How to Go to Italy Without Crossing the Atlantic

Day five of my trip to New England was the last and greatest adventure, the biggest and grandest so far for the week: Boston. While we may enjoy small towns at periods in our lives, Madeleine and I are city girls at heart, and nothing beats the exhilarating rush of conquering a new city together. The minute we drove on the bridge over the harbor to enter the city, the brick buildings and slender red chimneys arose with their historic splendor on the skyline. I knew instantly the city would be just as magnificent now as it was to my twelve year old eyes so many years ago when I came with my family.

Boston did not let me down.

From what I remembered, Boston was beautiful, had great food, great shopping, and tons of fascinating history. When I got to see it all again years later, this time with a well-traveled adult's perspective, I learned that Boston is actually rich in eclectic culture from all over the world, as well as an intriguing and integral location in our country's history. And like any city, it has plenty of chaos and commotion. Madeleine and I encountered our first obstacle in Boston when we tried to find parking. We had two options: pay $30 for the day in a garage or park in a cheap meter where only two hour parking was allowed. Naturally, we opted for the cheaper route, ensuring ourselves we'd be in a perpetual time crunch for the rest of the day. After running back to the car twice after our meter had been several minutes over, we began to feel invincible to the giants of Boston's parking nazis.

Whoops.

I tried to remind Madeleine that Boston isn't quite like Maine where a person can park wherever they want and not have to worry about the consequences, but I'm not really sure she believed me. On our third and final time racing against the clock to get back to our car in time, Madeleine suggested taking a detour to enjoy the view of the harbor. Good thing I talked her out of it, because upon our arrival ten minutes after our meter expired, we found a bright orange piece of paper tucked onto our windshield. 

Guess third time's not always the charm?

We didn't let it bother us too much because our evening had already been filled with fun festivities, and it had only just begun. During our walking tour of the city earlier in the afternoon, we learned that there was an Italian section of Boston called the North End. As you can only imagine, we were ecstatic. We hurried over to the area with great anticipation of what we might find and squealed the moment we set foot in the Italian environment. A friendly policeman informed us that there was a huge Italian festival going on that evening called St. Anthony's Feast. It was guaranteed to have all sorts of Italian booths, food tables, activities, and of course, plenty of handsome young Italian men.

We didn't even give the policeman a chance to finish explaining before we were off in a frenzy, whizzing through the maze of streets to locate things reminiscent of the people, country, and culture that we both love so much and that united us together in the first place. 

I wish I could tell you how fantastic the festival was and how there were Italians running rampant throughout the streets and everyone was speaking Italian and there was authentic pasta and pizza everywhere.... but in reality it was quite different. All that existed to be sure, but most of what we found was only the American version of what Italians are, or more precisely, the Boston version of Italians. After trying a few samples of ravioli and hearing more Boston accents than Italian, Madeleine and I gave up and decided we could probably find more true Italians roaming the streets near the touristy sites than in the middle of this festival. 

We navigated our way out of the festival and back into the North End, keeping an eye out for a good place to eat dinner (or more so trying to find a place we could afford since they all looked absolutely delicious!). We knew that if we were going to eat some incredible Italian pasta, we would also want some wine to go with it, but we weren't too keen on spending a lot of money on expensive glasses of wine at a restaurant. Instead, Madeleine and I decided to buy some Umbrian red wine at a cute little wine shop on the corner. Our dilemma then was to find a way to open the bottle, apparently not a very easy task in our country if you're not at home or in a restaurant. Asking around to others on the street proved unsuccessful, as did trying to borrow a wine key from a restaurant (definitely wouldn't suggest trying that one...). We both reminisced for a moment back to our days in Italy when Italians would sit out in the piazzas and share a bottle of wine with each other and how we wished things were the same in the U.S.

Ironically, as we were walking past the harbor (back to our car again for the millionth time), we spotted them: the Italians. It was all too obvious to us: 5 very European looking young people sitting casually in a circle right next to the water, talking, laughing, wearing skinny jeans, and enjoying whatever was in their small plastic cups. We knew we had struck gold. Madeleine nudged me to go up and talk to them since I'm apparently so good at striking up conversation with strangers. But I told her there are certain conversations that even I don't know how to breach without feeling awkward.

