I will never travel with my nearly grown sons through Italy. Let’s just say that. Just as they will—probably—never buy an espresso with lire or navigate the world without a handheld map that knows their exact location and the likelihood of a coming squall to hamper their hike along the cliff side from the villages of Corniglia to Manarola. That world is gone. Instead, we follow our children down manicured paths through an overdeveloped inland swamp, whispering remember you must—we all must—die in their ears as they find their way through worlds rebuilt and worlds that never were.
