There are a few things I know for sure.
I know, that if your favorite food is pizza and you move to Paris, your stomach will be sad.
I know, that going to Italy after a year of Frenchified Italian food is a dangerous, dangerous proposition- the very mention of which induces a panic among your skinny jeans, the likes of which have not been seen since you bought that birthday cake for up to 8 people knowing full well there were only 2 of you (and really, just one that liked chocolate sooo…)
I know, that you are not supposed to eat pizza when you go to Venice.
I know, that instead you should be drowning your face in their fresh off the boat seafood every chance you get.
I know, that if I travel to any part of Italy and you say, “No pizza for you,” the fiery death stare laser beams that shoot from my eyes will be your first and only warning that you have crossed a line from which you may not return.
I know, that once you realize this, you will aid me on my quest for the best pizza within the floating city limits.
I know, that that pizza comes from one of two places.
I know, that the best slices come from Crazy Pizza, in spite of the fact that it’s superbly un-Italian name and generic outside appearance lend itself to the opposite impression.
I know, that the best pies come from Al Nono Risorto and that its in everyone’s best interest to follow that up with their mind-blowing tiramisu.
I know, that consuming both of these things will only deepen your disappointment when you return to Paris and order up another margherita.
But I also know, it was totally worth it.