Vespa to Ventimiglia! -- Nice, France

The person who has lived the most is not the one with the most years but the one with the richest experiences.

~Jean-Jacques Rousseau 

Baris took me to Italy.

Baris took me on his Vespa named Sophia to the beautiful seaside market town of Ventimiglia.

I love riding on motorcycles and vespas. I love the wind whistling through my helmet, the adrenaline rush of speeding alongside other cars, the close proximity to the landscape through which I travel, dismounting and having to worry about burning my legs on the exhaust pipes, feeling my eyes water a few moments after I lift my visor.

I'm as happy as a puppy with his head out the window.

We arrived early afternoon, parked the bike, and went for a stroll. Just being in Italy felt good. The atmosphere was different, the way people walked was different, the way they they dressed and the way they looked at you was different. Things felt open and friendly and low-key. There were several restaurants lining the seaside, two of which were pizzerias that offered a vast array of gluten-free pizzas.

Dear Italy, 

I'm going to marry you one of these days. 

Love your celiac friend/fiancé, 

-Aimee

The pizza places were closed and wouldn't be open until seven (and that's really early for a Mediterranean dinner), so Baris and I went to find some coffee. I wanted to order a latte, but I remembered that Italians think that there's something wrong with you if you order any caffeinated beverage with milk after noon, so I stuck with an unobtrusive americano. When the server delivered us our drinks, she delivered them as shots with a little metal pitcher of hot water, the way one would serve milk with tea/coffee.

"She lets us ruin our drinks ouselves," Baris said as he sacrilegiously poured the steaming water into his espresso shot and took a bite of tiramisu.

Baris and I had a list, so after using the cafe toilet and paying the bill, we set off on our Italian treasure hunt. Our plans were to smuggle the following back into France:

• Porto
• Kalua
• Olives
• Sun-dried tomatoes
• Parmesan
• Provolone
• Dried sausage
• Nutella
• Honey
• Pesto

Is this not the best list you've ever seen?

Such sublime sun dried tomatoes. They had a sour kick to them that I've never tasted in the store bought variety.

Parmesan! A passion Baris and I share.

The man from whom we bought the cheese and sausage gave us another piece of cured meat to "eat at home". Just because. "This is something that vould never happen in France," Baris pondered. "People in Italy are just so nice."

After purchasing the tomatoes, cheeses, sausage, and a few pieces of fruit, we stuffed our delectable goods into Sophia and went down to the beach. We had a couple of hours to enjoy the sea until our pizza place opened for dinner. Like the prodigy I am, I'd forgotten to slip my swimsuit on underneath my clothes and spent an embarrassing ten minutes fumbling with my pants, shirt, undergarments, and Baris' large coat before I could stand up in my swimsuit. There are as few changing rooms on Italian beaches as there are public restrooms in Italian towns.

The old man strategically positioned in front of me seemed to find the entire scene far too interesting.

Baris submerged himself completely, swimming out into the Mediterranean like a fish. I admired his aquatic aptitude from the safety of where my toes could touch. Swimming has never been my particular forté, and I'm envious of those who don't flounder around like a petrified chicken (which is my particular forté) when fully immersed. Sighing dejectedly, I simply enjoyed the sensation of the waves against my body and the pebbles beneath my toes and let Baris go about his refreshing business of being a fish. I used the "I'm keeping an eye on our things" excuse to justify my milquetoast attitude regarding relinquishing my firm footholds.

We dried off, ate our bananas and peaches, compared dogs to their owners, and strolled back into town to pursue the other items on our list.

"I don't want to change again," I looked down at my black sports bra and coral colored shorts and the old man who still seemed to be calculating the virtues of different angles. "Do you think they'd let me in the shops like this?"

"Yes," Baris replied immediately. "And they vould probably give us a discount."

"I'll let you ask for it," I dubiously eyed my pasty belly, not entirely convinced. 
 
So we eagerly entered one of the "smuggler's" shops and bought Porto, Kalua, pesto, honey and Nutella.

Baris forgot to ask for the discount.

We still had a few minutes before seven, so we continued our promenade down the beach.

 

Bullet holes?

Empty beaches that make me think of sickly sleeping flamingos.

The man on the right is so Italian

I just liked the light peeping through the clouds matching the light peeping through the windows.

I changed back into my clothes next to a dirty pile of empty beer bottles under a bridge and then joined Baris in an enthusiastic walk towards our dinner of gluten-free pizza. After several ordering mishaps, I ended up with a four cheese pizza and half a liter of wine (which was part of the mishap -- Baris said my breath smelled so strongly of alcohol on the way back that he could have lit it on fire).

The pizza was rich, melting, greasy goodness. The wine was strong, warming, and inviting. The company was just perfect.

We drove back to France on Sophia in the dark, city lights of Nice shining in the horizon and cool evening breeze rushing over us as we sped down the coastal roads.

Today couldn't have been any better. Every part of my body and soul felt super-saturated with happiness.

I've noticed a trend, as of late. What happens when I say, "things couldn't be better" is similar to what happens in cliché cartoons when someone says, "things couldn't be worse" and it suddenly starts to rain harder or lighting strikes.

I thought "things couldn't be better", and then Baris made me a White Russian and we watched my favorite animated film. 

I don't know what to do with all this happiness. I'm so full that it's glistening, dripping off of my body like sweat after a good yoga session.

Preconceptions: People in the Riviera shave. Body hair is as rare as cellulite and tan lines on the natives of Southern France.

Challenges: None today.