A young Italian woman; a prosciutto and fig pizza. When Elizabeth and I took students on the first trip to Italy—48 of our closest friends—we had a soda at sunset in Venice. They were hard to drink because our mouths were flopped open, in wonderment, at the way Italians come out just before dusk, dressed to the nines, and beyond. They were stunning—even the Italians close to our middle-aged years. Lots of leather, of course, oversized dark glasses, long-legged parade walks. They looked good and they knew it. They were enchanting.

What brought them to mind was the humble ravioli I made for dinner. It’s is not at the summit of the culinary arts, but it struck me that Italians food is just as beautiful as those Italians at twilight. And Italy itself. Here’s the ravioli, salad and the berry crisp that Elizabeth made, which is sublime (sweet and tart; crispy and fluid).

All of this made me miss Italy, which I’ve described many times as “My Happy Place.” It is so beautiful, as is its food, as are its people. I miss you, Italy.

I guess it was this film and its opening that made me fall in love with Italy a long time before I traveled there.

Wait. This one, Only You, which came out about the same time, helped, too.

This film came out later, and Cher is Armenian, not Italian, but she gets it. And, good sweet Lord, she is beautiful.

And as you drive up Italy, from Rome to Florence, there are vast fields of sunflowers, estate houses, guarded by cypress, that likewise stand watch over wheatfields, marble quarries cut in great oblong slices—Michelangelo swore that there was marble dust in his mother’s milk—and, every ten miles or so, Medieval towns perched atop the hills. In Umbria, one such hilltop is crowned by St. Francis’s church. Italy is almost impossible, But it isn’t.