Boves is a tiny town in the Piedmont region of Italy. Piedmont is surrounded by the Italian Alps and borders both Switzerland and France. It is mainly an agricultural region, known for its wine [mmmm] and rice. The second one surprised me - if you'd asked me before my trip, I would have told you that Italy doesn't grow rice. But they do. Lots of it! The flooded fields are very pretty, especially when reflecting the golden glow and rosy warmth of a sunset.
Our family friends have lived there forever. Bruna and Erio and their two daughters, Sylvia and Elena [ELLE-enn-ah], first stayed with our family in ... 1992? We were living in Whitehorse, Yukon at the time and my parents ran a bed and breakfast called The Mossberry Inn [moss berries grow in colder climates - they're blue, and relatively tasteless but my mom made the most incredible moss berry pie!]. Their girls are about ten years older than the kids in our family, so a few years later, when Sylvia was in her mid-teens, she came to spend the summer with our family to improve her English. I have some vague memories of that summer, including a prolongued camping trip, but I was still pretty little so I don't remember much.
My parents took my brother to Europe when he was twelve or thirteen years old and they spent a few days in Boves. Then, when the whole family spent a month travelling in Europe in 2003, we all stayed with them again. At that time, there had been a few marital additions to the family and one baby. It was pretty much a given that I would have to stop in for a visit during my 2011 trip. Once we knew the dates, we arranged that Rachel and I would spend our first weekend in Italy at their place.
The Friday night/Saturday morning we arrived, we were given Elena and Sylvia's old room and around 0100 or 0130 we collapsed into bed. [PS - I do use a 24-hour clock. So do the Italians]. I set the alarm for 0900 because we were determined to start adjusting to the time change. We were pretty much dead to the world all night and dragging myself out of bed at 1000 was really, freaking hard. They had these amazing shutters on the windows that pretty much blacked out the whole room.
It was 0200 in the morning according to my body's clock and I felt like a zombie. I opened the bedroom door to be brutally assaulted by stabbing sunshine pouring in through the front windows. Blurry eyed, I looked down the hall in the direction of the kitchen [where I could hear the sounds of ... breakfast?] and saw a little body hurling itself towards me. The miniature person grabbed onto my knees saying, "Buongiorno! Ciao! Ciao!" [Boo-ohn-jee-ORno; Chee-OW - 'Good morning! Hi! Hi!']. "Mumble-mumble-mumble-ino!" [Not actually what was said, but rapidly spoken Italian sounds sort of like this, especially if you're half-asleep]. At that moment, Bruna stepped out of the kitchen and called the, what I could now tell was a, little boy back to the kitchen.
I got dressed and brushed my teeth and opened the bathroom door to see an adorable little girl with brown ringlets looking at me with confusion and apprehension. We just stood there and stared at each other for several seconds. Bruna once again came to my rescue, introducing me to Melissa, age 3 [Meh-LEE-sah, also known as MEHL-ee] and Enrico, age 5 [EH(n)-ree-coh; the 'n' is barely audible], Sylvia's daughter and Elena's son, respectively. Meli was a bit unsure, but Enrico had determined that we were to be best friends, right now, thank you very much.
Rachel made it out of bed shortly after me and we enjoyed a breakfast of yogurt, toast, and [amazing] coffee. Then, we walked into town to visit the market. It was exactly like a movie - adorable little town, narrow alleys, cobblestone streets, big open-air market, and loud Italians everywhere, waving their hands as they spoke. I loved it. We met Elena and her newly adopted daughter Punam, fifteen months old [Pooh-NAHM]. These kids were seriously unnaturally cute.
We marched through Boves' main piazza to one of the offices that the family runs. There, I saw Sylvia, and met her husband, Roberto. She told us we would be going sightseeing that afternoon and did we want to see a castell [she meant castle, but in Italian, you would pronounce the 't'] or go into a huge cave. We chose the cave. We picked up Sylvia's son, Lorenzo, age 8 [Loh-RREN-zoh], traded out Meli [who needed a nap] for Enrico, who didn't want to miss the fun, and headed for the hills. Literally.
The driving into the alps was a bit crazy. Italian 'secondary highways' are about the width of an alley you'd find behind your house and almost as bumpy. We twisted in and out, drove into valleys and up steep hills, and zipped through towns with roads so narrow that we could have reached out the window and touched the walls on either side.
