“Italy” carries a certain connotation. Maybe it’s garlic or wine or narrow cobblestone paths. Perhaps it's portico-lined streets with outdoor cafes where diners take three hours to finish a plate of prosciutto. Or it’s fit men and women in slim-fitting clothes, driving fast cars, and saying everything with a passion so strong the words they use don’t even matter.

Which isn’t inaccurate, necessarily. But also doesn’t account for Snapchat-story-obsessed tourists packing those cobblestone streets. Or waiters in those cafes so exasperated with people asking for gluten-free pasta they rush them out before they have time to order a second Bordeaux. Or those natty Italians jumping in those fast cars and driving out of the country to avoid the visitors.