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Some reflections on Italy:

The Food: Above all, anything with porcini mushrooms was excellent. The minimalist pasta strategy (mostly noodles, few “toppings,” not much sauce — if any at all) was a refreshing departure from pasta in the U.S. (overcooked, oversauced, over-ingredient-ed, oversalted, I’m oversimplifying). The veal was much smoother and tastier than any I’ve ever had. The fruit was unbelievably fresh, like you’d get from a produce stand in California. Breakfast wasn’t really a meal (if you wanted eggs, it was called an “American Breakfast”). The croissants were light. After-dinner cappuccinos were a must. Paying for water and bread was an unwelcome adjustment. Zucchini flowers were unexpectedly prevalent. The gelato wasn’t transcendent. The tiramisu was.

Four-cheese pasta at Felice a Testaccio in Rome.

The Landscape: I’m just talking about the countryside here, not the cities. Tuscany looked like northern California, specifically Napa/Sonoma. Not an earth-shattering observation since they’re both wine-growing regions with comparable climates. But still, the similarities were striking. Cinque Terre and the coastal region approaching from the south looked like the Southern California coast, specifically Santa Barbara and Malibu. The palm trees, the rugged cliffs along the water, the beach culture, stucco buildings — none of it looked foreign. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t have a unique beauty.

The History: Clearly, the sense of history in Italy is immense. Not just history, but ancient history, the history upon which history is based. And I was surprised at how accessible it all was. There were ruins and centuries-old churches on every block. We were walking amid the ruins of The Forum, inside the Senate chambers, inches from Julius Caesar’s funeral pyre, in the Coliseum, through St. Peter’s Basilica. We weren’t looking through plexiglass or at pictures, but we were right there among it all. I felt finite next to such grandeur, but it was also empowering to feel like I was at the other end of humanity from these immortal ancestors. Corny, I know, but that’s me.

The People: Italians were kind, generous, gorgeous. They all spoke English, which made it easy — too easy — on us. Overall, it just seemed like a much healthier culture than we’re used to. Cities were slow to wake up. Dinner was a long, deliberate, relaxing process (if you allowed it to be). No one seemed to be rushing anywhere. Everyone in August was on holiday. Shops were closed. Everyone was out of town, or in town from elsewhere.

It was a great introduction to international travel. I can’t wait to get out and explore some more, and hopefully make myself worthy of bolder adventures.

Yesterday marked the first day of summer here in New York. Yes, summer in April. I say that because spring in New York consists of a few perfect yet scattered days in April and May. I feel like it’s always either really hot or really cold, which is depressing since I much prefer fall and spring to winter and summer. Anyway, summer kicked off yesterday. The Fort Greene flea market reopened for the season, as did Cafe Habana Outpost. And the temp very nearly reached 80 degrees. So, you see, there were many reasons to be out and about.

The parks were overflowing with people in shorts and sundresses. Groups of friends were picnicking. It was a day when that communal spirit of New York was pulsing.

We seized the opportunity to behold the low hum of our first hot afternoon. A few of us met in East River State Park and enjoyed “the beach” (where the East River meets the shores of Williamsburg), the revelers, and the views of Manhattan. Then we had a Mediterranean snack at an indoor-outdoor restaurant in north Williamsburg, before G-training to Long Island city to take in a midtown sunset. The views were spectacular. The sun setting behind the skyline and the reflections on the river were breathtaking. I’ll never get sick of looking at this city’s silhouette.

From there we had a bite to eat before getting a random group of friends, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends together for drinks at Pacific Standard.

As much as I hate the humidity and summer here in general — I’ll always remember these warm nights in the city, when you don’t need a jacket even when wandering home at 1:30am, when packs of friends roam the city, when there’s always something else to do before calling it a night, when new faces and new places help you find your sixth wind.

I love these long New York days when life flows seamlessly from adventure to adventure.

It started as a dreary morning. I slept til noon on account of a restlessly late night and the unwelcoming spattering of rain outside my bedroom window. But suddenly there were spontaneous plans to attend to. And the A train whisked me off to DUMBO.

I plodded through the rain-drowned cobblestone streets to the flea market. Inside Jenn and I perused colorful trinkets and sampled homemade treats. Then we rounded the corner to Jaques Torres, where we found a surprisingly extensive selection of kosher for Passover artisan chocolate goodies. We left with some dark chocolate covered matzah, and headed across the street to Almondine, where we sat with coffee (and an oatmeal raisin cookie for Jenn).

When we emerged the rain had stopped. We followed the footprints of the Brooklyn Bridge back toward Jenn’s neighborhood, where we whipped up a flourless chocolate cake, and as that cooled, made ourselves a meal of fish (salmon for me, red snapper for Jenn) and citrus salsa (grapefruit, orange, lemon, cilantro, red peppers).

After a few hours of dining and relaxing, we made a couple of phone calls and suddenly had ourselves a Saturday night gathering at a wine bar. Six great Brooklynites, three delicious bottles of red wine, and various nibbles of chocolate matzah, chocolate cake and cheese made for the best possible spontaneous get-together.

I got home 10 hours and four neighborhoods after I embarked on my original mission. The day turned out nothing like I’d imagined. And it was perfect.