oh italy, you had us at gelato

It was hard to leave behind the easy pace of the French Riviera. But it was time to pack our carry-ons and our Saint-Tropez tans and head east. It was going to be a long day of trains, trains and automobiles: We drove to Nice, returned our French rental car, took the train over the border to Italy, transferred to another train, rented a car in Italy and then drove several more hours. It wasn’t the most pleasant of journeys. We had a kid throw up in the first rental car (luckily she had a plastic bag and good aim). On the steamy, standing-room train from Nice, two teen girls pushed their way on just before we pulled out of the station, grabbed a wallet from inside the purse of a woman traveling with her two college-age daughters, and ran. While the woman had my sympathies, she spent the rest of her ride screaming at passengers around her, accusing everyone of “letting it happen,” while her daughters pretended they didn’t know her. I was relieved they got off at the next stop. The car rental — billed by the company as just across from the train station in San Remo — was, it turned out, across from the old train station in San Remo, which closed in … 2001. So a taxi ride later, we were in our new blue rental Fiat and I was silently wondering why I hadn’t budgeted more time in Sainte-Maxime.

Not exactly the Orient Express, but a window seat is always a precious commodity.

This guy loves trains, even hot and smelly ones with poor ventilation!

I wanted to get to our destination, the coastal town of Rapallo, as quickly as possible. We were stopping there for a night en route to Tuscany. I always love arriving in a new place, with its blank-slate promise of something special, even if it’s just a great view or memorable plate of food. I don’t love the traveling required to get from one place to another. Toll booths, gas stations, airport security lines, train bathrooms … if I could fast-forward through them all, I would. But we were hungry, so Rapallo would wait. We pulled off the highway and stopped in the town of Pietra Ligure. A few minutes later we were sitting in a quiet piazza, inhaling pizza. (Shhhh, don’t tell our local slice joint in NYC but after a few bites, Max declared, “This is better than Frescos!”) Across the square was a small gelateria. The following was an actual exchange after the kids got theirs (half chocolate, half vanilla with Nutella swirl) and I got mine (a mixture of Sicilian pistachio and something like caramel but not caramel itself, according to the man with the scoop):
Me (mouth full): Whoa. This is delicious.
Lulu (barely looking up from her spoon, deadly serious): No, Mom. It’s better than delicious.
End scene.

Does this resemble an obscenely full heart (or am I projecting)? Unlike the French ice cream places we frequented, here we could have two flavors — even in the smallest size. Racking up bonus points already, Italy.

After our break, the drive to Rapallo went quickly. That evening we walked from our small hotel, through the sprawling Casale Park, toward the water. The kids played in a Snow White and the Seven Dwarves-themed playground and found an overlook that took our breath away.

This historical villa in the park is now home to the Museo del Merletto, or Lace Museum. It’s also very pretty. — This historical villa in the park is now home to the *Museo del Merletto*, or Lace Museum. It’s also very pretty.

In town we watched swimmers bob in the water right next to Rapallo Castle, built in 1550 to defend against marauding pirates. Then we ate plump mussels from the local waters and pasta with pesto. It was appropriately delicious, given that pesto (also known as pesto alla genovese) is a regional specialty that was born in the nearby city of Genoa.

Mussels, spaghetti with pesto and potatoes, a bottle of perfect, cold white wine and a front-row seat to the setting sun. I could get used to this.

The kids fed the ducks below (see them?) from the bread basket. Don’t judge: the owner herself encouraged it!

Our unexpectedly excellent rest stop, those definitely worth-it carbs, the warmth of the people we met in our first few hours — including the silver-haired gent at the rental car agency who was so obsessed with my son’s hair that he kept playfully aiming his handheld fan at Max just to see those curls bounce — all hinted at the full bellies and hearts that Italy would offer us in the weeks to come. It’s funny how fast moods, just like scenery, change when you’re roving. Just like that, any anxiety I had about our big move and schlep-heavy travel day was gone quicker than you can say la dolce vita.