One of the things that I look forward to the most when I go to Italy (it might almost be a reason for my frequent trips) is a caffè. No. I really believe that sometimes this is my sole purpose for going there. (Sorry sister and friends.) There is just something about the whole experience of having a caffè at the bar in Italy. And no matter how hard they try to replicate it in the States, it’s NEVER (ever) the same.

Great anticipation accompanies the little saucer and spoon placed on the counter. The gurgling of the espresso machine, the clanking of silverware and ceramic lets me know that I am moments away from my little cup of happiness. The hot, thick, faintly sweet liquid melts every thought and slows time. It dances on my tongue. A caffè at home always makes everything better for me. But a caffè in Italy always makes everything perfect, even if only for a few moments. I savor every sip, never wanting it to end, knowing that once I reach the bottom time will quicken it’s pace. The world will once again go rushing by. My moment will end. And everything will return as it was.

Dolce felicita’…