There’s nothing quite as satisfying as forcing your teenagers to walk with you down memory lane.

As you read this, we are gallivanting around Florence, Italy, where I originally met Mr. Van Geffen and then went back to get married years later.

We have dragged the children to all the important landmarks. First words. First date. First kiss. Oh you thought I meant churches and stuff?! Nah.

Just outside our Piazza Della Quercia Airbnb

9am to see the Trevi Fountain before the crowds came

Touring the Colosseum where a guide told us that if Michael Jackson concert tickets were free (like the gladiator fights were) you too would vote for the Roman Emperor. Wait what?

Allowing the Spicy One to live her Aperol Spritz dreams. Tastes like expensive medicine to me.

Since my offspring are sick of the topic, might I tell you the story of our Meet Cute from exactly 23 years ago?

The story begins at my graduation from business school at Northwestern in Chicago. I bravely told my East Coast parents they could skip it. Never have I felt lonelier than when watching all the families posing for photos with their adult students in gap and gown.

(Side note: please attend your children’s milestones, even if they tell you not to. )

On a crowded dance floor later that evening, I bumped into an Italian woman who was crying. She was in pain and limping after some assailant had stepped on her foot. I gallantly pulled my new friend - who introduced herself tearfully as Ginerva - to safety and tended to her minor scrape. In gratitude, she insisted I look her up once I arrived in Florence a week later. It turns out my brother and I were headed to her hometown for my post-grad trip.

I hadn’t planned on reaching out (Ginerva seemed a little melodramatic even for me) but traveling with my brother became too quiet. He left town to pursue bungee jumping in Sweden and other perilous events I had no interest in. After wandering around Florence alone for 48 hours without a single conversation except overheard Italian (which I did not understand), this extrovert was done! I found a pay phone and called the number Ginerva gave me. When she picked up, it went something like this:

Me: "Ciao, Ginerva! This is Mary from Kellogg. Do you remember me?"
Her: "Oh, yes, Mary! I remember you. Nice to hear from you!"
Me: "Oh good. Is there any chance I could join you for dinner?"
Her: "Um, hold on a moment - Toad? Toad?! Es OK if someone else meet us for deeenor tonight?"
A new voice in the background (presumably Toad): "Sure!"

Two hours later, I was locking up my bicycle outside Osteria Caffe Italiano. Hovering above me, I heard the first English words of the week…

Him: "You rode your bike here?"
Me: "Oh! You speak English?!"(I had assumed the group would all be locals.)
Him: "I sure hope so."

This tall, Ken Barbie-type smiled warmly at me. I blushed. He was cute!

That night Todd (not Toad) ordered steak. I ordered vegetarian. We ended up sharing our dishes. He was there to visit his best friend who was married to Ginerva!

Our group headed to a dance club next. Todd and I got goofy on the dance floor! Later we watched the sunrise over the Chianti mountains together in my flat. He was a perfect gentleman.

As the birds chirped good morning, I walked him home through winding cobblestone streets. He couldn’t remember where Ginerva’s flat was. Thankfully, once I got him back to the restaurant (to retrieve my bike) he was able to retrace his steps to where he lived.

Before parting, He asked if I would have dinner with him again that night. I said yes.