Have I mentioned the Italian guy? I probably haven’t mentioned the Italian guy. I’ve actually been trying NOT to mention the Italian guy, even to myself. However, there is an Italian guy.
If you want to add the proverbial (and in this case, quite delicious) icing to the Irish cake, picture this: You’re all alone, feeling the happiest you’ve ever felt in your life and you’re aware of that moment as it is occurring, and then you’re sitting on the banks of the Aran Islands in Galway (I mentioned you’re in Ireland, of all places), when suddenly there appears, completely out of nowhere, an unbelievably beautiful young man holding a guitar who has the darkest yet softest eyes you’ve ever seen, and he looks at you wearing the kindest smile you’ve ever laid eyes on, and then he starts singing… in Italian.
If there is any woman (or man, for that matter) who tries to deny that falling madly and deeply in love at first sight during a moment such as this is not the absolute only option available, I will say she, or he, does not own a working heart or is a diagnosable pathological liar. There simply is no other option. You fall in love.
And for now that is all I am saying about the Italian guy.