Everyone told me I’d hate Venice and love Florence, but that’s not what happened. Instead, I hated Florence and fell instantly in love with Venice. I wasn’t an intentional honey badger on this one, I promise. In fact, we spent weeks debating whether or not to even go to Venice having heard such lackluster reviews of the place, but Florence was always on the list. It wasn’t even a topic of debate, really, it just was. Of course we’d go to Florence, we said. Because it’s Florence. 

I can’t remember when we discussed it or when we made the decision, but at some point, between America and the Middle East, we decided. “We’re going to Italy,” he said.

We thought it was time to go home. We’d spent almost three weeks scampering around Italy, starting in Rome and meandering our way north to Venice. Everything was packed, we had comfy travel clothes on and we were ready to go home, ready to be in one place for more than a few days. We took a boat to the airport, checked our bags, had one last glass of wine and got in the line to board the plane. It was a bittersweet moment. The trip we’d spent our lives dreaming about was coming to an end. We had some feelings.