This might sound a little silly, but I was pretty upset when Princess Diana died.

My fascination with the People's Princess started when I was just a little kid, already obsessed with frilly dresses and all things fanciful. Her televised wedding was the ultimate viewing pleasure - the Super Bowl for my entire youth. I worshiped her to the extent that every single one of my Barbie dolls was named Diana - even if the scenario called for playing with multiple dolls. Diana, Diana, Diana. All hell broke loose in the house of dreams the day my sister tried to borrow the name for her own doll (but then again, all hell broke loose any time my sister did anything to copy me, so perhaps that is not the best example).

It was a fascination I didn't grow out of. TV specials, books, magazine articles - if it was about Princess Di, I had to get my hands on it. I cheered her on as she ditched weasily Charles and began showing up in public with handsome strangers looking like a total knockout. If I didn't feel like it would be disrespectful, I might mention how knuckle-bitingly attractive her sons turned out. She was beautiful and flawed and big-hearted. And then she was dead.

And I had contributed to her death. Honestly, when you get down to it, it's pretty simple. If it didn't pay to document her every little move - even and especially the most private ones - there wouldn't have been that nasty crash in the tunnel. There wouldn't have been photographers climbing on the car wreckage taking pictures while she was dying in the back seat. How absolutely gruesome.

These days, I have a pretty firm policy about such things. I don't watch tabloid entertainment shows or buy magazines that use paparazzi photographs. Same goes for websites; I don't click on links to stories that obviously invade the private lives of public figures. It isn't always easy. I mean, do you know how much I love Go Fug Yourself? So much. Love, love, love the red carpet rundowns (public appearance = fair game) so admittedly, I spend some time in the gray area, on a site that has its fair share of paparazzi images. Hey, I'm human and I like pretty dresses.

But when it comes to Britney Spears, I am unbending. Because that shit is pure schadenfreude. And it's every where. I was pretty disturbed when CNN had a Britney story in their "Latest News" links, as though her most recent mishap were legitimate news. Really, CNN? REALLY? The girl's obituary is already written (not all that uncommon, from what I understand), and I don't think the media is going to be satisfied until they're running it as their top story. And personally, I don't want any part in that.

When I sat down in her chair on Friday, my hairdresser brought up Britney. "Have you heard the latest?"

"No," I said. "And I don't wanna. It makes me sad."

So, instead we talked about her wedding. Which, let's be frank, I was much more interested in anyway, if only for the fancy dress factor.

I just spent the last fifteen minutes drawing graffiti into my fogged-up patio doors.

I eat popsicles in bed - year round - and leave the sticks on the nightstand. I have an emotional attachment to my tweezers. I love cinnamon toast more than is reasonable. I talk too much, iron my sheets, and speak Spanish to my cat. I take beginning Italian classes on Sundays with my mother. We might be too smart for that class.

I sleep a lot when I'm stressed. I stay home Tuesday nights so I can watch The Real Housewives of Orange County. I have two drawers full of underwear. I like love to floss.

I have a counter full of perfume; I wear the same one every single day. On Christmas, I stopped short of accidentally referring to my stepBob as "dad." I distrust women who know too much about sports or carry Louis Vuitton. That shit is too expensive to be that ugly.

I have really nice hands, good cheekbones and bad posture. I am a terrible liar. I had a fling with a college student while I was in Italy. We set of the alarm at Yves St. Laurent in Florence. I hate whistling more than any other sound on the planet. I love to tease.

Your turn.

Sometimes, when you're in the middle of a kiss, you realize that it's not just a kiss, but a really good kiss. And the moment you realize this, your stomach flips, your toes curl, and your brain goes very, very soft -- so soft that you wouldn't be able to think any important thoughts, even if it became absolutely necessary. And you sigh. In defeat as much as satisfaction, because the kiss has won out over everything else.

That is what Lucca is like. A very good kiss.

The trees raining their leaves - dinner plate sized sheets in yellows and browns, and the smell of bread baking, and the voices of old men arguing about politics and sports as they shuffle by, and the winding cobblestone streets almost vacant of other tourists. I've walked the top of the city walls for hours, once at sunset, to watch the sky turn pink against the hills. My camera is useless here. There's just too much to take in.

I am beginning to think this place is enchanted. I tried to leave -- only for the afternoon, to see Pisa and its all-important tower -- and met with a train strike. The man at the Tabacchiere smiled as he told me.

"No trains until... cinque," he said, holding up five fingers.

I smiled in return. "No trains," I repeated. "I guess that means I should get some gelato and go for a walk."

He grinned again. "Good, Bella. Very good."

So I walked, and then sat in a shower of leaves, read some Paul Auster, and thought, "Yes. Good. Very good."

(A permanent link to my travel blog, On the Road, is in the drop down box on the right)

I am engulfed in sound. It's familiar in tone, but when I try to separate it into words, it becomes chaos. It hums -- and sometimes, roars -- around me, punctuated by the bright noise of wine glasses meeting. Tink!

Eating out is intimidating. Just ordering - no, asking for a table - makes my mouth sweat.

Tonight, I order wine and the scallop mezzalune with lobster ragout - by pointing. It feels so caveman, but I've learned my lesson. I made the mistake of speaking Italian at the first restaurant. A mistake, only because I did it correctly. And in reply, came a flurry of songwords -- some vaguely familiar because of their closeness to Spanish, but mostly foreign and confounding. I simply shrugged in response.

Mi dispiace. No parlo Italiano.

And still, she looked at me as if certain I was telling a fib. As though she wanted to say, But you just did speak Italian. Finally she gave up, grabbed a menu and smiled.

"Okay, dee-ner for one. Yes?"

Sigh. Yes. Dinner for one.

The roar dies, just for a second, and I think I can hear one of my own thoughts. But then poof! it gets lost again as the table next to me erupts in cheers. Accustomed to restaurants where people make polite chit-chat over dinner, the Italian dining experience is an adventure in frenzy. Loud and indistinguishable - it makes me feel drunk. Or drugged. Or underwater.

But I don't mind too much. Because the wine is so excellent - my nostrils get a taste before the glass in to my lips - and the food is equally hypnotizing. And before I know it, it's gone. All the Porcini mushrooms and the roasted pork. Gone. And then another face is floating in front of me, singing words that don't register. After a moment, the face darkens, then brightens.

"Ooh, eez Een-gleesh, yes? You want something else?"

Yes. Dessert.

(I recorded 30 seconds of ambient noise at the restaurant to share. It recorded at low volume, so you may have to turn it up. In fact, DO turn it up. You know, for that next-best-thing-to-being-there feeling.Download it here.)