No matter where I've been overseas, the food stinks, except in

Host: The airport café buzzed with a tired kind of chaos — the hum of announcements, the clang of cutlery, the soft complaints of travelers chasing one last cup of mediocre coffee before another flight. Outside, planes glided across the runway, their lights blinking like distant stars—every one carrying someone away from something they didn’t know how to stay for.

Jack sat slouched at a corner table, a half-eaten sandwich before him, staring at it with the disapproval usually reserved for bad news. His grey eyes carried that familiar mix of cynicism and boredom—the kind that comes from too many hours between departures.

Jeeny arrived moments later, pulling her coat off with a sigh, shaking off the chill from the terminal. Her hair clung slightly to her cheek from the damp night air. She glanced at the sad excuse for food on Jack’s tray, then at him.

Jeeny: “You look like a man who’s just been betrayed by bread.”

Jack: dryly “I think this sandwich is a crime against humanity.”

Jeeny: smirks, settling into her seat “Carmen Electra once said, ‘No matter where I’ve been overseas, the food stinks, except in Italy.’ I think you’d agree with her.”

Jack: grunts “Truer words never spoken. I’ve eaten my way through airports, hotels, and corporate dinners on three continents—and I can confirm: culinary disappointment is global.”

Host: A waiter passed by, balancing a tray of steaming airport pasta, its smell somehow both artificial and nostalgic. Jeeny’s eyes followed it with faint amusement.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like the world’s feeding you personally out of spite.”

Jack: half-smiling “Maybe it is. Every country claims to have ‘soul’ in their food, but the minute you leave Italy—boom—it’s all processed, prepackaged, and pretending to be something it’s not.”

Jeeny: “You sound heartbroken.”

Jack: “I am. Italian food ruins you for everything else. Once you’ve had real pasta in Rome, you can’t go back to microwaved carbonara in an airport lounge.”

Host: The coffee machine hissed, releasing a puff of steam that curled like memory. Outside, rain began to fall—a soft, rhythmic tapping against the wide glass windows.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny. Food’s the one thing that’s supposed to bring people together, but the more global we get, the less flavor everything has. Like we traded taste for convenience.”

Jack: “We didn’t trade it. We sold it. Fast food’s the new diplomacy. The world doesn’t want character anymore—it wants consistency. Same burger in Tokyo, same fries in Berlin. Same lie everywhere.”

Jeeny: teasing “You talk like a chef who’s been betrayed by globalization.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Maybe I am. There’s something sacred about food when it’s made with time and care. You lose that, you lose the story behind it.”

Jeeny: “And Italy still tells the story.”

Jack: “Italy is the story. You eat there, and it’s not about flavor—it’s about belonging. Even the air tastes like it was seasoned centuries ago.”

Host: He leaned back, his eyes softening, the faint ghost of nostalgia crossing his face. Jeeny watched him with quiet interest—the kind that comes when someone sees a cynic accidentally fall into sincerity.

Jeeny: “So, what is it, then? The food, or the feeling?”

Jack: “Both. It’s the way they treat a meal like a conversation instead of a chore. Nobody’s rushing. You can’t rush when the sauce takes five hours and the wine’s been waiting thirty years.”

Jeeny: “Sounds almost romantic.”

Jack: shrugs, half-smiling “Maybe it is. But that’s the thing about Italy—it makes you believe in romance even when you know better.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, each drop tracing a tiny story down the windowpane. Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You think that’s why people fall in love there? Not with each other—but with the world itself? Maybe it’s easier to love life when it’s served on a plate that tastes like art.”

Jack: “That’s the secret. Italians figured out what the rest of us forgot: that food isn’t just sustenance—it’s conversation, connection, culture. You can’t mass-produce that.”

Jeeny: “You can try. But then it just tastes like silence.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The sound of rain, footsteps, and distant boarding calls filled the air—a strange symphony of movement and waiting.

Jack broke the silence, his tone quieter now.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s why people like Electra say things like that. It’s not just about taste. It’s about truth. Everywhere else, life feels processed. But in Italy, even the food remembers it’s alive.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe that’s why Italians don’t eat alone. Every meal’s a confession.”

Jack: looks at her, amused “You really think food’s that deep?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Food’s how we tell the world who we are. And if we stop caring about that, we stop caring about being human.”

Host: A nearby announcement called for boarding—Flight 319 to London. The sound of rolling suitcases echoed like slow thunder. Jack looked at his uneaten sandwich, then pushed it away with quiet disgust.

Jack: “You’re right. This isn’t food. It’s punishment.”

Jeeny: laughs “Then let’s go to Italy.”

Jack: “Right now?”

Jeeny: “Why not? You’re always talking about how it’s the only place left with flavor.”

Jack: grins faintly “You think we’ll find something better there?”

Jeeny: “I think we’ll find something real.”

Host: The rain slowed as if it were listening. The lights above flickered, throwing their reflections across the wet glass and the silver edges of suitcases. Jack stood, shrugging on his coat, the faintest trace of purpose returning to his step.

Jeeny finished her coffee, leaving behind the faint imprint of lipstick on the rim—an echo of elegance in a place built for transience.

They walked toward the gate, the hum of the airport growing louder behind them.

Jack: “So, Italy, huh? You think love tastes like tomato and basil?”

Jeeny: smiling “No, Jack. Love tastes like effort.”

Host: The camera would follow them then—two silhouettes weaving through the sterile brightness of the terminal, leaving behind the smell of reheated food and the fatigue of modern travel.

Outside, the rain cleared, revealing a single streak of moonlight cutting through the clouds.

And somewhere beyond the runway, a country waited—where food still told stories, where time still had flavor, and where, as Carmen Electra once said,
everything except love and the pasta was perfectly cooked.