Travel Through Italy With Me

Italy. Birthplace of the Renaissance. Motherland of Da Vinci and Galileo and Julius Caesar. Home to fashion, history, and art. Center of the great Roman Empire. The eternal circulation of culture and food like blood in our arteries. Neptune, Venus, and many more reside here, and we just hope to get a glimpse. We hope to glimpse at the churches that tickle the sky and the cobblestone forever worn by generations of people. We hope to smell garlic floating through the air and cigarettes that stick to your clothing, similar to velcro. 

The Florence airport is ancient in its own way. You flow down in the artificial bird, watching the Tuscan hills grow closer. Little things that let you know you’ve arrived in Italy, like the cyprus trees dotting the land below. Florence is a lot smaller than you think, you can walk from Santa Croce to the train station on the other side in thirty minutes. The lives of the Medici and Machiavelli family happened within thirty minutes. Dante Alighieri’s Inferno was written a mere ten minutes away from the Arno River. 

The airport reflects that. When you land the pilot slams on the brakes to make it through the tiny runway. Your excitement suddenly curbed by the sinking feeling in your stomach as you’re flung forward at impossible speeds. 

The churches are unlike what you have ever perceived. They radiate this sense of wisdom- they have been standing still in regal poise as the centuries creep by. No photo can replicate how large the Duomo is. No one has enough time in the world to tell you how much is crammed into the small city of Florence. The Dome, Santa Croce, San Lorenzo, The Uffizi, Ponte Vecchio, so on and so forth. Even where the human eye cannot penetrate, ancient Roman remains are encrusted below the city. 

Quite quickly you learn the Italian way of life- coffee, alcohol, and nicotine. Quite quickly you become accustomed to the cigarette musk that fills the country. Quite quickly, back home you start to yearn for the familiar smell. When the smell of lit tobacco hits your nose it reminds you of a time a little too long ago. The beeps of tiny cars, the way your shoes click on the cobblestone. 

The Florentine nights are painted a dark blue. Not black, not gray feathered with light pollution of cities like Los Angeles- but a blue like the deep ocean. A blue that covers the world like a blanket, a color like a sapphire dug deep out of the ground. The nightlife comes alive, Italian natives and American abroad students ready to live the best nights of their lives. The clubs rumble with music hidden in the alcoves of the medieval city. Bars are so packed it reminds one of a beehive. The small insects lured in the scent of alcohol and buzzing around the hive, honey in hand. 

Florence has more emotions than we can count, and has lived more lives than any human. 

The electricity that flows through your veins inside of the clubs alongside the throbbing music. Neptune’s from his fountain watches you as you hustle through the piazza, with his intense eyes. Similarly, his companions lie a building away in the Uffizi. Venus and Ares make love in the classic Italian sculptures- or fight- however you choose to see it. When you raise a glass of Tuscan wine to your lips, Bacchus clinks glasses with you. The pasta leaves a buttery shine on your lips- like cheap lip gloss. Touch a stone and ask yourself- “Has Michelangelo touched this very rock?” 

Take the train- past Chinatown- to Rome. It’s not far- maybe two hours- and when you emerge you realize you’re on a new planet. On the trip there, small Italian women gossip about their neighbors and families. The Tuscan countryside looks like a Van Gogh painting come to life. Small hilltop towns can be spotted from the windows, the buildings as old as the world itself. Cyprus, olive, and lemon trees sprawl around like the veins in our body. The very lifeforce of Italian cuisine and economy. 

The various train rides you’ll take through Europe never get old, each one is a finite adventure. Each train station is different, your first look at the city you’re about to enter. Small cities have small train stations, big cities have big train stations. They’re always a convenience store where you’ll be lucky to find food, usually just coffee and nicotine. Somehow the small store will always be crowded; locals weaving in and out of tourists as second nature, and tourists clearly overwhelmed pleading for a cup of unsweetened espresso. 

