While she initiated Allegra into the pleasures of adult beverages, I swept my gaze over the table. The chairs next to me were still vacant, and I counted nine people so far. I did a quick catalogue, making the initial assessments that had always served me well. A family of three—their son looked to be a bit older than Allegra. One older couple who looked around Mom’s age. And two female friends in their late twenties who seemed carefree and excited for the adventure ahead.

I settled down. No one seemed to throw me off or give off bad energy. God knows, I didn’t want to get stuck with a bunch of annoying people for three weeks. I murmured, “Grazie,” when the waiter slid the plate of prosciutto and melon, entangled delicately with a few sprigs of mint, in front of me. Thick, crusty loaves of Italian bread were set out in baskets, with olive oil and pepper drizzled on small plates. My fingers twitched with the need to taste, and I reached halfway toward the basket before snatching my hand back. There’d be more carbs to choose from later, and I’d need to be careful.

“Bread is life, signora,” an amused, lilting voice echoed from behind me.

I turned around, startled. Our tour guide—was it Enzo?—stood before me, a half smile resting on his full lips. Was he judging me as one of those typical Americans who refuse good food in the name of thinness? I really wasn’t like that, but I also knew if I gobbled up pasta, sweets, and bread for a month, I’d never fit into my designer suits again. Food had been delegated to sustenance, not pleasure, for a long time. “Too much life and I won’t be able to zip up my pants after the tour,” I quipped, softening my answer with a smile.