I returned on Christmas Eve. The air was sultrily warm with the feint scent of eucalyptus.
These are all lies. I got off the plane with a greasy face, doubly greasy hair, jeans that undoubtedly smelled like plane food (Big Michelle can probably attest to that as she likely smelled the shit out of her clothes once she got home), boots that (probably) smelled like pee (no comment) and a set of dentition that were in desperate, desperate need of a good brush and floss.
The air did not smell like eucalyptus. But it did smell like home.
This past month has taught me a lot. It has taught me that living with your two best friends for an extended period of time brings you closer than you've ever been before. It has taught me that everyone poos, just like the book. It has taught me the joy of flat shoes after walking for a month in heeled boots (small heels but still. I'm an idiot). It has taught me that gelato is best eaten on a strict schedule (exactly between lunch and dinner and preferably everyday). It has taught me that three is better than two, especially when there are public transport systems to be navigated and dark, Venetian streets to walk through. Especially when you are really shit at reading maps and have 25kg of luggage to lug over cobbled streets. It has taught me that cobbled streets quickly lose their charm when you have 25kg of luggage to lug.
It has taught me the joy of having something new to do everyday. It has taught (reminded) me that eating and exploring food really is my greatest source of joy when travelling. I've given up even trying to pretend otherwise as I thought it might make me more primitive or lacking cultural sensibilities somehow. Screw the Tate Modern (sorry, Little Mishelle) and Oxford Street (sorry, Big Michelle) and those fancy looking apartments at the Louvre (sorry, sorry). Fuck the Eiffel Tower (sorry, sorry, sorry).
Give me Borough Market any day. Give me street stalls, neighbourhood boulangeries bursting with a shittonne of pastries I've never tasted before. Give it to me all. Write me a dirty song with those words and I will sing it to myself as I loiter creepily at a Florentine pizza shop, willing one of those pizza guys with their strong, delightfully Italian (read: hairy) arms to marry me (marry me!).
More than anything, I wish I'd put a bit more extra effort into researching the cuisine of each city/country we visited. I wish I'd been more generous with my calories and budget and gone all out. I wish I'd spent the month previous slowly expanding my stomach volume so I could really eat.
My next holiday, I suspect, will be devoted to food. I want to go on a culinary tour and learn how to make bread. Make bread good. Make good bread. And then eat good bread. Eat bread good. I want to learn how to make fantastic gelato and then make every pear flavour under the sun. I want to persuade one of those artisan boulangeries to take me under their wing and teach me the secrets of the croissant au beurre. Then I want to eat it.
And then, then, then, I'm going to return to Florence. I'm going to go to this place: http://www.tripadvisor.com.au/Restaurant_Review-g187895-d1155597-Reviews-Gusta_Pizza-Florence_Tuscany.html Every night for a week. Eat every pizza/calzone on their menu. And, in that week, I will persuade one of the pizza guys (or even the Jess Mariano-esque waiter) to marry me. I will move to Florence, work at Gustapizza (oh, Gusta), eat leftover dough scraps cooked to crisp, doughy perfection in their beautiful woodfired oven and go to Grom for fantastic gelato every night with my delightfully hairy pizza-making husband.
It will be glorious.
J
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