A Summer Fling All'italiano

Cheating with Italy?  Could be a clue...

It’s August and, as part of Parisian protocol, I’m supposed to leave the city.  At the end of every summer, the Parisians flock elsewhere – the Atlantic coast, the Riviera, Italy, Tunisia, New York, wherever they can to get away from the City of Light that slowly but surely is dimmed by an influx of European and North American tourists doing the reverse trajectory.  I resisted baselessly, asserting to stay in the city that I loved during a month when my favorite bakery is closed, when most of my friends are gone, and when the heat – usually – turns my apartment into a sleepless sweaty box that smells primarily of onions and fabric softener.

True love knows no bounds.

Slowly but surely, a friend and I began to discuss the urge to travel.  The desires heightened with each beer that we finished.  We both were staying in Paris for August, but suddenly we both wanted to go to Pompeii.  We both found cheap tickets to Rome.  We both wanted to eat gelato every day for every meal and then all of the sudden – oops – we had planned a trip to Italy.  Both of us, despite our initial inclination to stay in Paris, traded in our homely stay-cation for a sultry vacation, and with less than a week before heading out, I couldn’t be happier that we did.  

Only Italian cheaters make meatballs...mamma mia...

While I feel like I am in an eternal honeymoon phase with Paris, constantly happy to be here and rarely eager to leave, I know that this sensation is fragile and fickle.  At any moment I could snap, immediately wishing I were elsewhere.  I’m hitting the “refresh” button preemptively to ward off any possible negative Paris vibes.

Additionally, there’s no better way to realize that you really love your partner than to have a clandestine affair, right?  Being in the bed of another hot-blooded Latin culture is certainly the best way to realize that you truly love your trustworthy Parisian bed.  Isn’t that how love works?

Oh really?  Italian olive oil?  French wasn't good enough?

So I’m leaving my love for a week to go mess around with Italy.  It’s cheaper to fly there and shack up for a week in a hotel than to shack up with a real Italian hooker here in Paris.  And the pizza will be better, I assume.

I suppose that the best part of going away to another country to do who knows what with Italy is that I’ll return with a whole month of vacation before school starts.  That means during September, Paris can treat me terribly to make me feel guilty for what I’m about to do.  Paris won’t speak to me for a few weeks and will make me sleep on the couch while I beg for forgiveness for my Italian transgressions.  True love.