The cave itselft was very cool. The beginning tunnel has been set up as an art exhibit [the only of its kind] and then you reach the main part and it's an enormous cavern with a waterfall pouring down in front of you. We got a guided tour up and down about a zillion stairs [literally thousands] with Sylvia translating the whole thing. It was pretty cold in the cave, so coming out was a relief. Then, the drive home. Rachel, prone to being carsick, sat in the front that time.
Another day I will talk about the pizza party we had afterwards. And about our trip into wine country - Barolo, to be exact. All you wine lovers will know how awesome that was.
By the way - I named this post what I did because those were our new, Italian-ized names; especially when pronounced by 3 and 5 year olds. Add lots of rolled 'r's on the RRRRRay-chelle. Perfecto!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
interlude
So this has nothing to do with the trip that I took to Italy this year. It actually has to do with a trip somebody else is in the middle of.
My baby sister is in Kenya right now. She is spending three months there learning about the community and working with the kids in a children's home and school. If I may, I will take a moment to wax nostalgic about that girl.
She is incredible. A rail-thin, super-model who dresses like a hipster, right down to her big, thick-framed glasses. Her hair is big and wavy, she's got a million-dollar smile, and she adores the fact that she is three inches taller than me. Her sketchbooks are full of various works of artistry, usually accompanied by a poetical tag. She has got a huge heart, the ability to make somebody feel like they are the most important person in the world only two seconds after they meet her, and a lot of courage. Most of the time, she is the bravest person I know.
Sometimes, like we all do, she doubts her ability to do things on her own - but she is so strong. This is my sister who packed up and moved to Africa to have a new experience, make a difference in the lives of somewhere between 100 and 150 kids, and learn something new. She was in Mexico this past year, and wants to do a trip to Central America next year with a project that has to do with providing clean water. Her plans for the long-term future are not concrete, but whatever it is, you can bet she'll be helping out. This is not a girl who is incapable. I admire her tenacity, her chutzpah, her humility, her fortitude, her willingness to serve those around her, her determination, and generally just her ability to endure.
I miss her. I miss her a whole heck of a lot. [Although I am enjoying the use of her closet while she's gone - she's got great taste!]
If you're interested in following the blog she's writing while she's away (keep in mind her access to the internet is not exactly reliable), please go to http://ameliawiens.blogspot.com/
You'll notice it's called "Harambee." This is swahili that has become Kenya's motto. It means "Let us all pull together." It's perfect for her.
Song of the Day: If You're Out There by John Legend
My baby sister is in Kenya right now. She is spending three months there learning about the community and working with the kids in a children's home and school. If I may, I will take a moment to wax nostalgic about that girl.
She is incredible. A rail-thin, super-model who dresses like a hipster, right down to her big, thick-framed glasses. Her hair is big and wavy, she's got a million-dollar smile, and she adores the fact that she is three inches taller than me. Her sketchbooks are full of various works of artistry, usually accompanied by a poetical tag. She has got a huge heart, the ability to make somebody feel like they are the most important person in the world only two seconds after they meet her, and a lot of courage. Most of the time, she is the bravest person I know.
Sometimes, like we all do, she doubts her ability to do things on her own - but she is so strong. This is my sister who packed up and moved to Africa to have a new experience, make a difference in the lives of somewhere between 100 and 150 kids, and learn something new. She was in Mexico this past year, and wants to do a trip to Central America next year with a project that has to do with providing clean water. Her plans for the long-term future are not concrete, but whatever it is, you can bet she'll be helping out. This is not a girl who is incapable. I admire her tenacity, her chutzpah, her humility, her fortitude, her willingness to serve those around her, her determination, and generally just her ability to endure.
I miss her. I miss her a whole heck of a lot. [Although I am enjoying the use of her closet while she's gone - she's got great taste!]
If you're interested in following the blog she's writing while she's away (keep in mind her access to the internet is not exactly reliable), please go to http://ameliawiens.blogspot.com/
You'll notice it's called "Harambee." This is swahili that has become Kenya's motto. It means "Let us all pull together." It's perfect for her.
Song of the Day: If You're Out There by John Legend
Monday, September 19, 2011
milano centrale - my nemesis.
We made it from the airport to the main train station after what seemed like an eternity sitting on this train being winked at by these two extremely creepy guys sitting nearby. I will state from the get-go that this will be mildly
exaggerated. But understand that it really felt this bad at the time. This is the story of our primo giorno [first day, pronounced PREE-moh jee-OHR-noh]
Imagine this:
You have been awake and travelling for nearly 40 hours and have slept for only three hours in that time. Due to the end of semester, last-minute errands, and frantic packing, you also haven't slept much in the weeks leading up to this event. You are exhausted and carrying a quarter of your own weight on your back in a huge backpack. You are in a maze of twisty passages, surrounded by thousands of people who don't speak English but are chattering away a thousand miles a minute in a language you don't understand. Almost everybody but you is smoking.
