Love Isn't Linear and Neither Was 2024
A little off-roading along the way will teach you many things about yourself.
In true Jenn Rice fashion, I met a stranger while eating a jamón sandwich at the Barcelona airport, just two days before the clock struck midnight to ring in 2024. I was on my way to see Roberto in Padova for New Year’s Eve, determined to wake up with him to start the new year—even though, much like Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride, I found myself itching for a getaway car. Meeting his family for the first time felt like a claustrophobic chokehold around my neck.
Back to the stranger in the airport. A few bites in, she mentioned she was traveling solo through Asturias, where I’d just come from. We exchanged a few more words and somehow ended up on the thought that most people have become comfortably numb in life. And of course, Pink Floyd. While I’m certain the song is about drug use, it still resonates: a feeling of emotional numbness and isolation, surrendering to the rat race of life. I think about this often as I travel around the world looking for whatever it is that I am looking for.
My word for 2024 was "space." Outer space, too much space, not enough space, please give me space, make space for others, the space between. I wanted so much space between what was and what could be. I wandered through many far-out places, hoping to learn more about myself. Along the way, and with many frustrations, I found my personal space: a dose of peace.
At the beginning of 2024, I put a lot of space between Roberto and me. I evolved, trying to reintroduce myself to him in April in Lake Como—and then again in June, in Padova. Truth be told, I had already grieved our relationship months prior. I got on the bus to the airport after that last visit, shedding my final tears. I tried. And I did love him—just not in the kind of way.
As the year went on, I noticed many of my peers seemed to be on the brink of exhaustion. I don’t blame us—over-showing up is constant. Remember back in 2017, when we could post just one photo on Instagram? When our brains weren’t fried like an egg sizzling on the concrete in Sevilla, Spain, in July? Yeah, that kind of fried. In 2024, I found it daunting to post and write captions while traveling—but I also had one of the most fulfilling years yet.
I don’t have photos of many of these moments because, well, I was so immersed in them that they don't exist in the digital world. But if you're reading these words, I hope they paint a picture in your mind. I didn’t make a goals list or a vision board for 2024, but if I could rewind and make one up, it would look exactly like my year.
Southern Thailand taught me that balance is the key to almost everything in life (I have an essay coming out in Condé Nast Traveler to kick off the new year on this topic!). Going back to the word "space," it’s important to space things out—even the smallest tasks, like hydrating throughout the day versus chugging several glasses at the end of the day when you realize you haven’t had enough. Too much of a good thing is never good, they say. I find this true for love, as well.
It was the year of visiting places I love over and over again—and I can’t recommend this enough. Along the way, I fell in love with Turin and Sardinia and ended up falling even more in love with Venice and Tuscany. FYI: Sardinian men are a wild and sexy breed. I organically crossed paths with one last summer and shared a meal of porceddu (suckling pig, slowly cooked over herbs) with the crispiest skin I’d ever had. It threw a little North Carolina barbecue nostalgia my way. The restaurant was finished with service long before we realized we were the only two still lingering, lost in each other’s eyes, discussing music, the world, and nostalgia. My research isn’t conclusive, so I must go back soon…
In Scotland, I discovered that I am, indeed, a dram girlie. This year, I plan to write more about whisky.
A great friend and I road-tripped from Dublin to Valentia Island in Ireland and had one of the most ridiculous B&B experiences that felt like it was out of a horror-comedy (is that even a genre??). Flowers in the Attic meets Scary Movie meets House on Haunted Hill meets a Saturday Night Live episode. We booked a B&B for two nights, and upon driving up the daunting driveway, it seemed the pictures were from another era when the exterior wasn’t so tarnished and in desperate need of a power wash. Inside, white paper signs with the word “private,” sloppily written in crayon by a child, were taped on many of the doors. The vibe: like your aunt told you she cleaned all day for you, and there was still shit everywhere—and she put out her best palm tree comforter and sheet set for ya. The next morning, we sat down for breakfast, and the owners served us a half-ass spread with completely bare feet. We checked out a day early, but it remains one of the most fun(ny) times I’ve had with a friend! I text her from time to time with a photo and a note that says, “Never forget.”
