Postcards From Italy

A photo diary and poetic ode to a three week journey in Italy

Dear Reader,

Two years ago, I was strolling, miles a day, on narrow stone-paved streets in Italy.

Our time in the bella paese was good to us. We ate! We stood and gaped in the presence of spectacular architectural relics. We took advantage of localized living and walked, walked, walked. We got engaged! (That story here). We marveled at absolutely everything — the harmony in the chaos, the abundant beauty weaved into every aspect of daily life, the prioritization of pleasure, the celebration of all things culinary, the construction zones, the commitment to affordable daily staples (like espresso), children playing calcio (soccer) in a piazza, the church door archway a perfect goal post.

As I finally take this time, two years later, to put written word to our time in Italy, memories flash to the forefront of my mind too quickly to get them all down in full sentences. So instead, I invite you to delight in a visual tour accompanied by short, poetic odes to each stop, for this is how these memories live in my mind.

With that, let’s start at the beginning in the surreal, labyrinthine magic of Venezia (Venice) —

The magic of Venezia lives in its origin story, a refuge built upon log and marsh;

in its vehicle-free streets and waterway culture;

in its pastel palette;

in its plumes of vibrant color spilling over window sills;

in the perfect bites that are cicchetti;

in its maze of quiet, narrow alleyways and potential for solitude amongst the crowd;

water-worn and opulent.

Most of all, waking up early around the corner from the fish market, unlatching the window and inviting in the mellow morning song of stacking produce boxes, distant watercraft, and a melodious language both foreign and deeply familiar.

Never mind your GPS here, and good luck with a map. Instead, wander and be most pleasantly surprised.

Then a train to Firenze (Florence).

Upon exiting the station we knew we weren’t in Oz anymore. Heat. Traffic. Construction. Crowds. Firenze lives in my memory as —

Opening the window shutters in the morning to a blast of light, the zooms of moti, and so. much. chatter.

Ornate architecture beyond imagination;

Honey pear ricotta ravioli in a tiny piazza,

a film projected on a stony wall,

and operatic street music by one brave woman (with an appearance by our waiter, or was it Stanley Tucci?);

Memorable gelato flavors, pera (pear) and fico (fig);

Sweeping views from the hill worth climbing (we definitely went the long way);

Renaissance art in the flesh;

Quiet tears for Venus;

Looking for rings amongst the gold of the Ponte Vecchio with deeper commitment on our minds.

It’s only in hindsight that these two small town folks learned to love you, Florence, with promises in our hearts to return again.

And with much anticipation, Lucca, province of the ancestors —

Entering the gates of the walled city, leaving the modern world behind, crossing into the portal;

Charm, the undeniable first impression;

A heart within me but not my own felt the pang of homesickness and the relief of homecoming;

Our perfect, ground level flat with its

Floral and butterflied wall, cotta floors, bed from somebody’s Nonna, and nosy feline neighbor;

The heavy wooden doors out that dropped us mere steps from the bustle;

Luminara di Santa Croce, when the town is cloaked in candlelight and the streets barricaded by a parade till midnight;

Monday night opera concerto;

Oaks thriving atop a tower;

Full circle views of terracotta rooftops and ochre cradled between the Tuscan hillscape;

Cioccolato e nocciola gelato;

Family names on streets and park signs;

Chatty nonni at the water fountains and arm in arm atop the green-space city wall;

Rings forged by second generation hands, chosen, and proposed with over a small candlelit table (full story).

It was here where I was most challenged by the limits of my Italian while in search of my great-great grandmother’s records at the local comune — no luck that day, but bless the patient soul who tried to help and who reached farther than I could across the aisle of our two languages. While my efforts to make connections to my past remained more abstract, my then partner of nine years became my fiancé, without hesitation, who one year later, on our tenth anniversary of love, would become my husband.