You don't know where you need to be. There are signs pointing in three different directions for "Informazione" but all of them are lying. There is even a map with a labelled point that is the information desk. You go there. It does not exist. Many people are staring at you because you are clearly a foreigner. You are thirsty, hungry, and in search of help. In English, if at all possible. You also have to pee. Badly. It costs one euro to use the toilet and that pisses you off. Finally, you find a policeman. He manages to keep a mostly straight face and points you in the direction of the ticket office while a group of his fellow police friends stare at you and crack up. That is the first time you talk to him. You find two huge lineups in the ticket office and don't know which is the right one. Crap.
A worker validates your Eurail passes [most likely because you look like you are about to cry] but does not tell you where to get in line, how to get a ticket, or who to ask about those questions. You now also need a payphone because you are now 1.5 hours later than you told your friends [who will be picking you up at your final destination] you would be. You finally make it to the front of the line only to be told that you don't need to be there, even though you were told you must always get a reservation. You just need to catch the train to Turino, then switch to the train going to Cuneo [COO-nee-oh]. You will get there at 2255. He tells you which platform to go to. You go to ask another policeman where the payphone is. It is the same guy. He does not keep a straight face this time. It takes you fifteen minutes to figure out how the damn phone works. This is because not only are the phones nothing like those at home, but the one you fiddle with for about ten minutes turns out to have been broken.You manage to reach your friends to let them know your new arrival time and then you get on the train. This was our experience of Milano Centrale train station. It is also officially the worst part of our trip. Who cares that it JUST started.
Everything is fine until you get to Turino. The ticket man failed to mention which of the three stations in Turino to get off at. Crap. The man sitting across from you kindly tells you you want "Porta ...." You missed the second word. You get off at the wrong stop, although the first word IS Porta. Word stronger than crap. The station you DO want is one further. Only one. The next train going to the next station is coming in 12 minutes. You catch it, get to the right station and have missed your train to Cuneo by one minute. More foul language. On the bright side, the station is full of men of all ages, wearing Robin Hood style hats [complete with feathers] who are drinking, playing the accordion, and singing. Loudly. You manage to laugh. You find another pay phone [and know how to use it without feeling like an idiot] and reach your friends. You will be one more hour late. You feel very guilty because they are driving to the station to get you, putting you up for the whole weekend and now have to drive to the station at midnight to get you. More language not appropriate for children. You are so exhausted, you end up giggling uncontrollably and checking the next train approximately 50 times to ensure its the right one. You make it to Cuneo. Your friends are on the platform to pick you up, and very excited to see you. All is well that ends well.
So, admittedly, that was a bit melodramatic. But it was honestly overwhelming at the time. I do have to add that we did have some time on the train to enjoy the Northern Italian countryside and it is lovely. Think of all the photos you've ever seen of Italy - it was better than that.
The friends we were staying with in Boves [BOH-vehz] were people who had stayed at my parents' bed and breakfast many years ago. There have been a couple visits between the families since then, but not a ton. I did made the mistake of telling Bruna [Nona - gramma] on the drive from the station that we were a bit hungry. Keep in mind that it was midnight when our train arrived. We arrived at their house and were fed. It started with tortollini soup, followed by meat and potatoes, followed by cheese, followed by fruit, followed by ice cream. I'm not kidding.
We were exhausted, happy, and getting fat. Oooof.
Oh, and a word to the wise. If you're ever taking the train in Italy - the main stations are usually called Porta Nuova, Santa Maria Novella, or Centrale. Those are most often the ones at which you can catch connecting trains.
Imagine this:
You have been awake and travelling for nearly 40 hours and have slept for only three hours in that time. Due to the end of semester, last-minute errands, and frantic packing, you also haven't slept much in the weeks leading up to this event. You are exhausted and carrying a quarter of your own weight on your back in a huge backpack. You are in a maze of twisty passages, surrounded by thousands of people who don't speak English but are chattering away a thousand miles a minute in a language you don't understand. Almost everybody but you is smoking.
