I’ve heard of Italy that you do not see it, but rather, experience it. I’ve heard that a place like Italy is like a fine woman or vintage wine: it happens to you. And you breathe it, feel it seep into you intravenously; let its seas fill the pores in your palms and wrinkle your fingertips like raisins. You allow its sun to expose the freckles on your skin, become vulnerable under its charm, and drink of it until your eyes are bloody and your lips are stained with the rich memories of its name. And you dance! because, well, what else is there to do when you want to celebrate life? I have heard this of Italy.
I sometimes wonder why, as a little girl, I dreamt so often of seeing Venice. I would always say that I wanted to see Venice and ride a gondola and see people fish out of their windows (people probably do not do this, but a six-year-old can dream). And I’m still not quite sure why. I hadn’t read very much about Italy or Venice. But somehow it crept itself into my consciousness and made a permanent home for itself there. Twenty years and ten countries later, I have still not seen Venice. I have also, as young as a girl removing the training wheels off of her bicycle, dreamt of husbands the color of caramel with slicked back hair dark as a panther’s coat. Maybe it was all of the novelas I watched with our nanny growing up.
I sometimes wonder why, as a little girl, I dreamt so often of seeing Venice. I would always say that I wanted to see Venice and ride a gondola and see people fish out of their windows (people probably do not do this, but a six-year-old can dream). And I’m still not quite sure why. I hadn’t read very much about Italy or Venice. But somehow it crept itself into my consciousness and made a permanent home for itself there. Twenty years and ten countries later, I have still not seen Venice. I have also, as young as a girl removing the training wheels off of her bicycle, dreamt of husbands the color of caramel with slicked back hair dark as a panther’s coat. Maybe it was all of the novelas I watched with our nanny growing up.
The universe has a way of showing you that the cosmos defeats the chaos.
And so the month-long journey begins to this magnificent place, where my greatest struggle will lie in my inability to distinguish the way italians and hispanics pronounce their V. “You’re saying boglio, Kid. It’s vvvvoglio,” Giò always tells me.
I look forward to massaging my toes with the soft pebbles on the Sicilian beaches, eating pasta so delicate that it dissolves in your mouth without the help of your teeth, drinking the nectar of the gods with every dinner, hearing the roar of the crowd at Teatro alla Scala, watching the sunsets on the Amalfi Coast, giving in to the genius of Michelangelo (most likely with uncontrollable tears), being wooed by the beauty of Florence, and losing my breath with every square foot that I travel in Rome. But most importantly, I look forward to being intoxicated by the aroma of Italy’s spirit for the next month with the man that lived in my faint daydreams twenty years ago. It is something remarkable that I would love to share with all of you.
With me the essentials: Hemingway*, a leather bound journal, and a keyboard. Our journey begins in Sicilia, where Giò and I will officially go by the names Pippenedu and Melisseda. I hope to recount the tales of our journey daily.
*I often travel with Hemingway, especially The Old man and the Sea. I find that it is great when you don't have too much time to sit down and read on your trip, but want something that will still make you go, "aaah!"
I look forward to massaging my toes with the soft pebbles on the Sicilian beaches, eating pasta so delicate that it dissolves in your mouth without the help of your teeth, drinking the nectar of the gods with every dinner, hearing the roar of the crowd at Teatro alla Scala, watching the sunsets on the Amalfi Coast, giving in to the genius of Michelangelo (most likely with uncontrollable tears), being wooed by the beauty of Florence, and losing my breath with every square foot that I travel in Rome. But most importantly, I look forward to being intoxicated by the aroma of Italy’s spirit for the next month with the man that lived in my faint daydreams twenty years ago. It is something remarkable that I would love to share with all of you.
With me the essentials: Hemingway*, a leather bound journal, and a keyboard. Our journey begins in Sicilia, where Giò and I will officially go by the names Pippenedu and Melisseda. I hope to recount the tales of our journey daily.
*I often travel with Hemingway, especially The Old man and the Sea. I find that it is great when you don't have too much time to sit down and read on your trip, but want something that will still make you go, "aaah!"