My lunch of a slurp-worthy tomato, aged parmigiana, and foccacia bread caused me to make the most unattractive and satisfied noises. With each bite of the magical combo, I licked six fingers clean. An occasional sip of frizzante water washed it down with excitement. Lying in the sun, my book on Tuscany makes me think less about my present location and more about my age and what I aim to milk from this experience. What is my idea of the sweet life? Mine is passion: for friendships, the air, the food, the wine, the sweets, the meals made by hand, the time spent thinking, walking without destinations or time tables, the language, writing, and more. My sweet life also brings me to a yogic-like state of self-awareness in the present: by the wind, moving water, the flicker of light, a taste, a smell, an internal understanding of my own being.

At a moment of rest, I feel my body shake as though I am seconds before going on stage. So much to be actualized and all the magic I envision, I beg to come true, if only to set my mind free and establish this city and country as my Mecca.