The art of...romance

The romance of Italy has less to do with art and architecture, and more to do with finding poetry in the everyday,

- ANNA HART

Italy is often called a romantic destination. In the context of travel guidebooks, brochures and websites, I tend to bristle at “romantic” as an accolade. It evokes the chintz and cheese of a cheap restaurant on Valentine’s Day, all pink balloons, teddy bears and crap chocolate. But despite these associated clichés, “romantic” is a dangerously evasive target, a nebulous concept which if you aim for, you will surely miss – whether you’re a restaurateur or a would-be lover. (Aim for “thoughtful” instead, always.) Aside from the intrinsic naffness of an intentionally “romantic” hotel or restaurant, there’s something intensely insulting about a one-size-fits-all approach to pleasure. I certainly feel affronted that this destination, restaurant or hotel professes to know what turns me on. Whether we’re talking about floral interiors or toe-sucking, what one person finds romantic, others find revolting. Humans are complex, diverse and weird, and these are our very best qualities. So I recoil when I see the word “romantic” used to sell me stuff, expecting me to find the same stuff sexy as the next consumer.