This post is not about sexual adventures I had in Italy. Not that there’s nothing to talk about. But not today, sorry creeps. And could there be anything more interesting than my coffee journey?

Not for me that’s clear and since you’re still reading this 8000 words in I suspect for you neither. Today we’ll visit Venice, Italy together.

I arrive in the city by boat. My girlfriend marvels at the beautiful little canals. As she tries to take a picture I drag her along. I’m blind for Venice’s beauty. Or tourists that cut into my way. I plow through them without mercy. I have places to be.

I enter the first little coffee bar. It’s smaller than my bathroom. That didn’t stop them to install a coffee machine the size of a jet engine. I guess it’s worth more than every car I’ve seen in Italy so far.

I slam my money on the counter and mutter “espresso”. The bartender must have already read it from the desperate expression in my contorted face. The machine starts to do its job. Liquid gold pours into the tiny little cup. First sip. Nice crema. Round taste. However, a bit burnt. But by no means a game stopper. I finally arrived in Italy.

The following days consist of me dragging my friends from coffeeshop to coffeeshop for espressi. Culture my ass. I learn “One coffee please” in Italian. All you’ll ever need, trust me.

The coffees are all good. The marvelous views in Venice add a bit to the magic I’ll admit. However, I have to say it. And I have no shame in doing so publicly. My coffee is better. There it is. Who’s your daddy now Italy?