When I dream of Italy, I dream of Stresa. In 1969, the summer of Woodstock, my boyfriend and I hitchhiked around Europe, along with thousands of other backpacking American college kids. We stayed in sleazy, cheap hotels, got robbed while sleeping on a French beach, and fended off pickpockets in the Milan train station. Broke, weary, squabbling, we arbitrarily went to…
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