Italy was an immersion for all the senses, but perhaps mostly for sight. Everywhere I turned another alleyway led my eye from the gray cobblestone streets beneath my feet up the weather-worn buildings—peach, marigold, dusty pink—and finally to a thin crevice of blue sky. Green vines swept up walls and hung overhead, while bright pink flowers spilled out of window boxes. Rivers ran under arched bridges, and iconic domes towered over the city centers.
In Rome, the golden hour sunlight perfectly illuminated the Colosseum, a clear reminder that the arena was the centerpiece of the ancient city. In coastal villages, the sea sparkled and lush green hillsides, spotted by wildflowers and lemon trees, stretched as far as you could see. And that’s saying nothing of the incredible marble statues, ornate gold carvings, and impossibly intricate fresco paintings found in cathedrals, museums, and open-air piazzas. So many masterpieces. So many details. Beauty was everywhere I turned.
There was so much to see—an incredible problem, to be sure—and I felt an urgency to take it all in. As often happens with things I’ve looked forward to for a long time, I wanted to capture it all and make the most of it. I wanted to store away the memories like a squirrel hoarding piles of acorns.
I took hundreds of pictures of ancient ruins, famous fountains, and world-renowned artwork over the heads of other gawking tourists. I captured other things that caught my eye, like flowers stretching up the side of a building and a gang of mopeds with sidecars touring the streets of Florence. I also snapped photos to cement moments in my memory: my feet on the cobblestone streets, endless sunglasses-clad selfies with Isaac, and, of course, the food: carbonara topped with crispy pancetta, wood-fired pizza with creamy burrata cheese, and gelato—dark chocolate, hazelnut, pistachio.
At times, I put my phone away in an effort to be fully present, to embody the moment rather than merely observe it. Sometimes, it was freeing, but other times I got lost in my head as I watched the constant stream of people parade by to get their signature shot in another beautiful, historic location.
Did I capture the moment well enough? Maybe I should take one more picture, just in case.
The Sistine Chapel was one of the few places where we couldn’t take photos, and it struck me as such an iconic moment to be left solely to my eyes and my memory.
“Go to the middle of the room,” our guide told us. “Then turn around to face the entrance and look up.”
We made our way to the center, weaving in and out of the murmuring crowd. An attendant called out, “Silenzio. Silenzio!” and the noise subsided for a few seconds, only to slowly rise again moments later. We found a pocket of space near the middle, turned around, and craned our necks to look up. My eyes settled on their intended prize: the portion of the painting where God’s finger is stretched out to meet Adam’s, giving him breath and life. A vague memory of seeing this on a classroom screen in a history or art class, I couldn’t be sure which, floated through my mind, making being there in person seem even more surreal. My eyes moved slowly from section to section, taking in the creation of Eve, the fall, the banishing from the garden, and many more biblical scenes before resting on the depiction of the final judgment on the far wall.
The frescos were rich, colorful, and filled with detail and emotion. I wanted to take it all in, to give this masterpiece the attention it deserved, but after a few minutes, my neck began to complain. As my eyes flitted about Michelangelo’s work, I knew I wouldn’t be able to retain it all. The details were already leaving my memory as we left the crowded chapel, but I carried a sense of awe with me into the spring day outside the walls of the Vatican.
Inside St. Peter’s Basilica, a thick curtain separated a small chapel from the rest of the cavernous cathedral. An attendant stood outside next to a sign that prohibited talking and taking photos inside the chapel. He gave me a solemn nod as I put my phone away, so I took that as my cue to shuffle forward and push back the curtain.
In front of me was an altar, smaller than others in the cathedral, but stunning nonetheless. I hovered in the back for a moment before sliding into one of the pews, the rigid wood forcing my back to straighten as I sat. After a few moments, I felt compelled to engage my whole body in this holy place. I glanced around. Was it okay for me to kneel? Did I need to cross myself first as I saw other visitors doing, or was that disrespectful since I’m not Catholic? I didn’t have answers, but I decided to move anyway. My knees clumsily met the smooth, solid kneeler, sliding around a bit before settling. I rested my arms lightly on the pew in front of me and felt the connection points of my forearms and my knees ground me. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, absorbing the quiet and the darkness in the middle of a busy tourist attraction, exhaling my need to capture it all. At least for now, it felt right to just be.
In the city centers, mopeds purred as they bumped over uneven cobblestone streets, and taxis honked intermittently to scatter meandering tourists like us. We’d occasionally stumble upon live music—a saxophone, an accordion, a string ensemble—their melodies rising through the colorful alleys and mixing with the steady hum of the crowds.
