I’ve been planning a trip to Italy for months. A few days in Rome and then a gravel bike tour in Trevi, in the Umbria region. My first trip back to Europe since 2023. And of course, on the eve of my departure, the government has shut down. Which will likely mean long security lines and delayed flights. Privileged people problems, I know.

I picture me rolling through olive groves, una bottiglia Sangiovese in my bottle cage, plates of tagliatelle and porchetta in my belly and a big, fat American smile plastered on my face. I already know how much the Euros love that kind of thing. Or at least I think I do, based on my experiences living in Paris back in 2011.

That’s when I learned that an eager grin can get you instantly pegged as American. One of my French friends explained to me that our attempt at connection is often perceived as fake, frivolous, even naïve.

I found that out the hard way one day while walking my dog Mac. My husband was traveling and I was alone in Paris for the first time. I was still smarting from a string of humiliating French-people comeuppances. A shopkeeper scolding me for the unpardonable sin of touching something in the window display. A cashier chiding me for not knowing the precise way to queue up for a magazine purchase. And the unforgettable moment in Bon Marché when I knocked over an entire table of Serge Lutens perfumes.

I decided a small bouquet of bright pink tulips from a flower stall near our flat was just what I needed to cheer myself up. I smiled broadly as I handed them to the woman behind the counter, who scowled in return. Just then, Mac lifted his leg to water a large pot of lilies.

“Your dog!” the flower lady screamed, her face twisted in anger. “Ee eez pee-peeing on zee fleurs!”

That was it. It’s not easy being verte. After a day of petite injustices, I had had it. I burst into tears.

The flower lady smirked, shaking her head as she wrapped my tulips. “C’est pas grave,” she said. It’s not a big deal. But her expression said otherwise. It was like Bahhhh, why you cry, American lady? Zere eez no crying een Paris!

My smile didn’t smooth anything over, but it helped me express something deeper. The desire to fit in. To be less of a stranger in a strange land. And the frustration that comes from realizing that being a fish out of water isn’t always eased by a simple gesture. In every ray of sunshine, there is always a shadow of doubt.

Not long after the flower shop incident, my neighbor Anne-Lise told me that Picasso had had an atelier down the street from our flat. You could catch a glimpse of it through her tiny kitchen window. From there, it looked like every other building on the street. But the next day when I walked by with my dog, I noticed a brass plaque by the doorway. It was the place where, in 1937, Picasso had painted his anti-war masterpiece “Guernica.”

Shivers ran through me and I felt myself inexplicably well up. How could something so dark have been conceived here, in this city of light? I imagined Picasso stepping out of that doorway onto this very same street. Looking at this very same light. And seeing something more in the dark. For me, a smile can carry both.

Last week, I decided to try an experiment. You know those ladies who float through the world smiling at everyone for no apparent reason? I’d always rolled my eyes. What are you so effing happy about, I’d cynically wonder. But for a few days, I decided to become one of them. To abandon my resting bitch face and be the crazy, smiling lady.

I pasted on a big, fat smile at the gym, Freshmarket, on Zoom calls, passing randos on the street. But I couldn’t do it. It felt forced. Like I was wearing a mask that didn’t quite fit my face. As usual, the French were right. A smile doesn’t always equal joy. But maybe it actually reflects how much we crave it.

Sometimes, it seems like we’re surrounded by darkness. Shutdowns, deportations, the horrific shooting at that LDS church in Michigan. Jane Goodall died. Sometimes it feels like the tender core of our humanity has died, too.

Still, I’m going to Italy. I will throw my sugar detox to the wind. I will eat the bread and the pasta and the gelato. I will drink all the Sangiovese and ride my bike through olive groves. I will smile my big, fat American smile as if it could hold as much shadow as the light.

Kate Sonnick is a freelance writer and creative director who lived in Paris on and off between 2011 and 2019 before moving to Park City. You can also read her work at @katesonnick on Substack.