This year I learned that love isn’t linear. But wow, I had some of the most perfect moments—including a very sexy tour through Tuscany that started with a picnic overlooking the countryside. There were many stops in medieval villages, views to take in, roses to smell, and dinner at a cozy Michelin restaurant in a charming village—and at every stop, the most delicious make-out sessions. What should have been a 2.5-hour drive ended up taking around 8 hours, and I wish I could go back to this day often. I still get goosebumps when I think about it. The dates with him are like stepping into another era where chivalry and romance collide in the Old World; and where the tiniest of gestures melt my heart in a way that It’s never been melted before.
This summer, I learned what it was like to fall in love with a child—and the heartbreak of leaving him each time I drove off into the rolling hills. The excitement and tears that uncontrollably poured down my face when I knew he still remembered me when I returned weeks or months later. I once missed a FaceTime from him because of the time difference, and it wrecked me. The gift of not wanting to birth a child but still feeling parental instincts for a little one (albeit, he's getting a little opinionated and sassy) is one I’ll cling to forever.
My personal favorite articles I wrote in 2024:
Washington Post: Blue Crab Invasion Upends Italy’s Culinary Traditions and Ecology
Outside Magazine: Utah National Park Trips: One of Utah’s Most Remote Restaurants Is Taking a Stand
Garden & Gun: The Joy of Juneberries
Condé Nast Traveler: How to Support Asheville Post-Hurricane Helene
Wine Enthusiast: Champagne Has Entered Its ‘Wherever, Whenever’ Era
Culture: Home is Where the Cheese Shop Is
The question I hate the most as a food writer/journalist: “What’s the best restaurant you’ve been to?” or “What’s the best meal you’ve ever had?” This question is anxiety-inducing. But if I were forced to answer this year, it would be Algiubagio in Venice. Chef Daniele’s dishes are extraordinary. I always order whatever treasured sea pasta tricked out with lagoon ingredients is on the menu. The entire team is wonderful. I can't not go if I'm in the area, and I've sent many friends here this year.
Side note: Have you ever been so happy to buy toothpaste? Marvis is my happy place, perhaps because it reminds me of my 100% happiest of happy places: Florence.
On Maui, I wrote an entire cookbook, To Lahaina, With Love, featuring 30+ chef stories in tandem with the Lahaina wildfires that destroyed the area in 2023. It flushed up so many emotions, and simultaneously, my friends and loved ones experienced a similar fresh hell in the mountains of Western North Carolina from Hurricane Helene. What I did learn: life goes on, and the smiles of those who lost it all were a gift I can never be thankful enough for. Bonus: I got to work on the book with two badass women who love on Maui!
I also contributed to When Southern Women Cook: History, Lore, and 300 Recipes with an excerpt on light rolls—a buttery roll I used to devour during holidays and at Nic's Pic Kwik in my hometown to sop up some of the grease from the perfectly fried chicken.
In Florence, a friend said, “This kind of shit only happens to you,” after I texted her about my lunch escapade with a very sexy, older Italian man whom I originally thought was my waiter. Turns out he owned the (very popular) restaurant. After persistently flirting while I finished my panino, he convinced me to step into the side room for amaro, and we somehow ended up slow dancing. I blushed the entire time, especially when he looked me dead in the eyes and said he wanted to have sex with me. I returned a couple of months later only to find him pissed because I ignored his calls and texts asking me out on a motorcycle date around the countryside—but we quickly made up, and he gave my friend and me a shot of limoncello.
I celebrated my 42nd year under the sun with friends from South Carolina on the French Riviera. Timing just fit like a glove. “All you have to do is show up,” they texted me. And I did. A beach club for the day into one of the most memorable dinners of 2024, which started with the largest crudité basket I’ve ever seen—full of vegetables, eggs, avocados, and more, plus many dips like bagna cauda. It seriously weighed over 10 pounds. We were there for hours, cry-laughing the entire time. Same time, same place, 2025? We are in talks of exploring all the quirky Riviera restaurants that have been around forever.