The train to Vernazza (the second of five villages of the Cinque Terre) spilled us out into a funnel that led to the sea. Up, up three flights of turning narrow stone steps to our tiny, low ceiling sanctuary. This place —

Dramatic stormy light undulating over a marvel of terraced hillsides of grape and olive;

A blustery first-night dinner perched cliff-side, waves crashing just below, warmed by lemon-butter muscles and first-draft wedding visions;

Days spent traversing the villages on alternate trails as the seaside strollers were out of commission,

Knee to chest inclines, all with precious cargo — a very worthwhile gift bag of blue speckled pottery;

Calamari and Moretti shared with bare feet in the water;

Sardine e acciughe (anchovies) prepared better then one could imagine, a humble local resource turned top three most memorable meals;

Back home just in time to pad down the stone steps with towels in hand for a sunset swim;

Floating in the Ligurian Sea after a day spent hiking cliff trails, kelp teasing my legs below the surface — something we’re certainly not used to in Hawaiian waters; a sanctified reunion of the salt of my body with that of a motherland.

The Cinque Terre is a wonder. At surface level it is dominated by and annoyingly accommodating to day trippers. Underneath that is a quietly resilient, manual, local lifestyle living in relationship with the unique landscape almost entirely vehicle-free. The schlep and the trek is a way of life here.

South now, back to Tuscany to the medieval beauty of Siena.

Perched in a verdant silver-green scape of olive trees, a stark, russet colored city comprised of seventeen districts, each represented by a mysterious collection of mythical and woodland creatures, insects, and the inanimate;

We unpacked our bags in the Unicorn contrada, the not-so-humble winners of that year’s Palio race — an annual tradition dating back to the fifteenth century, canceled only twice, during World War II and Covid;

Nightly celebration dinners at long tables for the one-horned champions;

A three-hour dinner steeped in concept and reverence for local specialties that we admit we didn’t feel patient enough for at the time;

Ten-euro splurge on two cappuccino and four gorgeous pastries;

A postcard sent and delivered well after our return home;

An anniversary meal in a candlelit tomb with a side of conversation with two lovely Londoners a table over.

Further south to Umbria and the gem that is Orvieto —

A picturesque refuge of tufo stone, comprised of volcanic ash,

an ideal substance for carving the ancient Etruscan underground network;

Olive oil stored, animals kept, wells dug for a Roman siege two years sustained;

Down the hill, we nestled into a too-affordable private stone bungalow on seventy year old Selita’s family land, built by her great grandmother;

Over breakfast of stove-top espresso and estate grown olive oil on Tuscan-style toast (with a sprinkle of sea salt), she talks upcoming election and shares ancient artifacts found from the land (the winner, the tale of a bronze chariot discovered by her grandfather);

Around us, pear trees, almonds, olive, and a grapevine reminiscent of my partner’s grandparents’ home of childhood dreams;

We brought home seeds.

Lastly, a crescendo — Roma!

Attention is required while navigating Rome’s train station,

There is no room for small-towner bewilderment or hesitation.

Wade through the crowd with confidence (even if you have none).

Sanctuary secured on a quiet street in the historic neighborhood adjacent to Campo dei Fiori and the Tevere (Tiber River);

A glass covered view into the floor, a showcase of Roman artifacts found during renovation;

History is everywhere!

The unfathomably old amongst the modern;

A whirlwind of neighborhoods each distinct from the other;

Draping vines, street jazz, and diners spilling into the street in Trastevere;

Gaping up through the open oculus of the Pantheon;

Way too late (but stellar) carbonara in the wine cellar of Roscioli;

Arancini while standing street-side the next day at their bakery,

And more later with slices and a Moretti from Forno,

The only seating an open truck bed of a Campo marketer’s Piaggio;

Our very last night spent in the corner of a quiet wine bar, with a shared bottle, antipasti and taking turns regaling one another of our three week venture;

An utter dream.

Our hearts yearn to return to these places to sink in deeper, and also, crave other less trodden landscapes within the country. Until we can return, we live into what we admired so much while we were there. Italy showed us by example that the most Italian thing about an Italian way of life is to savor your connections as you do the small rituals that are peppered throughout your day — the chat with a neighbor on the sidewalk, the afternoon espresso, the walk to and from, the preparation of one of life’s most generous pleasures — food. Moreover, to harbor a reverence for the past as we carry on into the future, as the story continues to unfold.