You don't know where you need to be. There are signs pointing in three different directions for "Informazione" but all of them are lying. There is even a map with a labelled point that is the information desk. You go there. It does not exist. Many people are staring at you because you are clearly a foreigner. You are thirsty, hungry, and in search of help. In English, if at all possible. You also have to pee. Badly. It costs one euro to use the toilet and that pisses you off. Finally, you find a policeman. He manages to keep a mostly straight face and points you in the direction of the ticket office while a group of his fellow police friends stare at you and crack up. That is the first time you talk to him. You find two huge lineups in the ticket office and don't know which is the right one. Crap.
A worker validates your Eurail passes [most likely because you look like you are about to cry] but does not tell you where to get in line, how to get a ticket, or who to ask about those questions. You now also need a payphone because you are now 1.5 hours later than you told your friends [who will be picking you up at your final destination] you would be. You finally make it to the front of the line only to be told that you don't need to be there, even though you were told you must always get a reservation. You just need to catch the train to Turino, then switch to the train going to Cuneo [COO-nee-oh]. You will get there at 2255. He tells you which platform to go to. You go to ask another policeman where the payphone is. It is the same guy. He does not keep a straight face this time. It takes you fifteen minutes to figure out how the damn phone works. This is because not only are the phones nothing like those at home, but the one you fiddle with for about ten minutes turns out to have been broken.You manage to reach your friends to let them know your new arrival time and then you get on the train. This was our experience of Milano Centrale train station. It is also officially the worst part of our trip. Who cares that it JUST started.
Everything is fine until you get to Turino. The ticket man failed to mention which of the three stations in Turino to get off at. Crap. The man sitting across from you kindly tells you you want "Porta ...." You missed the second word. You get off at the wrong stop, although the first word IS Porta. Word stronger than crap. The station you DO want is one further. Only one. The next train going to the next station is coming in 12 minutes. You catch it, get to the right station and have missed your train to Cuneo by one minute. More foul language. On the bright side, the station is full of men of all ages, wearing Robin Hood style hats [complete with feathers] who are drinking, playing the accordion, and singing. Loudly. You manage to laugh. You find another pay phone [and know how to use it without feeling like an idiot] and reach your friends. You will be one more hour late. You feel very guilty because they are driving to the station to get you, putting you up for the whole weekend and now have to drive to the station at midnight to get you. More language not appropriate for children. You are so exhausted, you end up giggling uncontrollably and checking the next train approximately 50 times to ensure its the right one. You make it to Cuneo. Your friends are on the platform to pick you up, and very excited to see you. All is well that ends well.
So, admittedly, that was a bit melodramatic. But it was honestly overwhelming at the time. I do have to add that we did have some time on the train to enjoy the Northern Italian countryside and it is lovely. Think of all the photos you've ever seen of Italy - it was better than that.
The friends we were staying with in Boves [BOH-vehz] were people who had stayed at my parents' bed and breakfast many years ago. There have been a couple visits between the families since then, but not a ton. I did made the mistake of telling Bruna [Nona - gramma] on the drive from the station that we were a bit hungry. Keep in mind that it was midnight when our train arrived. We arrived at their house and were fed. It started with tortollini soup, followed by meat and potatoes, followed by cheese, followed by fruit, followed by ice cream. I'm not kidding.
We were exhausted, happy, and getting fat. Oooof.
Oh, and a word to the wise. If you're ever taking the train in Italy - the main stations are usually called Porta Nuova, Santa Maria Novella, or Centrale. Those are most often the ones at which you can catch connecting trains.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
and thus, our story begins
It is considerably cheaper to fly to London, England out of the Calgary International Airport than the Edmonton one. Thus, on the morning of May 5, 2011, Rachel and I set out for Calgary. Paid with a promise of breakfast at Tim Horton's and a bottle of whiskey, our friend, Steve, agreed to drive us the three hours South to catch our flight. The driving soundtrack was the album Helplessness Blues by the Fleet Foxes, we stopped once at Timmie's for breakfast and coffee, again at a Starbucks for ... well, more coffee, and made it to Calgary in plenty of time.
Good thing, too! After many thank you's [and Rachel laughing at me while I tried to lift my backpack], we discovered an achingly long line for check-in. A downside of flying budget airlines? No online check-in the day before you leave! We got stuck in the middle row, way far back in the plane. But our flights were only a little over eight hundred dollars, so ... fair's fair. Since it was about 11pm in Italy when we set off, we tried to sleep on the plane. We were a little less than successful, each dozing for only about two hours or so. The food, however, was delicious. For supper, the main course was butter chicken and rice [pretty good, actually - not the best I've ever had, but also a far cry from the worst I've had ... and far, FAR better than you usually expect of plane food!], sliced fruit [pineapple and melon, so even I could eat it!], cheese and crackers, and raspberry crumble. Stuffed full of the best plane-food I have ever had, we settle in to watch The Tourist, as it was the only movie available to us economy-class folk that didn't completely suck.
