Eight Days in Italy — And a Little Reminder About Time

I've been home from Italy for a few days now, and I can't seem to shake it.

I keep thinking about the light. The food. The art. The ancient streets. The absolute craziness of getting from one place to the next. And how many times, completely unexpectedly, I found myself in tears.

This trip was a surprise birthday gift and came at such a meaningful time for us.

Eight days took us from the canals of Venice to Bari, then by car through Monopoli and Matera, ending in Rome—all while celebrating special birthdays, and most meaningful to me, 18 years of sobriety.

It was a lot of Italy in a very short time, and at moments it definitely felt like The Amazing Race. But what I wasn't prepared for was how completely overwhelmed I would be by the beauty of it all. The art, the light, the ancient buildings, the landscape, the food—there were moments I found myself in tears simply taking it all in.

Maybe it was becoming another year older. Maybe it was eighteen years sober. Maybe it was being there with James. Or maybe it was simply stepping out of my everyday life long enough to really look around.

Whatever it was, Italy got to me.

We were also incredibly lucky to have Jennifer with us, a veteran Italy traveler who knew the ropes and saved us more than once. Thank you, Jennifer.

VENICE

Our arrival in Venice was surreal from the beginning.

On the boat ride in, suddenly every boat around us came to a complete stop.

We were told there had been a terrible accident that morning. A husband had lost his life, and authorities were searching the water for a woman.

I remember sitting there looking out at this impossibly beautiful place, and then seeing this handsome, incredibly well-dressed Italian inspector standing near the water in this immaculate uniform.

The whole scene felt almost unreal.

Beauty and sadness, right beside each other.

And then there was Venice at night.

We got lost, of course. Walking through tiny streets, hearing our footsteps on the stone, passing dark water, glowing windows and quiet courtyards.

It gave me this strange Midnight in Paris feeling—I know, wrong country—as if you could turn a corner and somehow slip into another century.

I loved that feeling.

THE BIENNALE

The Venice Biennale affected me more than I expected.

I found myself in tears often.

Not necessarily because I was sad. I think I was just overwhelmed.

I've spent my life making art and looking at art, and suddenly I was surrounded by artists from all over the world, in Venice of all places, with James beside me, celebrating birthdays and eighteen years of sobriety.

It cracked me open a little.

HEADING SOUTH

From Venice we flew to Bari, rented a car and headed south.

This is where the trip really became The Amazing Race.

Planes. Boats. Rental cars. Tolls. Tiny roads. Google Maps. Luggage. Stairs.

There were definitely moments of:

Are we going the right way?

I think so.

Are you sure?

Not really.

By the time we got to the smaller towns, we got smart. Park the car outside the historic center and WALK. Or call an Uber.

We learned as we went.

THE LIGHT

Monopoli was beautiful.

The Adriatic. White buildings. Fishing boats. Laundry hanging from balconies. Old doors and little courtyards.

But what I couldn't stop looking at was the light.

As a painter, I kept seeing Giorgio de Chirico everywhere.

Long shadows stretching across quiet piazzas. Arches. Courtyards. Blazing sun hitting one side of a building while the other disappeared into deep shadow.

Everywhere I looked there was a painting.

Southern Italy also made me think about Camus and The Stranger.

The heat. The sea. That intense Mediterranean sun that can almost become overwhelming.

White. Blue. Stone. Skin. Shadow.

Everything felt stripped down and pure, but also a little strange and dreamlike.

THE FOOD

And then there was the food.

The clean, pure food.

Tomatoes that actually tasted like tomatoes. Fresh fish. Vegetables. Fruit. Cheese. Olive oil. Bread. Pasta.

Nothing needed to be messed with.

I kept thinking about that.

A tomato could just be a tomato.

An old wall didn't need to be made new.

A courtyard didn't need to be decorated.

Maybe we spend too much of our lives trying to improve things that are already beautiful.

MATERA

Nothing prepared me for Matera.

An ancient city carved into stone. Caves, houses, churches and stairways that feel like they're growing directly out of the landscape.

And then seeing the Sassi glowing in the darkness at night.

I teared up again.

There's something about standing in a place where people have lived for thousands of years that completely changes your sense of time.

Oddly, I didn't find that sad.

I found it comforting.

Our lives are so busy. We worry about a million things. We race around trying to get everything done.

And then you stand in a place like Matera and realize how many lives have been lived before yours.

ROME

Rome was the perfect ending.

Motorcycles and marble. Priests and couture. Graffiti and ancient ruins. Drinking espresso a few feet from buildings that have been standing for centuries.

And again—that light.

The shadows.

The old walls.

The beauty everywhere.

By this point we were also completely exhausted.

This was not a restful vacation.

We were hot. We hauled luggage. We got lost. We walked and walked and walked. There were definitely moments when I thought I might need a vacation after the vacation.

And I wouldn't change it.

COMING HOME

Now that we're home, I keep returning to these little moments.

The light falling across an old wall.

A quiet courtyard.

A meal made from the simplest ingredients.

Matera glowing at night.

Standing in front of a piece of art and unexpectedly crying.

James sitting across from me at dinner.

Coming home has felt a little strange. You fall right back into the emails, work, schedules and all the things that seemed so important before you left.

But part of me is still in Italy, and I hope I hold onto that for a while.

Maybe that's what travel can do. It takes you out of your life just long enough to see it differently when you return.

I'm home feeling incredibly grateful.

I'm 54. I'm eighteen years sober. I just traveled through Italy with the person I love.

That really gets me.

Because time does fly.

There is still so much of this world I want to see. So much I want to make. So much life I want to experience. More art. More travel. More long dinners. More beautiful clothes. More getting lost. More changing my mind. More saying yes.

I don't want to save it all for someday.

Italy reminded me that joy doesn't have to be complicated.

Sometimes it's a beautiful piece of art that brings you to tears.

Sometimes it's a perfect tomato.

Sometimes it's getting completely lost.

Sometimes it's the late-afternoon light falling across an old wall.

And sometimes it's looking across the table at the person who has traveled all these years beside you and thinking, Look where we are.

I can't wait to go back to Italy.

Maybe a little slower next time.

Less Amazing Race.

More sitting in a courtyard with James, eating something simple and delicious, watching that incredible Italian light change across an old wall.

And just being there.