In September of 2022, we spent three and a half weeks traveling through my ancestral homeland, filling our bellies and hearts with the beauty and pleasures of one of the most magnificent countries in the world. We were floating blissfully in the liminality of the seasons. The hot and sticky climate of late summer had officially given way to the pleasantness of early autumn, where daily afternoon gelato could still be enjoyed alongside truffles.
We had sojourned from the oh-so-grand Grand Canal of Venezia to the bustling, awe-worthy artistry of Florence, and now found ourselves in my family’s region of Lucca. It was our last day and the feeling was bittersweet. Tomorrow, the train would take us towards the coast and then south, ending our trip with a crescendo in Rome.
We arrived in Lucca the day before La Luminara di Santa Croce; over spritzes at this charming little corner spot, we watched the little Piaggio trucks install frames of votive candles around every window. In the following days, we ate and walked and ate some more, exercised our subpar Italian with the nonnas at the water fountains, and gasped at the expansive Tuscan landscape from every vantage point we climbed.
In the late afternoon on our final day, I decided to stay a casa for a rest and a shower before dinner. He said he had a secret errand to run and would return in an hour. In Florence, we had casually shopped for rings along Florence’s Ponte Vecchio and paused at every gioielleria window in town. After nearly ten years together, marriage was a topic we discussed openly as a “maybe someday.” Perhaps it was l’amore in the air or the vino, but it was now very much on the mind. So, in honesty, as he closed the apartment door behind him and set off solo into town, I thought to myself, “is he doing what I think he’s doing?” It was five days before our anniversary and signs were pointing that this would be one to remember. He arrived back at the apartment nearly thirty minutes late with no evidence of shopping bags, but he had made a reservation at the adorable spot where we’d enjoyed aperitivo on our first day.
A small, outdoor, candlelit table and a somewhat suspiciously gracious staff awaited us. Drinks arrived with a bowl of taralli. We cheersed, sipped, and held hands across the table, recapping our time in this idyllic country. Then, he took both of my hands tightly in his. They trembled gently as he spoke softly of our shared life–the homes we’ve made, the joys and the trials, the bright future ahead–and, before I could process what was unfolding, he slid from his seat and knelt beside me, presenting a matching pair of locally crafted, hammered wedding bands. Our anniversary was still nearly a week away, but the magic of Lucca called for this to be the place, and now to be the time.
As if on cue, prosecco arrived. I glanced around shyly at the sidewalk peppered with other guests and to my pleasant surprise, they were still chattering over their wine and stracciatella. This moment was all our own.
And there, 8,000 miles from our little island home, with glasses of Italy’s best bubbles, in the small town of many generations before me, we both chose to say a big yes to life together.
