We work. We live in this fantastic city ... but it costs so much to live in this fantastic city, so we have to work. We work late; we work weekends. We forget to enjoy our fantastic city, because we're too busy working. We work so hard to live in our city that we need to get away, if only for a little while. Because we live in the city, we have to work hard enough to save enough to leave the city. Just for a little while; we work to get away from work.

Remember Rome? Remember when we got away from our city, for a little while, and enjoyed someone else's? Remember walking the streets at night, past ancient ruins and their more modern similacra, looking for a place to get a glass of wine or a late dinner? Remember the abbachio arrosto at La Campana, the oldest restaurant in the Eternal City, just north of the Piazza Navona? Remeber thinking it was the most perfect piece of meat we'd ever tasted?

Remember how I dragged you, starving, through so many narrow streets, past so many crowded pizzerias, in search of three words in the window that would tell me it was safe to enter? Remember how I raced to snap a photo of our wood-oven pizza before you tore into it with your knife and fork? Remember the difference between that pizza and every other pizza you've ever eaten?

Remember Rome? Remember Florence? Remember the Osteria in Santa Croce with three different names, just up the block from Vivoli (remember the gelato?), where we worked our way up to an enormous bistecca alla fiorentina with a plate of tuscan crostini -- smooth, tender white beans; creamy liver paste; rich, salty lardo? Remember the first time you dipped cantuccini into a glass of vin santo?

Someday we'll go back. Someday we'll summon up those memories and strike out to make new ones. Until then, darling, we work.