We are traveling this summer! We’re going to New York City! We’re going to Dublin! We’re going to London! Then we’re going back to Dublin!
My boyfriend and I booked tickets a few months ago, but it’s taken the snow melting from the sidewalks (this week) for me to get we’re-going-to-be-in-Europe excited. I love guidebooks, and already have ones for all three cities (evidence above), but I want to hear from people who have been there. Where do we go? What do we do? What restaurants do we need to try? What museums do I need to visit? What bookshops do I need to see? What bookshops do I NEED to see?
Each of these cities have been jewels on my tongue for years. I visited New York when I was a teenager, but the other two will be all new. I’m all the things you are when you travel: excited and anxious and ready to be wowed and hopeful that it will bring with it clarity/creativity/wonder/an awakening. Mostly, though, I’m kind of in awe that I booked these tickets, and kind of in awe that in just a few months I’ll be standing on foreign soil, walking on streets whose names I’ve memorized from maps and books. In the weeks after booking the tickets, I kept turning to my boyfriend and shouting “We’re going to Dublin!”
It’s still a few months out. For now, though, I need you to tell me everything good. Heavy emphasis on books, food/drink, weird crime stuff, and anything not included in my guidebook.
This past summer, I went to Italy. My mother, whose long loved the country, took me, the gift of experience.
I went to Italy with my dad’s family when I was eight. We spent a full month touring the country — Sicily, where my grandmother’s family is from, Rome, Florence, Venice, Sirmione and Sorrento. My memories of that trip are children’s memories: Playing games with my cousins in Rome, pulling away from the sick dogs in train stations and on the streets of Naples, begging for gelato, lemon and strawberry, everyday, multiple times a day, watching my brother fly across a hotel room on a bed that hadn’t been secured to the floor.
I tossed a coin, still lira in 2001, into the Trevi Fountain at dusk, and refused to tell my family that I wished for my writing to be published. Mount Etna experienced a “flank eruption” in July 2001, and I watched BBC news reports of rolling lava and crying women: We’d been there a month earlier, heard the mountain rumbling, and even though the sky was clear, I remember my cousins and I deciding we were hearing thunder from a storm we couldn’t see. When we visited Sorrento, we swam in the ocean, the water a jewel tone that even the beaches of Sicily couldn’t rival. My memory is that the beach was rocky, but the ocean floor was covered in shattered pottery. We sliced our feet on ceramic edges, and dove to the bottom to retrieve the bright, broken pieces. This can’t possibly be right, but, like I said, they’re all the memories of a child. I saw at my eye level, filtered what I saw through eight, short years, and so much of that trip has either fallen away or has taken on a kind of magic-glaze.
This past summer’s trip to Italy was as much a reprisal of the 2001 trip as it was its own, new experience. My mom has visited Italy several times, and is familiar with Rome, in particular. As we prepared for the trip, she told me over and over again that she just wanted me to see the country that she had fallen in love with.
I’ve been wanting to, and trying to, write about this trip for several months, but I can’t quite unlock my experiences. For a myriad of reasons, the trip was as emotional and difficult as it was awe-inspiring. I found myself reckoning with a fragility within myself. I cried in the Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere over decisions that now feel like mistakes. I flew home with hives covering my hands and feet.
It took several months for the trip to mellow into what it is for me now: a new door opening inside of me. It was an invigorating two weeks, a thoughtful and, at times, painful two weeks, and while I was ready to come home at the end of it, I think I was so ready to come home, in part, because I was so excited about the life I had back here. Back home, I felt both new and old all at once. The girl I’d once been dusted off, and returned to where she belonged. I’m not sure I was ready to travel quite yet. Not sure I was ready to learn who I was in a foreign country while I was still so thrilled to be where I was at home.
For all it was, this trip was, above all, beautiful and breathtaking. Italy is. My mother’s kindness and generosity and excitement to show me the country she loves so much was (is) beautiful and breathtaking. Photos don’t do any of it justice, and while I’m not sure my words will either, I do hope to write more about this trip, once I’ve had even more time to let it settle.