Falling in Love in Italy

By Jodelle Marx

For as long as I can remember, my mom professed that one day I would travel the world, fall in love, and move far away. She spoke with dread and hope.

I am now 23 and I lived out of a backpack for the past three months. Every few days I changed hostels, cities, and countries.

Today write from the fruitful garden of La Macina di San Cresci, an artist residency and cultural center that overlooks the Tuscan valley of Greve in Chianti, Italy.

Fig trees, palms, and pines rage with morning birds and cicadas. A grasshopper licks her paws on my notebook and the cat just ate a cricket. Beyond the garden wall are hills with olive grove dapples and striped vineyards. Cypress trees hold hands along driveways and Tuscan terracotta roof tiles sunbathe.

During my first few days in Tuscany, I stumbled around in a daze. The beauty and peace are overwhelming.

The second week, I called home: “Mom, I’m staying in Italy.”

She smiled over video chat.

At the end of my third week, I shopped for clothes at the Greve Saturday market and visited a cafe with a friend. I ordered my first Italian cappuccino and my favorite torta di frutta.

The waitress brought out our drinks and pastries. This is when the second half of my mom’s prophecy came true and I met the love of my life: il cappuccino.

What a sacred moment that first sip was. I sprinkled sugar across the top and listened to the sizzle of sugar crystals bursting foamy milk bubbles.

In the States, I worked as a barista and knew what a cappuccino tasted like—or so I thought. The “cappuccinos” that I made back home might as well have been stomach acid and ocean foam compared to Italian cappuccinos.

I was drinking blue skies and gentle kisses. Lifting the cup from its saucer on the table to my lips was an existential discussion between hand and mouth.

“Mom, I’m in love,” I called home. “Her name is cappuccino.”

My mom smirked.