We arrive at Gatwick airport [London, UK] early in the morning - about midnight our time - to find it under some serious construction. As we could not check-in for our EasyJet flights until two hours before departure, we had to spend the time somehow. Most of the seating areas had been blocked off for repairs and renovations, so the first order of business was one thing: coffee. One cappuccino and a latte later, we were no more awake than when we'd landed. We managed to find a couple benches and attempted to doze for a short while, though not too much [airports are loud!].
Eventually, we were able to check-in and make our way through security where we spent the time until our flight departed browsing the cool English stores and lounging on the couches [the hidden inside of Gatwick is much nicer than the pre-security portion. If you even have to spend time there, hope to all that is good that you can get through security early!]. Finally we departed.
Our first view of Italy was from the plane window - the Italian Alps [near the border with France]. As we neared Milano Malpensa [main airport in Milan], we managed to garble out some Italian to the businessman sitting next to us who spoke zero english. We came to understand that there were three methods to get to Milano Centrale [pronounced Mill-awn-oh Chen-trawl-eh the main train station]: taxi, bus, or train. Sounded so easy. We had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into.
Next time: the story of our first Italian train station, and arriving in our destination, Boves, four hours late. Whoops!
Good thing, too! After many thank you's [and Rachel laughing at me while I tried to lift my backpack], we discovered an achingly long line for check-in. A downside of flying budget airlines? No online check-in the day before you leave! We got stuck in the middle row, way far back in the plane. But our flights were only a little over eight hundred dollars, so ... fair's fair. Since it was about 11pm in Italy when we set off, we tried to sleep on the plane. We were a little less than successful, each dozing for only about two hours or so. The food, however, was delicious. For supper, the main course was butter chicken and rice [pretty good, actually - not the best I've ever had, but also a far cry from the worst I've had ... and far, FAR better than you usually expect of plane food!], sliced fruit [pineapple and melon, so even I could eat it!], cheese and crackers, and raspberry crumble. Stuffed full of the best plane-food I have ever had, we settle in to watch The Tourist, as it was the only movie available to us economy-class folk that didn't completely suck.
We arrive at Gatwick airport [London, UK] early in the morning - about midnight our time - to find it under some serious construction. As we could not check-in for our EasyJet flights until two hours before departure, we had to spend the time somehow. Most of the seating areas had been blocked off for repairs and renovations, so the first order of business was one thing: coffee. One cappuccino and a latte later, we were no more awake than when we'd landed. We managed to find a couple benches and attempted to doze for a short while, though not too much [airports are loud!].
Eventually, we were able to check-in and make our way through security where we spent the time until our flight departed browsing the cool English stores and lounging on the couches [the hidden inside of Gatwick is much nicer than the pre-security portion. If you even have to spend time there, hope to all that is good that you can get through security early!]. Finally we departed.
Our first view of Italy was from the plane window - the Italian Alps [near the border with France]. As we neared Milano Malpensa [main airport in Milan], we managed to garble out some Italian to the businessman sitting next to us who spoke zero english. We came to understand that there were three methods to get to Milano Centrale [pronounced Mill-awn-oh Chen-trawl-eh the main train station]: taxi, bus, or train. Sounded so easy. We had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into.
Next time: the story of our first Italian train station, and arriving in our destination, Boves, four hours late. Whoops!
Monday, September 5, 2011
retrospective travel blog - italia
I spent five weeks in Italy. From May 5-June 9, 2011, a dear friend and I strapped on our backpacks and took a month to travel through Italy, starting up North and working our way down.
During the planning stages of our adventure, I had grandiose plans to blog faithfully throughout the trip. However, as the time for departure drew close, I realized that I really wanted my friends to be able to read what we were up to, be reassured that we were still alive. Sadly, the best medium for that was facebook. There are a lot of things I dislike about fb [that's for another time, though], but fact is: most of my friends and family have an account. It would be easy for them to check my profile for status updates, comments, and notes.
In the end, it's probably for the best that I did that. Up North, public access to the internet is easily accessible and fairly cheap. However, the farther South you go, the more difficult it is to find a reliable internet connection. And the prices creep ever higher. The easiest thing for me to do was to post the occasional status update on fb [to reassure people of our well-being], and send brief emails to my mom [who required a little more reassurance than a ten word update] and my boyfriend [who I really just missed].
