Expectations for Lugano were pretty high. Apparently, this is where the likes of George Clooney, Martha Washington, and Jesus H. Christ vacation (okay, okay, I made up two of those; Jenny told me that a bunch of famous people hang out here, but I could only remember Mr. George). So if it’s good enough for Batman (that is his career defining role, right?), it’s good enough for the Bourques. Lugano is only about an hour away from Milan, so we took the train up in the morning, and booked a return trip departing at around 8:00 PM CST (Clooney Standard Time).

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Ah, Venice. The city of love.  The city of lights. The city that never sleeps.  The city of brotherly love. Venice has many names, just like it has many alleys.  Some may call them “streets,” but, you see, Venice has no cars, and the “streets” are only wide enough to walk on.  In addition, about 50% of them dead end (more on that later), so I think “alleys” is appropriate. Those of you whose trades rely on alleys (muggers, watch salesman, illegal abortionists, etc.) take note: Venice is your city.

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In the master plan for our trip, we were using Milan for its location, much like one would use a bidet to wash away poop. We had no particular interest in what the city had to offer. While Steve is known for his sophisticated wardrobe, and would be well served by Milan’s high end shopping (what, no Burlington Coat Factory?), there would be no time for such extravagances.  Our goal was to take day trips from Milan, and return in the evening, when it was too dark to have to see anything.

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This leg of our journey began several weeks ago.  The train from Barcelona to Milan was one of the few parts of this trip that Steve was responsible for booking.  Unfortunately, online reservations were not an option, and the booking office was located in the UK.  I woke up at 4AM on a Saturday morning to make the call over Skype, and spoke with a delightful chap from the London office who informed me that this train happens to be one of the most expensive in all of Europe.  Even better, the only available tickets were in the special extreme extra super duper double grande class.

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Upon arriving at the first destination of the trip, Steve learned that Spain isn’t where burritos are from.  Same language, different food.  Very confusing.  Instead, the locals eat waffles with ice cream  for dinner, and rice mixed with fish and vegetables for dessert.  And while “tapas” and “topless” sound very similar, they are actually distinctly different types of restaurants.

Also, Barcelona would hold another disappointment for Steve: the large statue of Jesus on the mountaintop that he had hoped to see is not, in fact, from Spain, either.

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The time has finally come.  After 3 years of beating around the bush, 6 years of dating, 2 years of engagement, and 4 months of marriage, it is finally time for a honeymoon. Exactly where Steve and Jenny will be going will remain a mystery (mostly because the person writing this blog is not entirely aware), but all will be revealed in time.

Check back soon for more info, and the first stop on the voyage (after Herndon, of course): Barcelona, Spain.

The bags are packed (well, Jenny’s is), the itinerary is set (thanks to Steve), and the fridge is almost perishable-free (just one pound of Swiss cheese to go).  Today, Jenny and Steve will finally head over to Europe for some weeks to find out what this Tea Party fuss is all about.  Keep an eye on this space; you’ll either find regular updates about Jenny and Steve, or just this post.  Either way, you can enjoy Madeline and Matt’s farewell gift, the beautiful wedding portrait of Steve seen above.