When Two Adventurers Come Together...

When two adventurers come together, there aren't many things that can hold them back. They become explorers, risk takers, and pioneers. They become discoverers, builders, connectors, and wanderers. The world is at their fingertips, and together they are an unstoppable force. 

                                                           So it is with Madeleine and Sarah. 

I can still remember so clearly back to that cold winter morning in Rome when I sat by myself on a hard church pew surrounded by a body of believers, yet feeling so completely alone. (Read the blog about it here). And yet even with an eagerness in me to meet people and make new friends, it took every ounce of courage inside me to approach that group of young people standing in a circle after the service and try to somehow introduce myself and integrate into their conversation in the most natural way possible. The awkward edge of that moment still makes me uncomfortable to think about. 

But there in that group of young people was a girl I never had a clue would end up being a lifelong friend, a partner in endless wild adventures, and a support to stand beside me in all my ups and downs of life over the next few years. 

Madeleine Wilgus. 

She was edgy. She was risky. She was completely spontaneous and independent. 

And our worlds collided that day, introducing me to a zeal and passion for life that only needed a little prodding and inspiration to be released. 

In the course of our friendship over the past two years, we have only seen each other face to face a handful of times. The rest of our relationship has grown thanks to the convenience of modern technology, but that still means that when we do get to see each other, it's a very special time. 

One might have picked up on this if he had observed the cinematic reunion of two friends torn apart for over a year when I exited my bus in the bus station of Portland, Maine. Our dramatic greeting with a running start and a lengthy embrace accompanied by squeals and tears was nothing short of theatrical, and already Madeleine's passionate zest for life was flying off from her in contagious sparks. 

And that was just the beginning :)

Each day of our week together ended with new stories to laugh about, new moments to remember forever, and new memories to tease each other about and new experiences to gawk at. There's probably enough to fill a whole book, but this is just a blog, so I'll just tell you the best :)

Day one began with homemade blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup, a wonder I had heard about but never actually tried myself. It was everything I've ever been told it is. The afternoon found us taking a long walk along the sunny beach, several miles from our car. When we finally arrived at the halfway point where we were ready to turn around and head back, hunger and fatigue (must've been from the exhausting sun) overtook us and we concluded we would have to find an alternative way back. Our solution? Ask one of the cute ranger boys working the beach grounds to give us a ride in their golf carts. Rather than responding with the no we expected, they informed us they would be returning shortly and then came back a few minutes later with their nicest truck and a pre-prepared piece of paper with their name and phone number written neatly on it, which they made sure to suavely leave with us when they dropped us off at our car.

Day number two brought us to the quaint coastal town of Booth Bay where we spent our time wandering around the shops and restaurants, and basking in the sun on one of the docks out by the harbor. While I was off taking photos, Madeleine encountered a woman she knew, the mom of one of her friends from high school, who was loading up a little motor boat to take for a spin in the harbor. All smiles on her face, she joyfully offered to take us out on the boat and have us come visit her love nest cottage on a tiny island right in the harbor where she's staying for the summer months. It didn't take long for us to accept her offer. We spun around in the motor boat, just a short way across the water to approach a unique round house that Madeleine had always seen as a kid and dreamed about living in. Thanks to the wonderful hospitality of Madeleine's friend, we spent a few relaxing moments enjoying a tour of the beachy and bright house with the cool ocean breeze blowing on our faces as we sat on the sunny balcony overlooking the sparkling waters. Madeleine and I spent the rest of our afternoon in a lengthy and uplifting conversation over our fish and chip lunch, and then concluded our day with our Bibles and a glass of wine at dusk out on the dock by the lake behind her house. 

dominating gelaterias.

Day three's adventures got a late start but with no regrets about the relaxing and slow morning we enjoyed. By late afternoon, we had meandered through several coastal towns on our way to the city of Portland, where we set out to explore the Old Port section of town, specifically on a hunt for an Italian grocery store or gelato. After being temporarily sidetracked by a happy hour special, we stormed the streets boldly (and loudly) crying out in grammatically incorrect Italian any thought that came to our minds, particularly and frequently referring to our insatiable desire for good Italian food and/or gelato. We found the gelato and some pizza, and convinced several innocent passersby that we were actually from Italy. I'm certain  it was because our loud use of Italian words and gestures was so convincing and that it had nothing to do with Madeleine telling everyone we are from Italy. She sometimes forgets that our meeting in Italy doesn't quite constitute true ethnic connections. To conclude our evening, we met for birthday celebrations for Madeleine's older sister and experienced the wild nightlife of Portland on a Wednesday night (along with the three other people who had decided to go out that night).

The Portland Lighthouse

somewhere in the middle of yelling out random Italian phrases on the street

Celebrating with Madeleine's sister, Geneva, for her birthday

Day four's plan for an early morning departure didn't exactly pan out as expected when the early alarms went off and Sarah and Madeleine's hands hit the snooze. Finally on the road by eleven, we began our three hour drive to the tourist famous city of Bar Harbor. Not one hour of the road trip went by without our little Corolla's speakers blaring our favorite Eurotechno dance tunes - windows down, sunglasses on, and dance party happening with every pounding beat of the bass drum and scratch of the dj's tracks. As soon as we arrived in the breezy beach town of Bar Harbor, we went straight away to the bike rental and set off on an adventure through Acadia national park. After a few hours zooming around below the tall pines trees and gazing out at beaver dams and a glistening lake, the heat of the sun started to beat down on our backs. Eventually the bike path led us to a bridge, where we pauses for a moment to take in the view. I reached into my purse to grab my camera for the photo op, and before I knew it, Madeleine had disappeared down a tiny path that led down to the creek flowing beneath the bridge. I delicately made my way down the rocky trail in my sparkly silver sandals and called out after Madeleine with no response. I followed the trail deeper and deeper into the brush (all the while trying not to break my shoes), and all the nearer to the trickling water I heard, not knowing what to expect when I found my friend. Naturally, once I cleared past all the brush, I looked around and spotted Madeleine's bright blue shirt dangerously close to the waters that she was giddily splashing around in up to her thighs. "Let's go swimming Sarah! Come on!" she enthusiastically yelled out to me. I reminded her that we didn't have our swimsuits (or maybe that was just my excuse for not wanting to swim in questionable waters) but she even more excitedly suggested we just go skinny dipping. I'm pretty sure she was serious. Another gentle reminder that we had an audience on the bridge above us seemed enough to stamp out that idea, but not enough for me to completely stand up against her continual pleas that I join her in the refreshing (and dirty) water. 

And there we were, splashing around, hopping on the rocks, forging through bubbling waterfalls.

 Adventuring, exploring, living...

The night ended perfectly when I finally got to eat my Maine meal - a lobster roll with chips, blueberry ale, and mouth watering blueberry pie a la mode for dessert. Every bite was succulent. 

Day five was the last and greatest adventure, the biggest and grandest so far for the week. But you'll have to read the next blog to hear about that one :)  

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.