Needless to say, Madeleine was the hero of the story and casually walked up to the Italians (who ended up being from Florence!) and eventually asked to borrow their wine opener that we knew they had to have. Mission accomplished, and conversation starting to feel a little uncomfortable, we thanked them, wished them Buon Viaggio, and continued on with our next task of the evening: finding a restaurant. 

Where we ended up was perfect. The man in the wine shop had suggested a restaurant to us and told us the Italian owner would "take care of us," which he did by allowing us to sit in a special upstairs patio room. We indulged in our favorite pasta dishes and let the world fade away as we ate dinner true Italian style - talking, laughing, lingering, crying, sharing, savoring. I almost forgot there was a room full of people around us until our waiter came up (we had specifically requested to talk with the one real Italian server there) and said in a melodic voice that made us both melt, "Tutto a posto?" And for a moment we didn't even know that the Colosseum wasn't right down the road and the streets weren't buzzing with the hum of scooters and crazy Italian drivers. 

That dinner was one of the best parts of the trip. The dynamic conversation, the divine pasta, and the familiar and comfortable Italian atmosphere all contributed to the perfect last dinner of Sarah and Madeleine. 

But the night didn't end there.  

We headed home to change and get ready for an evening out on the town. Taking up a suggestion from our host in Boston, we concluded we would stay within walking distance of our apartment to make it easy to get back since we both had to be up early to travel the next morning. The nightlife reminded me a lot of Dallas and the scene was certainly hopping and crowded, but we managed to make our way into an Irish pub without too much of a delay. What came next will be of absolute no surprise to you: we found some Italians and of course immediately became friends. I can't even remember who started the conversation or how, but next thing I knew Madeleine and I were immersed in a full on Italian conversation in the middle of an Irish pub in the U.S. 

Life is so great :) 

Our efforts to go dancing failed as a result of too casual of clothing our group was wearing that night, but we didn't mind the midnight walk we took through the city, just wandering around, hanging out, and learning more about our Italian friends. It kind of felt like... well... Italy :)

And no other traditional Italian night can end any other way than with a late night piece of pizza and a long walk home.

Our Italian friends walked us home to make sure we arrived safely. I'm pretty sure the most dangerous thing on the streets were the cat sized rats that were running around in front of the apartment, but we managed to slip in without having a face to face encounter with one of those. By the time we got home, it was almost 5 am and Madeleine had to be leaving around 7. But when we finally sat down in bed, we couldn't even fall asleep. It felt like we had just walked out of a dream, and we couldn't believe all the great experiences from the previous day were actually real.

Without even leaving my own country, I felt like I had just stepped into a small piece of Italy, the country I love so much, and I got to do it and be there for just a few moments with one of my best friends. :)

You could read the whole blog, but really all you need to know about our time in Boston is pretty much summed up in this one picture ;)

La Grotta Azurra

As a young, gangly, awkward pre-teen, I wasn't quite the social butterfly that I tend to be now. When I wasn't swinging on the uneven parallel bars, tooting on my clarinet, or furiously solving problems for my pre-algebra math homework, I often disappeared into an imaginary world behind a few leafs of pages bound together to create one fascinating story that ended up shaping my reality.
 

 It was a silly story really. Not any sort of classic novel, with tales of ancient times or prose that reflected the genius of some of history's bests authors. No, rather it was a simple tale, about a simple teenage girl living in the hustle and bustle of sunny southern California. Her name was Christy Miller.

Nothing more than just an entertaining, easy read for a teen, the Christy Miller series quickly became near and dear to my heart. Upon receiving the very first book of the twelve book series as a gift from my mother, I learned that the author had been a close friend of hers - my mom's old Sunday School teacher in her own days of growing up in southern California. Naturally, a fictional story about fictional characters suddenly become ever so slightly more real when you know (or know someone who knows) the author.

After my first introduction to Christy Miller, she became a dear friend to me throughout the duration of my youth. I looked up to her, I loved her adventures, I wanted her life. Sometimes she felt so real that on family trips out to visit relatives in southern Cali, I more than once caught myself looking around on the sandpits at the beach to see if Christy Miller and her friends were there.

