“Due caffe latte, per favore,” my husband requests our normal order to our waitress. We sit across from each other in front of the café, at a metal table set atop uneven cobblestones. I have the perfect view to people watch. Local shopkeepers prepare their stores for the hordes of tourists to descend later. A man on a bike delivers produce to the restaurant behind us (including the biggest lemons I’ve ever seen). Occasionally, luggage wheels click down the cobblestone as a couple like us walks to the train and away from this idyllic, little town.

We unhurriedly sip our espresso and savor croissants for another thirty minutes before we, too, roll our luggage to the train station up the hill.

“I wan unny capiwah,” my two-year-old son said and looked expectantly at his grandparents. They simultaneously turned their heads to me for translation.

I asked him to repeat what he said, then worked through the jumble of syllables. I thought about what he had been doing that morning, what he could be wanting. Then I asked him, “You want to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar?”

He nodded eagerly, and his grandparents let out a relieved sigh that I had been able to understand my sweet son’s muddled speech.

“This is the worst day ever!” my five-year-old daughter screamed while large, hot tears fell onto her pink dinner plate. I sighed and looked over at my husband, who shook his head in exasperation.

“What about going to the splash pad with your friends?” I asked her. “Wasn’t that fun?”

She sniffled and gave a slight grunt in agreement.

“And we watched a movie and had popcorn after rest time. Did you enjoy that?”

She nodded her head reluctantly.

“We even had macaroni and cheese for dinner, your favorite.” I reminded her. “You’ve had a wonderful day!”