Gattara

first image via Cats of Rome; second image via Roman Cats

Have you ever been to Rome?  It was a long time ago for me. I do remember many cats amongst the ruins in Rome. 

Apparently, the Roman Municipality is trying to evict the Torre Argentina Roman Cat Sanctuary, which provides food and sterilization for some 250 haughty, Roman felines.

Daydreaming of Cinque Terre

via The Physiocs

Is there a place that haunts you?

Before I met Ethan, most, if not all, of my travel was done alone.  While I was in serious relationships for most of my 20s, I was never paired with a traveler.  When I was 21, one boyfriend gave me an ultimatum - go to Europe for the summer and we break up.  I said my goodbye, told him I'd send him a postcard from Italy, and expressed my hope that he would be at Los Angeles International Airport upon my return.  He was. But we did not last.

The other, more substantial, relationship was with a man who didn't stop my need to travel.  He acknowledged it.  However, he also did not share my love for it.  Alone, I traveled to Europe again and parts of Asia and would come home with stories and gifts.  But very little was shared.   And broken-heartedly, I realized that was not enough for this life.

To be honest, I really loved traveling alone. But really what choice did I have?  None of my friends, at the time, shared this need to explore to the same degree - and I was simply unwilling to wait.  I  discovered very quickly that I thrived with this kind of independence.  I loved picking a destination and making my way, step-by-step, city-by-city, to that place where I would board a plane back to the United States.   For Europe, I would book a round-trip ticket to Heathrow Airport.  From London, I would then dip into mainland Europe and make my way back to London in time for my flight.  Very little was planned more than a few days ahead of time.  Train travel was usually involved. And this entire process of movement was profoundly beautiful to me.

I remember the first time I realized I was in love with travel.  I was sitting at the train stop in  Manarola village in Cinque Terre, Italy.  While waiting for my train, I was writing postcards frantically, one to Cherlou, one of my oldest and dearest friends today.  I must have been drunk from the scenery and the days before: my hikes in the mountains, my breakfasts spent on the shores, my attempted swim in the Mediterranean Sea,  my visit to the secluded nude beach (ha!), the food (oh my god, the food!), the wine, and above all else, the  realization, slowly settling on me, that I could explore the world, just like this. That first trip to Europe, only 5-6 weeks in length and my first time traveling alone, shifted my perspective.  It also changed my expectations of life.  Two years later, I visited Cinque Terre for a few nights en route from France, just to see if I would love it as much - and it was still so magical (though more laden with tourists and more expensive). 

A decade after that first trip, I still get warm and fuzzy when I think of Cinque Terre and of travels in Italy, in general.  I would love to revisit these places with Ethan. 

We are daydreaming of a trip to Paris and Istanbul next year.  We both love Paris.  And, well, wouldn't Italy practically be on the way?

Italian Gents

via: The Sartorialist

What is it about Italy? Is it living among so much overwhelming beauty and grace? Is it the richness of the history, the beauty of the people that cultivates an appreciation for all that is elegant? Because, whatever it is, it appears to seep into everything.

Such swagger.

My goodness, I do love that country.

Of Travelling Women and Wonderment

via Cherry Blossom Girl

On my first trip to Italy, I stayed in a hostel in one of those small fishing villages on the Ligurian coast. The hostel was run by three brothers and the wife of one of the brothers, an American woman who, like many others, had wandered through Italy, fallen in love, and decided to plant roots. I recall the horrible walk up, up, up from the train station. The weight of my backpack --admittedly full of guilt and many shopping conquests--made the sludge up the hill to the hostel door hot, unbearably arduous, tiresome.

On that visit, I met two women, each of whom, like myself, was travelling alone. One was an opera singer, in training, who lived in San Francisco and waited tables in what I was told was a luxe-Italian establishment in the Bay. The other was a marine biologist, an avid kayaker, who lived on Catalina Island for the majority of the year.

At the time, I considered both women to be considerably more mature than me both in age and in life. I was, after all, only twenty-one and as bright-eyed as could be. (Now, however, I realize they were only in their late twenties.)

But for the fact that our lives overlapped for a window of one day, in the same country far away from our homes, in the same small fishing town, in the same hostel, we would probably never have spoken. Time and opportunity conspired, however, and over delicious wine and conversation, we shared a meal--seared in my memory--in the town restaurant, where the boisterous owner insisted on serving all of his customers with a phone glued to his ear and a tirade of words streaming out of his mouth.

Whenever I recall that meal, that time, that place, a sense of wonderment captures me. I have never been able to express it, not in words and not in the Kodak-throw-away-camera pictures I took on that trip, which I seem to have misplaced since then.

Whatever that feeling was, I'm starting to remember it, starting to feel its slight hold now, as I think of what the next few months will bring.