Black Diaries

67. Manners and Manors

What followed was not so much a honeymoon as a wild rush of fairytale-like wonderlands. We embarked on a dream vacation across Europe, starting with five days on the Cornish Coast, followed by a trip to the continent via yacht. It wasn't long before the shore appeared before us—but what shore? We started sailing up a river and still I didn't know where exactly we were.

"Where are we landing?" I demanded, hopping up and down at the railing excitedly, squinting into the sun, trying to make out something on the coastline.

"Wait and see," his Lordship answered with a mysterious smile.

And I did see. Only moments later, I caught sight of a towering, pointy shape in the distance, rising lonesome out of a sea of houses.

"Good God! That isn't...?"

"Yes it is."

"Paris?"

From the upper deck, where he was standing wielding the wheel, he smirked at me. "No. We're going to another city with an Eiffel Tower."

I threw my sandwich at him.

We spent two weeks in Paris, sailing down the Sein, touring the wildest nightclubs in the city, climbing on the Eiffel Tower at least a dozen times, and probably committing sacrilege by making out on top of Notre Dame. And do you know what? That nickname Paris has, the 'City of Love'? It's totally justified.

Next, we flew via private plane straight across Europe and took a train up into the mountains. A week spent in the quiet village of Lauterbrunnen in the idyll of the Swiss Alps was more than enough of a respite from our wild nights in Paris. Our next stop was in Italy, but on my request, we made a little detour to the village of Fucking, Austria, just to see whether it was really there. It was, and that night we stayed in a charming little hotel on the edge of the forest and let ourselves be inspired by the village name.

In Italy, we went from Florence to Rome, from Rome to Milan and from Milan to Venice. By the end of the week, I had seen more ancient towering columns, beautiful statues and intricately painted ceilings with naked guys on them than in my entire life so far. Particularly of the letter there was an acute lack back home in Hilly Springs, Alabama. When we finally stood on the bridge of sighs in Venice, it was the most romantic climax to a journey ever—until tour guide came along and offered to tell us why the bridge was called the bridge of sighs.

"Oh yes, please tell us," I sighed, snuggling into my husband and looking out over the canal, imagining all the loving couples who must have uttered sighs on this beautiful bridge. "It has to be the most romantic story."

"Hwell," the tour guide said with a bright smile and thick Italian accent, "Sis bridge, you see, connects se Doge's palace hwith the Prigioni."

"Prigioni?"

"Se old prisons," explained the tour guide, his smile widening. "Sis bridge was se place hwhere se condemned prisoners could utter a hlast sigh before being executed. Sis is how it got its name."

Okay... that wasn't quite the romantic story I had imagined. But it was still a very nice bridge.

After all those cities, I was ready for some time outdoors. A charming little inn somewhere the Black Forest was our next stop, where we spent two weeks tracking, kissing, watching squirrels gather nuts and, at mealtimes, trying to order Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte without tying our tongues into knots.

Last but certainly not least, there came our cruise through the Mediterranean: a week of sunshine, splashing waves and the absolute bliss of being the only passengers aboard the ship. We could do anything we wanted on board. Anything at all. And trust me, we did—particularly at night.