Although just a fictional character, Christy Miller was the ideal Christian girl, and I learned and was shaped by the wisdom the author incorporated into her adventures. Every different place that was mentioned or line that was said cemented itself deep into my memory, anchoring itself in a nagging little nook that wouldn't be relieved until I experienced the adventures myself in reality.

And thus was born the dream of the Blue Grotto. To be honest, I couldn't even remember the story that involved the mention of the Blue Grotto, or which of the Christy Miller characters had talked about it and in which book. But I remembered it. I remembered how it struck me. And I knew I wanted to go.

Years later, my opportunity finally arose. We were on a family vacation cruising through the Mediterranean, with a day stop along the Amalfi Coast. Someone had mentioned that the Blue Grotto was also located in this area, and even though I still had no idea what it really was, I desperately wanted to go.

Among family discussions about our travel plans, my sister reminded me the background story of Christy Miller and the Blue Grotto. Apparently a guy that Christy was dating had taken a trip to Italy and called her, long distance, from Italy simply to tell her about the adventure he had taken that day to the azure waters of the grotto where he saw incredible blue waters that reminded him of the color of Christy's ocean eyes.

Cheesy. I know.

But doesn't it kind of peak your interest to visit a place that is apparently so beautiful, and romantic? So I begged my dad to route us through the tiny island of Capri where this famous sparkling cave was located.

We couldn't. With only one day to spend in Naples, the entire Amalfi Coast, and Pompeii, it was just not possible to spend all the time it took just to get to Capri.

I was heartbroken. But it set a steadfast dream in my heart to return with certainty someday.

Unfortunately that opportunity did not arise until several years later, while living in Italy for my second time, and waiting for the right week where I would have free time and could expect good weather.

Finally, in May this year, my dad came to visit me in Italy and we planned a trip down to the Amalfi Coast. I told him that this time, there was no way we were leaving without seeing the Blue Grotto.

Although the Blue Grotto meant spending and entire day on the island of our only two day trip, none of us seemed too disappointed to leave behind the mess and filth of Naples and sail away to a relaxing, quaint island for the afternoon. We boarded a ferry and in less than an hour were walking around sunny streets filled with tourists and an air of tranquility and charm.

To avoid the never ending lines to get into the Grotto, we decided to take a private boat ride with a local sailor who offered to take us on a boat tour around the island. Still slightly queasy from the choppy ferry ride, we almost rejected his offer on account of our fear for motion sickness, but fortunately we decided to give it a go.

I'm so glad we did.


We set out on the still, crystal blue waters with the wind whipping on our necks and the sun warming our cheery faces. It was beautiful. And the world was still.

 

We zoomed through coves and crevices, gazing up all the while at the mountainous island above us and admiring its splendor and beauty. My eyes were delighted with the sparkle of the sunlight dancing on the water, but my mind wandered to far away places.

I was in Ireland, climbing glorious mountains by myself with a rush of adventure at what I might find at the top. I was walking through the streets of Korea watching the excitement of nightlife as I passed by. I was floating by castles in Germany from a first row seat on a river boat. I was zip lining through the jungles of Thailand.

But there was more. I was riding a camel through the sandy deserts of Egypt. I was lounging on the beach in Costa Rica. I was driving yet still through the unexplored areas of Ireland. I was meeting friends in pubs in Argentina.

The world was mine. The parts I have seen. The parts I still dream to see. All of it so vivid. So vast. So real.

And the sea breeze blew on my face.

The quiet stillness of the sea suddenly erupted with chatter and commotion. We had arrived at the Blue Grotto. My dream was about to come true. I had been told before coming that visitors are only allowed to stay inside for three or so minutes before needing to exit again, but somehow I knew those three minutes would be worth it.

And were they ever.

We boarded a small canoe with an Italian tour guide/sailor and braced ourselves for the entrance into the cave. Boats enter one at a time through a tiny opening in the side of a rock, waves splashing up on both sides always threatening to douse trespassers. The canoe men command all passengers to lay down, heads tucked safely inside the boat, while they brace themselves against the rock to steady the bobbling canoe and allow safe passage through the caves entrance. It's wild, a little scary, and full of commotion.

