Italy's the kind of place people dream about visiting, and spend several long, laborious years saving up just to have a taste of that pistacchio gelato-flavored, flaming Tyrrhenian dolce vita, even if only for a week in summer. I'm lucky enough to have Italy as my literal backyard. I split my time between Paris and the South of France, so I'm always a short 1 hour flight away, or when spending summers in Menton, a 7 minute train ride from our southern neighbor.
I can't tell you the number of times I've been to Italy over the years, and taking into account the fact my maternal side of the family partly hails from Lazio—although my rusty, conversational Italian probably peaked at 8 when I still frequented my pious, jingoistically-ciociara great aunt's house—I think it's fair to say I know the country quite well.