All around me, strangers spoke Italian, and I listened intently as if, by some miracle, I’d suddenly be able to understand. The unfamiliar syllables strung together in a sound that was warm but pressing, as if every conversation carried weight and was punctuated by urgency. I remember thinking they were talking so fast. Was that true? Or did their conversations simply sound speedy to my unacclimated ears? The deep unfamiliarity was thrilling to a degree, a clear reminder that I was somewhere new. But at times, it was also disorienting to not be able to understand.
At first, I perked up at each new language—Italian, French, German, Spanish, and many more I couldn’t readily pinpoint—but eventually the amalgamation blended together into a buzzing background noise. Conversations reached my ears but felt separate from me. Like oil and water, our worlds didn’t mix, the invisible barrier of language seemingly keeping us apart.
Then we’d pass an English speaker, often with a British accent. Sometimes Canadian. And then obviously, without a doubt, American. Suddenly, the American voices were all I could hear. Their conversations seeped into my skin, feeling so close it seemed like their words were meant for me. I tried not to eavesdrop, but the comfort of understanding was irresistible, and I found myself smiling about a funny travel mishap or cringing as someone complained about their hotel. My ears were alert and searching, tuning in and turning up the volume on the familiar.
As we strolled through manicured gardens in Florence, trying to find relief from the intense afternoon sun, we saw two kids, a boy and a girl, walking off to the side of the adults in their group. The girl chatted with the boy in Italian while he silently fiddled with a tiny Rubik’s cube. Suddenly, she took a big step forward into the next part of the garden, extended her arms out wide, and exclaimed, “Yahoo!” Isaac and I looked at each other and stifled our laughs.
My feelings exactly, friend, I thought.
Her uninhibited display of joy and delight felt so universal, so very human. Maybe you don’t always have to understand to understand.
The late spring sun warmed my shoulders as we hiked along the seaside trail, careful to watch our footing as narrow stone steps ascended and descended and ascended again. The air was fresh, but every once in a while, we’d encounter a strong floral scent. The billowy aroma enveloped us like a mist. It was like stepping into all of the blooming springtimes of my memory combined into one.
I scanned the trail, looking for the fragrance’s source, but the wide variety of flora made it impossible to pinpoint. Red poppies, large cacti, sweeping succulents, and pockets of yellow wildflowers dotted the cliffs in unscripted beauty, while vineyards and lemon trees lined the terraced hillsides in curated rows. I imagined each bloom adding a layer to the scent’s bouquet.
I breathed deeply, wishing I could bottle up that aroma, but then as quickly as we came upon it, we’d emerge from the floral cloud. The heady scent would dissipate and the air returned to the sea’s essence: clean and briny with a subtle hint of fish.
When we reached the next village, we bought sandwiches for lunch and made our way past a crowd of tourists getting off a ferry boat, trying to find a quiet place to eat. We settled on some concrete steps in a little cove. The steps led straight into the water, and calm waves swept over the black rocks, leaving white foam in their wake.
I bit into my sandwich and the focaccia was soft and chewy. The salt lingered on my lips and mixed with the mozzarella, so creamy it was nearly spreadable, and the crisp, ripe tomatoes. The pesto tasted fresh and herbal at first, but when it hit the roof of my mouth, it exploded with flavor—nutty and garlicky with just the right amount of tartness.
Isaac peeled an orange and handed me half. Likely grown on the hillside behind us, it looked ripe but unremarkable, like any orange I’d buy at the grocery store at home. But as I bit into the first slice, I realized just how wrong I’d been. The juices covered my fingers as the acidic, sweet citrus overwhelmed my tastebuds with a fullness of flavor I couldn’t believe.
Throughout the trip, I slowly began to accept that I couldn’t capture it all. Instead of trying to hoard the memories, I tried (imperfectly) to just take the experiences as they came, to really live them. Some memories will stay with me for a long time, emblazoned on my mind by the significance of the moment or the power of the senses. Others will be brought back with a colorful photo of the two of us smiling for the camera. And I’m sure even more will linger just out of my reach, but I think that’s okay.
Traveling has the ability to wake us up, to overtake our senses with the unfamiliar, but it doesn’t require a big trip to live in a grounded way. In traveling and in daily life, I’m aiming for less observing and more embodiment. Less performance, more presence. Less fear of missing out, more enjoyment of what is, right here, right now.
Sometimes we just need to search out a quiet space, right in the middle of the crowd, and look up. Take in what your eyes can see, feel the strain in your neck, listen to the murmurs around you. Let yourself be filled with curiosity, gratitude, and awe. Some details will stick and others will fall away, but we’ll be marked by the living nonetheless.
Beautiful piece, I feel like I’ve been to Italy!!
That last paragraph 😍 Loved all of it.