This is not an easy month to be a Spaniard. The vaunted national soccer team, which won the last two major international tournaments, just suffered an ignominious first-round ouster from the World Cup. The royal family is in turmoil as well: public support is at a nadir, with the princess facing legal troubles and the king having just abdicated.
Shortly after being sent to Los Angeles for work, my husband developed a grapefruit addiction.
He started showing up at the office with a bag of grapefruits every morning, working his way through a pound or two of citrus before lunch. His colleagues apparently found this amusing. When I went out to visit, I quickly honed in on the source of his addiction.
Fiesole, Italy, is a gloriously romantic spot. High on the hazy hills overlooking Florence, it’s the sort of over-the-top setting you associate with Merchant-Ivory movies about British girls falling in love under the Tuscan sun. Everything and everyone seems beautiful, bathed in golden light.
These are essentially the only activities that matter in Sorrento. The quintessential seaside resort town of Southern Italy does not have a real beach, and the cultural touchstones of Campania are elsewhere: classical ruins in Paestum, volcanic vestiges in Pompeii, archaeological marvels in Naples.