I also dined at Mirazur for my birthday and fell hard for rose onions and Menton lemons. One of the most touching and meaningful dining experiences I’ve had, full stop.
Dancing to Deana Carter’s “Strawberry Wine” after several bottles of rosé with a girlfriend under the Tuscan sun is a cure-all. Dance (and sing) like no one is watching—and that’s just what we did, barefoot and all. So is waking up at dawn to tend to the garden, and by noon, when the sun tells you it’s time to go inside before you melt, feeling accomplished. Can’t wait to get back to the tomato garden and also dive into channeling my dad’s green thumb.
A friend’s only request for Florence was an affogato. Even after Sam Youkilis blew up Vivoli Gelateria, we can attest it’s still worth the lengthy line. Creamy gelato spread onto a pre-chilled cappuccino cup, leaving a square in the center, is perfection every single time.
“You have nowhere to go,” a Parisian man told me as I zipped up my carry-on and stormed out of a toxic environment on my country’s election day in Paris. I went to Batignolles, an area that always feels like home to me, and discovered one of my newest favorite hotels by sheer discovery: Hotel Eldorado Paris. Très chic.
Men always try to impress me when they find out I’m a food writer, but my Bordeaux lover planned the perfect date: dinner at his place. He texted me before the date: “Do you like Saint Jacques? You like truffle too?” I replied, “Is this a trick question?” Duck rillette, truffled meats, a baguette with a bottle of delicious Domaine de la Taille aux Loups Chenin Blanc to start, and I watched him cook Saint Jacques (scallops) while we listened to music. Dessert was obvious: cheese, but not just any cheese…cheese from Mons in Lyon. Did you know that après-sex digestif is a thing? Neither did I. Limoncello was everything I didn’t know I’d been missing. He’s kind of parfait.
The year ended on a whirlwind trip around France where I: took myself to see the opera inside the The Royal Opera of Versailles, ordered macaron room service at Hôtel Les Lumières, got hooked on legit apple juice in Normandy, got a true taste of the Provençal countryside—and even biked around the rolling hills in search of a cool wine bar. I stayed in a castle with the most exquisite historical drawing rooms adorned with Genoese leather and 18th-century Chinese wallpaper. And from there, I was baited to Les Bords de Mer after reading about a raclette rooftop party overlooking the sea. I then spent several days re-visiting Menton, lured back in for Mauro Colagreco’s Menton lemon panettone—where I rekindled with a fast friend and met some new friends who drove me to Dolceacqua in Italy, arguably one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen.
I stuffed my carry-on and weekender bags with two panettone, four bottles of wine, a bottle of Calvados, jams tucked into sneakers (a la lack of space), and lots of stinky French cheese and hopped on a multi-train route back to my Italian family on Thanksgiving day. No-pressure holidays are the best. I ended my time in Europe on the new Riverside Luxury Cruises along the Rhine for holiday markets, with friends, new and old. I’m still trying to work off the calories.
The holidays have been intentional time with friends and family back in the South, including a very merry raclette Christmas dinner tradition with good friends that my mom got to take part in.
On New Year’s Eve Eve, my Lyft driver told me she was sorry for all the single people out there like myself after she trauma-dumped on me about her toxic relationship for 18 minutes. Dear Kiana, please spare me. I have approximately seven wonderful men in my life at the moment who both respect and pleasure me. What else do I need? I am already mourning over moving into a new year at the speed of light and, as the note says in the beginning, I miss you already.
To all the PR folks, hoteliers, restaurant owners, bartenders, bakers, chefs, makers, and friends-like-family who embraced my spontaneity this year: I am forever grateful. It either is, or it isn’t. It either works or it doesn’t. Anyway, that’s… amore! Cheers to the end of 2024 and the beginning of 2025. I hope it’s a spacious year.
As for the evolution of Bitchen, starting next week I’ll kick off a new column, “Fck, Marry, Spill,” with an amazing bartender I met on Ischia a couple of years ago—and I’ll be doing more storytelling here.
xxJenn
Fantastic from start to finish
Beautiful essay! Loved the honesty 🙏