Holy Cannoli!

Italy was colorful. Not just the scenery of the ocean cliff side villages, but the people and the food. It was all full of color. Pizza with the prettiest freshest pesto you've ever seen or tasted, or even pizza with pink figs and some sort if buttery cream that melts in your mouth and pizza, and pizza, all the pizza! I ate and got fat. I pretended I was Meryl Streap in Mamma Mia and did a cannon bomb into the glistening turquoise water. Alister and I shared our first ever shared bottle of wine with some eggplant parm then got really italian under the covers!

In Florence we continued to play Italian with constant bickering and yelling. (I never can tell if the Italians are yelling or just talking) we may have not been the sweetest to each other during Florence, readjusting to each other was weird. But at least the backdrops of our heated drama was pretty and all... Duamo and Tuscan landscape filled. Ooh and gilato, LoTS of Gilato.

And that brings me to the south of France. Aww France. Where this Francophile feels she truly belongs. Italy was pretty and all, but France, France just clicks with me. You know how I always tell the story about when I rode my first century and that bike ride liberated me. I always have felt that nothing was more freeing than riding a bike, so in a country where cycling is the national sport, that says something. Not only that, it comes with lots of other perks. No country respects there food and eating there food quit like the French do. Now that's somewhere I belong. Work hard for 2 hour lunch breaks and 5weeks paid vacation and really yummy food and people actually like cycling! Can I please move there! Pretty please.