While Florence is small, its own bubble in the cosmos, Rome stands tall. A huge bustling city, the slow merge of modern and ancient life. While you can pick out the times Florence was quiet, in love, enraged, ecstatic- there is too much happening in Rome to fully grasp any sort of universal feeling. Florence is one breathing organism, and Rome is a society by itself. 

Rome, like most places in Italia, didn’t feel real. You’ll send yourself into a spiral thinking how this was the same place that stood thousands of years ago. It’s clearly evident too- walking through the giant city you’ll find ruins everywhere you look. Statues perched atop buildings, the frail wings of the angels looking like they are ready to fall at any moment. The Colosseum is not just a crumbling building, but the pinnacle of once was. When you step in, if you listen close enough you can hear the roar of the crowds that once was. The Forum is a step away, preserved by the Italian government to commemorate their former glory. The Forum is on the level that Ancient Rome was, and in the pit you can look up and convince yourself you are also a Roman citizen. Standing seemingly below the world, the world towering above you, the winged goddess Nike on her chariot in the sky. 

Hidden between the busy streets and flourishing city life stands the underrated Giardini di Villa Borghese. One one side stands the Nation Museum of Modern Art, a mile away the Trevi Fountain, in between you find peace. Wandering through bright skies and rainy days, the garden yet again makes one feel like a Roman citizen of ancient days. A small temple stands in the middle, all sorts of birds gather to make home in the sacred blue pond. Dotted around the gardens are old villas of people of great prestige, where the Medici’s once resided. The garden is so big you can’t hear the honking horns, the cursing of angry Italian neighbors, or the buzzing of tourists. When it rains, it feels like a place Diana might find solace in. 

Traveling away from the inner sanctions of city life, the Italian coast resides. The Mediterranean sea laps at the beaches, becoming its visitors to step in. The Amalfi Coast, Cinque Terre, the small town of Viareggio. Neptune blesses the land, lemon trees sprouting from the sides of seaside cliffs and backyards. If you dove deep enough and let the god of the sea finally claim you, would you get to live eternally in the forever warm sea? Would you become a wave softly kissing the bright houses that line the coast? When stepping into these new worlds, the new towns to explore, you understand why people decided to settle and never leave. The small town of Vernazza in Cinque Terre simply isn’t real, like a child's dream come to life. Slowly dipping into the Mediterranean, the brightly painted buildings encase small cobblestone roads. They jut out leading to the top of the mountain- and they spiral down to the sea. The local restaurants smell roughly of seafood and garlic, the soft scent of sea water filling in the gaps. 

Finally, let’s take the train far up north, past Milan and boarding Switzerland, Lake Como looks like a puddle in between the huge Swiss-Italian mountains. You don’t see it when you first enter, winding your way through the Italian country and stuffed in like canned sardines in the train. The train station, the only train station in Como, is small, most of it hidden underground. When you finally pop out, the quaint town begins to take residence alongside the lake. 

Lake Como fiercely plants itself in everyone’s memory, a place of elegance and wealth. Each little town up and down the lake is a unique adventure, centering themselves around the lake. Some are large and walkable, others steep and excruciating climb up mountain sides. Mansions and villas take space on the lip of the lake, algae slowly creeping up on the rough stone. Above lay more beautiful homes and apartments, each unique and overlooking the painting of water and mountains. The homes are a highlight of Italian sophistication. Bright private gardens, sculptures of gods and goddesses, marble columns, and small boats bobbing in the water driveway. One way in and one way out, Lake Como rules in isolation. Bringing hoards of people into its clutches, and you truly never leave its grasp on your mind. The claws of the lake sink deep into your memory: the fruity sweet taste of daiquiris and tequila sunrise’s lingering on your tongue, the imprint of the astonishing sights burned into your retina. 

You will never truly leave Italy. You will forever beg whatever is listening for one more look at the Roman Empire, one more taste of the Renaissance. The blue nights will be like a feather, softly dusting your fingers, but not quite able to grasp. The smell of ocean and pasta will transport you back in a whirlwind of longing. As much as the country takes, making itself seemingly an addiction, you will take more. You will long for more. You will reminisce more, and hope the lover we call Italy misses you as much as you miss it.