My wife and I recently embarked on our honeymoon to Sorrento, Italy, a small city on the Amalfi Coast, just south of Naples.
Devoted readers of my newsletter will know that I just got engaged. Well … I’m married now.
Inspiring words in this week’s Mr. Right from the newly-engaged @JohnCFLoftus1, who found love after ditching the Swamp and moving to Real America. Never give up, kids: pic.twitter.com/6ZZtm15G5O
— Mr. Right (@mrrightdc) May 23, 2025
Yes, it was quick. Warp speed for today’s world, where couples will stay engaged for years while they plan elaborate weddings down to the most inane details, like whether the napkins should be embroidered, or how the DJ’s playlist must have the appropriate ratio of tasteful classics to trashy top hits so as not to offend older in-laws.
And no, this was not born of scandal. We wanted something simple, and we didn’t want to wait. So with the incredible help of family and some friends, we pulled together a beautiful, romantic wedding ceremony a day before we set off for a trip, initially booked as a vacation, but which became a honeymoon. (Subscribe to MR. RIGHT, a weekly newsletter about modern masculinity)
In next week’s Mr. Right, I will go into further details about the ceremony and the trip. But for now, I want to touch upon one of America’s greatest qualities that is also her most unappreciated, a quality that I never truly appreciated until I spent two weeks in a southern European country.
Two words: air conditioning.
Italy is a beautiful country, with a beautiful people. Their pizza, admittedly, is better than our pizza in America (unless you live in and around New York City, Brooklyn, or New Haven, Connecticut). Their pasta is better, too. The neighborhoods are walkable and enchanting, and allow you to make serendipitous discoveries. There are no ugly, sun-beaten strip malls, just cobble-stoned, shaded alleyways, with small shops and family-run restaurants.
That being said, nothing in Italy comes close to the sheer greatness of consistent, refreshing, 68°F air streaming out of the ceiling vents.
Our charming hotel claimed to have air conditioning. And they did, albeit Italian-style. Which means, there was no central AC, just a unit in the wall that you could not adjust below 25°C, or 77°F. You could only adjust the speed at which the lukewarm arm was blown. But you could not go any lower. You could not get the room down to that magical 65°F – 68°F territory that we Americans so often take for granted.
To make things worse, when we left the room, the power automatically shut off, which is probably the consequence of some absurd EU environmental regulation that prevents hotel guests from running electricity while they’re out and about.
And we did buy a fan, at a mildly sketchy, cheap, used electronics store for €30. The owner wished us good luck as I tapped my card, as if to say, “I’m not sure if this fan will actually cool you down, let alone turn on.”
It did work, however — it was the best $34.67 I have ever spent. Not because it cooled us down, but because it made me finally appreciate America’s wonderful addiction to ice-cold air.
This article was originally published at dailycaller.com
