Stateside Expectations, as it were.

In my mind, Italy seems a strange "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" amalgam (of contradictory traits). That is, I expect the richness of history, of literature and art; however, I am afraid my expectations still too American. As a female--raised in a microcosmic, Southern demographic--I've been spoon-fed the Italian (or exotic European) fantasy, the rags-to-riches fairy tale--mostly by my mother. I grew up believing beauty to be how tiny my waist, how blue my eyes, how white my teeth, and how blonde my hair. I was, in part, manicured to find and marry a rich man. But, unfortunately for my mother, I am smart and independent. I want to saturate myself in other cultures, in other languages, not men; I want to fill my poetry, word-for-word and line-by-line, with the specifics of every moment. A man cannot make my poetry desirable--but, perhaps, some particulars of him can help influence my work, to a degree. Nevertheless, a part of me still entertains the possibility of a Letters to Juliet or Midnight in Paris romance, something more than a rendezvous and a love that isn't fleeting. As badly I try, in my mind, the pasta still tastes like my favorite dishes at Provino's or Olive Garden; the wine is my cheap, Walmart Lambrusco; and it is not a crime to eat carbs-on-carbs with carbs. To show a little more of my ridiculous ignorance: I cannot help but picture Spoleto something a little similar to the town Belle (from Beauty and the Beast) lives in. Yes, it is a provincial point of view, I know. I imagine the men and women captivating, partly due to their Italian-tongues. The wine and gelato will flow like "milk and honey," I suspect. And I will sip espressos every morning with my strawberry scone. How is that for "baggage" and stateside expectations? American, sì?