I have this unbelievable urge to travel at the moment. I want to go to Sweden, Iceland, America, and London but I can’t bring myself to book anything. That is because more than any of those places I want to go back to Italy. I want to eat pasta al fresco, I want to people watch on a piazza, I want to read in a cafe with a foamy cappuccino. I want to experience all the clichés I possibly can fit into the allotted time.
I think my love for Italy stems from having no expectations for it. When I went on holidays, I went more concentrated on my nerves for the flight rather than what I thought it would be like. My strongest memory was when the plane doors opened, I stood at the top of the steps and felt an unbelievable wave of heat. It was so comforting, I had made it onto a plane and managed to get off the other side. There is something so knowing and familiar about Italy for me. (Maybe I lived there in a past life? Or maybe I just really like pasta) I love the language (even though all I can say is the weather is warm/cold) and I really love the food.
In my idyllic Italian life I would wake up in my studio apartment right in the middle of a city. I would get dressed in light summer clothes because it is getting warm and I would make my way to the nearest cafe. I would order a cornetto con crema and a coffee. I would sit there taking in the atmosphere and I would watch people for some time. My days would be filled with reading, writing, photography, cooking, eating, and exploring – everything I want to do. When I think of moving I think what is actually stopping me and that spurs me into a flurry of reading Italian blogs and googling the remedies to my obstacles.
I am going to try and make it happen if only for a week but I really hope for longer.
Oh and who do I talk to in Ireland about importing pasta frita?