the open road, into unexplored streets, ancient histories, dusty hikes.