because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say
I'm obsessed with taking photographs of the blackboard menus the trattorias and osteria display on the walls and roads around Loano.
It doesn't take Dumbledore to figure out that with six short weeks left on terra Italiana I'm starting to panic about a life without ready access to expert pizza with buffalo mozzarella. Or granita. Ormelanzana parmigiana. Or gnocchi al gorgonzola. Or, or, or... oh hell. Should I just stay for the food? Don't answer that.