Now, I realize that I have been home for three months now [yikes, how time flies!], but my summer was crazy. And now that it's September, I'm not less busy but I am determined to plonk out the story of my trip in small segments for anyone who would like to read it.
Today is about how and why I decided to go to Italy.
The summer of 2010: I was halfway through my degree [for those of you who don't know, I am taking a Bachelor of Science in Nursing], feeling like I was going to be in post-secondary forever, suffering from a serious case of the travel bug, and reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Love or hate the book [if you've only seen the movie, don't pass judgement. You must read the book before you're allowed to do that] she does include some pretty fantastic descriptions of sites, people, food, and wine. Italy has always been on my go-to list - Rome, Venice, Tuscany - I've always wanted to explore them all.
I had pretty much made up my mind that that's where I wanted to go on a trip. Then, I was talking to a friend, Rachel, and she mentioned that she was reading this book about Italy and she really wanted to travel to Italy in the summer of 2011. With an appropriate amount of squealing, giggling, and "Oh my gosh"ing, we decided to go. We contemplated the idea of a whirlwind, 4-5 week trip through Europe, but found that there was so much in Italy alone that we wanted to see, we had to narrow it down. A fast tour hitting only tourist sites in several countries would probably only leave us exhausted and feeling like we'd missed a lot. So we bought travel guides, read Italian phrase books, browsed blogs, and hunted for cheap flights. We found a wicked flight deal through Canadian Affair [www.canadianaffair.ca] and booked our seats. Originally, we planned to go for four weeks, but the way flight deals worked out, and with all the places we planned to visit, we extended our trip.
May 5 - June 9, 2011. Four flights, seven accomodations, an unmeasured amount of Italian wine and food, many, many new friends, several thousand photos, and innumerable stories. Me amo la bella Italia.
During the planning stages of our adventure, I had grandiose plans to blog faithfully throughout the trip. However, as the time for departure drew close, I realized that I really wanted my friends to be able to read what we were up to, be reassured that we were still alive. Sadly, the best medium for that was facebook. There are a lot of things I dislike about fb [that's for another time, though], but fact is: most of my friends and family have an account. It would be easy for them to check my profile for status updates, comments, and notes.
In the end, it's probably for the best that I did that. Up North, public access to the internet is easily accessible and fairly cheap. However, the farther South you go, the more difficult it is to find a reliable internet connection. And the prices creep ever higher. The easiest thing for me to do was to post the occasional status update on fb [to reassure people of our well-being], and send brief emails to my mom [who required a little more reassurance than a ten word update] and my boyfriend [who I really just missed].
Now, I realize that I have been home for three months now [yikes, how time flies!], but my summer was crazy. And now that it's September, I'm not less busy but I am determined to plonk out the story of my trip in small segments for anyone who would like to read it.
Today is about how and why I decided to go to Italy.
The summer of 2010: I was halfway through my degree [for those of you who don't know, I am taking a Bachelor of Science in Nursing], feeling like I was going to be in post-secondary forever, suffering from a serious case of the travel bug, and reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Love or hate the book [if you've only seen the movie, don't pass judgement. You must read the book before you're allowed to do that] she does include some pretty fantastic descriptions of sites, people, food, and wine. Italy has always been on my go-to list - Rome, Venice, Tuscany - I've always wanted to explore them all.
I had pretty much made up my mind that that's where I wanted to go on a trip. Then, I was talking to a friend, Rachel, and she mentioned that she was reading this book about Italy and she really wanted to travel to Italy in the summer of 2011. With an appropriate amount of squealing, giggling, and "Oh my gosh"ing, we decided to go. We contemplated the idea of a whirlwind, 4-5 week trip through Europe, but found that there was so much in Italy alone that we wanted to see, we had to narrow it down. A fast tour hitting only tourist sites in several countries would probably only leave us exhausted and feeling like we'd missed a lot. So we bought travel guides, read Italian phrase books, browsed blogs, and hunted for cheap flights. We found a wicked flight deal through Canadian Affair [www.canadianaffair.ca] and booked our seats. Originally, we planned to go for four weeks, but the way flight deals worked out, and with all the places we planned to visit, we extended our trip.
May 5 - June 9, 2011. Four flights, seven accomodations, an unmeasured amount of Italian wine and food, many, many new friends, several thousand photos, and innumerable stories. Me amo la bella Italia.
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