And then before we knew it, we were tucked away in the silence of a dark, quiet cave, with only a few other boats to accompany us. There's no better word to describe the cave than romantic. Romantic, magical, mystical, breathtaking. Filled with blackness and silence, yet illuminated by the fluorescent glow of bright blue waters below. I've never seen anything like it. I truly was in an entirely new world.

The waters shimmered and sparkled, bouncing their light off the rock walls and filling the cave with their magic. Our guide spun us around the small cave more than once, allowing us to have the experience fully sink in. Just when I thought the moment couldn't be any more perfect, he began to sing. A beautiful, romantic traditional Italian song, and one of my favorites - Volare, the traditional song for any gondolier to sing to his passengers in the canals of Venice. And there's a reason for it.

Although I desperately wanted photos of this beautiful experience, I tried to give my camera a break for a moment so that I could take in the magnificence through my own eyes and not just from behind a lens. I gazed. I reveled. I smiled.

And we were out. Laying down once again, waves crashing around, boat bouncing and bumping, and there was the sun: shining brightly in our faces, blinding our unadjusted eyes, and re-welcoming us back into a different world filled with beauty and majesty all the same.

Three minutes, no more. Three minutes, and I experienced one of the most magical moments I have ever had. I fulfilled a dream. I lived a moment of bliss. And it was perfect.

The Irresistable Magic

The first time I went to Rome I fell in love. Italy was a dream. Before I had even left the U.S., my mind was filled with romantic ideas of the quaint streets, corner cafes, and scrumptious cuisine that Italy is so renowned for. When I finally arrived, what I encountered was even better than any of the enchantment that I could have imagined. Immediately I was hooked. 

From that trip, I knew I was in love with Italy, and my desire to return and spend a generous amount of time in the beautiful country only grew stronger with time. Eventually I made my way back to work as an au pair for a family in a little town called Foligno in the green rolling hill country of Umbria. Enjoying my days in the quiet ambiance of an authentic Italian town, I only ventured into the city out of necessity for practicalities that I couldn't otherwise find in Foligno. There, my opinion of Rome shifted. 

Instead of seeing the beautiful, romantic city that I had experienced once before, I instead found myself in a loud, chaotic mess... horns honking, people shouting, cars zooming past, tourists running people over, street vendors bombarding everyone in sight... and I was overwhelmed. Somehow, the city had lost its charm, and I longer felt the romantic pull that had once so powerfully drawn me in. Returning back to the quiet and calm streets of Foligno was always a breath of fresh air, and I could never wait to return home after visiting Rome and escape from the buzz of the city.

After what felt like too many visits to the busy and bustling ancient city, I alternated my weekend plans and began traveling to a different type of city: the cultural Renaissance hub, Florence. While still a popular tourist destination and bustling with people, Florence proved itself to be a much more tranquil city, and its small size was much less daunting. Its beauty overtook me, and once again the magic that I had once discovered in Rome began to resurface. This time, however, I found myself falling in love with the peaceful and serene Tuscan city.

That was all it took for me to leave my life in the U.S. behind and end up back in the city that had lured me in. But this story isn't about that city. It's about the first one. The one that I can't seem to make up my mind about. The more-than-2000-year-old-city that many find to be one of the best and most beautiful cities in the world. The city that defines Italy. The city that the world dreams about. 

Rome.

Magical. Chaotic. Romantic. Disorganized. Enchanting. Inefficient. 

Maybe it's mystifying fusion of these incongruous characteristics blended into a mellifluous harmony of beauty and charm that produces the magic and magnetism of the world's beloved ancient city. 

Whatever it may be, once you hear the tune of this harmony played sweetly in your ear, you will never forget it and will likely search for it again for the rest of your days. 

Rome.

Ancient walls. Street musicians. Pasta to die for. Hidden piazzas. Artisan markets. Shopper's heaven. Buzzing motorinos. Religion. Statues. Paintings. Fountains. Gardens. Wine.

Hate it. Love it. But you will never forget it. And you will never again find anything like it. 

There's an old tradition that says if you toss a coin backwards into the Trevi Fountain, it will ensure a trip back to Rome someday. 

Everyone I know who has ever thrown a coin in... sure enough... they've been back.

Maybe it's the coin.

Maybe it's coincidence. 

Or maybe it's the irresistible magic.