Page 136 of Italy Can Bite Me

Her face lights up as she mouths back, “I love you too.”

Speaking of love stories that last a lifetime, we’re short a couple of familiar friends this tour. Stan and Rose are off being international jet-setters. Last month, they were in Japan—I saw pictures of them at Lake Kawaguchiko with their grandkids. Another lake checked off his bucket list.

The familiar skyline of Verona appears on the horizon, and my stomach growls. That little pizzeria where I took Katie on our first official date is calling my name. The same one where she lectured me for forty-five minutes about the superior qualities of California Pizza Kitchen and had to eat her words (and half my pizza).

For her twenty-sixth birthday, Katie’s besties—Petra and Cam—outdid themselves. They shipped frozen CPK pizzas across the Atlantic(and probably lived on ramen noodles for six months to afford the shipping).But watching Katie bounce in her seat as she forced me to try BBQ chicken pizza? I would’ve paid double.

Look, I’ll never admit this out loud, but it wasn’t terrible. Don’t get me wrong—Italian pizza is still superiore in every way, but I finally understand why Katie and her friends love CPK. The pizza isn’t just food—it’s the cornerstone of their best moments together.

I haven’t met the infamous Petra and Cam in person yet, but I feel I already know them. Katie’s weekly FaceTime sessions are like watching a reality show where three best friends try to coordinate time zones and life crises across continents.

Here in Italy though, Katie’s officially found her new BFF. She and Caterina are practically glued together—or more accurately glued to their phones since they text as often as they breathe. Most of our free time is spent at the vineyard, where Katie’s revolutionized their inventory system with something she calls “emotional wine categorization.”

Little Luca, Caterina and Enrico’s baby boy, owns every heart in a fifty-mile radius. That kid’s inherited his papa’s charm and his mama’s sass—he’s going to be a holy terror when he starts walking. Katie adores him but has made it crystal clear that she is in no rush for our own bambinos. She loves our life exactly as it is. And so do I… for now.

Thosequality control inspectionsof the wine cellar are a regular thing for us. And mysteriously, we always finish with way less clothing than when we began. If those barrels could talk… let’s just say some escapades are best kept in the basement. Our naughty little secret.

I can’t tear my eyes away from Katie as she shimmies down the aisle—she’s changed me, changed us, so much so, that every time I think I’ve hit peak happiness, she finds a way to raise the bar. I reach for Mamma’s old Nikon—now the keeper of our most precious memories.

Through the lens, I wait to capture Katie’s silly dance moves for what they are.

Charming. Playful. Sexy as hell.CLICK.

Others join in. The Dawson sisters attempt(and fail)the Electric Slide.CLICK.

Chester flaunts his “signature move” which is… enthusiastic knee wobbling I guess.CLICK.

Mamma, Papa, you’d be crying with laughter right now.

They would have absolutely adored Katie. I know it.

They also would love how we spend our days exploring and sharing the hidden corners of Italy. But the real marvel? It’s in those quiet moments between adventures. How she curls into me at night, her strawberry scent fusing with whatever pasta feast we demolished for dinner.

The passion between us burns hotter than a Vegas summer, but now it’s got layers, like a good tiramisu. I crave her like a drug—from her excited chattering about new tour ideas to that laugh that’s pure charm. Hell, even when she teases me for walking into a wall when her ass is distracting. And those little sighs she makes—biting into the perfect carbonara or seeing our tourists fall head over heels for Italy. She’s a damn masterpiece, and I’m hooked.

The music changes to a lively Italian folk song, and Katie claps along, a human espresso shot, jolting everyone awake with her boundless energy.

Suddenly she’s facing me, and her wide smile dares me to catch up to her enthusiasm. “Dance with me, tour guide, before I write you up for workplace negligence.”

“You can’t,” I say, setting down the camera and pulling her close. “I’mil capo, principessa. The boss.”

“Co-boss,” she says, smashing her breasts against me. “And your moves need serious evaluation.”

I take her hand, leading her in a dance that’s half waltz, half whatever-the-hell-we’re-making-up. We twirl along the narrow walkway, backed by the most spirited, off-time clappers on the planet.

We roll into Verona, and—merda—there she sits. The bright red, overpriced eyesore that is the Italy Express bus.

Antonio’s still operating his cookie-cutter operation, but karma’s a beautiful thing. These days their TripAdvisor page reads like a horror novel. The number one scathing review I love most: “Spent more time in souvenir shops than actual Italy. My authentic Italian experience was buying a Made in China Leaning Tower of Pisa key chain.”

The best part? Their disappointed customers keep finding us, begging for real adventures steeped in culture.

Katie catches me smirking. “Stop gloating and help me wrangle our dancing queens off this bus.”

“Just admiring the competition, amore. Or should I say, lack thereof?”

“Your ego is showing.”

“You love my big ego.”

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