Why I Travel Archives | In Lieu of Postcards

Kenmare, Ireland’s Hidden Charms

This summer marked my fifth trip to Ireland. Why, when there are so many places to go, do I continue to choose the Emerald Isle? For one, traveling to Ireland has been a formative experience for me. It was the first country I ever visited outside of North America, and the place where I spent a semester studying abroad 20 years ago. At this point in my Irish travels, there aren’t many major sites I haven’t seen. But in this place where I feel so many memories and connections, I tend to take pleasure in the mundane – walks to take, places to eat and drink, gardens and shops and inviting quaint streets. Sure, there are things I haven’t seen: despite living in Dublin for six months, I never went to the Guinness Storehouse, and I have never been to the EPIC Immigration Museum. I’d prefer instead to stand on the street in front of Kehoe’s with a pint in my hand, or to lounge on St. Stephen’s Green to watch Dubliners of every stripe intersect. Or, maybe head down to County Kerry for a slow amble through Kenmare.

The Must-Be Philosophy

I suppose I can sum this up as such: instead of “must-sees”, I gravitate toward a philosophy of “must-bes”: I must be back there. I must be in a moss-covered forest; I must be in the back of an Irish taxi with a witty driver; I must be sat at a table in front of the perfect toasted special; I must be in a pub where a fiddle is harmonizing with a concertina; I must be surrounded by slate-gray stone walls and ungainly bleating sheep and muddy crying skies. For this trip, these must-bes were converged in the small town of Kenmare, co. Kerry.

Kenmare, just off the Ring of Kerry with a population of around 2,500, is not exceptional among Irish towns, but it has long retained something of a mythical glow in my mind. It was one of the first places I visited on my first trip abroad at age 18. While my family only stayed in Kenmare for two nights, using it as a base to Killarney National Park, it was the first Irish small town I experienced, and it left such an indelible impression that I returned twice – for just one night in 2016, and then this summer for a whole week. I wrote a bit about Kenmare previously when discussing Kerry through Stephen Rynne’s cheeky book All Ireland, but after my third and longest visit, I wanted to delve more deeply into what makes this town such a delightful base for exploring one of Ireland’s most beautiful counties.

Escape from Killarney

As I wrote in my previous discussion of Kenmare, insofar as it is mentioned to tourists, it is usually as a more “cosmopolitan” alternative to neighboring Killarney, which has gone all-out in pursuit of American tourist dollars. In 2001, we stayed in a bed-and-breakfast called The Brass Lantern that I do remember as being quite elegant. It was run by a French woman named Colette, the showers were skylit and waterfall-like and the breakfast was a health-conscious platter of fruit and yogurt. This time, though, we acquiesced to modern convenience and stayed in an Airbnb (and a walk past the Brass Lantern suggests that though it is still ostensibly functional, is it not actually Xanadu), which was very close to the town center and let us explore Kenmare thoroughly in a week’s time.

Though the town has clearly grown since 2001, it retains its low-key charm, managing a nice balance with tourism that doesn’t impose on daily life. Is it boring? A little. But that’s the point. Tourists often say they want to live like the locals, but they don’t really mean it. In Kenmare, ordinariness – and straightforward, non-pandering Irishness – is the attraction.

Take, for example, the walk to town from our accommodations: we pass a field with a few grazing, wooly sheep, then walk along a river guarded by a stone wall and lush green trees. I run my hand along the wall, touching moss as soft as a shag carpet, feeling the ridges where stones were stacked, diligently, sometime in the distant past. (On one walk I managed to drop my scarf on the path; when I returned it was waiting for me, casually draped over a low shrub by a thoughtful passerby.) We spy a lone donkey eating languidly on an adjacent hill. A flower-adorned coffee shack, The Bean and Batch, beckons us across the street, and we perch on brightly colored chairs with flat whites and pain au chocolat (it’s Kenmare’s singular bastion of hipsterdom, but the clientele of sixty-somethings and young families are hardly intimidating). Just past this, the town begins: there’s a square and park that’s bustling with citizens and Kerry Way hikers making a pit stop. From there, two central streets branch out with shops, pubs and restaurants painted bright “Tidy Towns” colors, café tables spilling optimistically into the streets on the chance of a sunny day. Just a 10-minute walk and there, already, so much Irish charm.

Things to “Do” in Kenmare

You might be thinking that colorful buildings, mossy stone walls, and relaxed animals are all well and good, but what does one actually DO in Kenmare, aside from drive away to Killarney National Park, or other stops on the celebrated Ring of Kerry?

Attractions

First there’s the Bronze-Age Stone Circle, which I wrote about previously. The circle is probably Kenmare’s biggest tourist attraction, notable for being one of the few stone circles located in a town, rather than down some long and winding road in the middle of nowhere. The only issue is that while these circles are traditionally placed for their view, someone decided to plant trees in a ring around it, perhaps to set it off and protect it from the road. The result is an incredibly tranquil experience though one that isn’t exactly true to the intentions of its creators. There is also a souvenir stand, manned by an eager teenage boy selling plush sheep and Guinness knick-knacks aplenty, if that’s your cup of tea. But visit late in the day, with the crowds gone and the stand shut, and you can feel the hushed, almost mystical vibe of the place.

From the center of town, you can see the spire of a church rising just off the main square. This is Holy Cross Catholic Church, the most visually striking of the town’s churches, consecrated in 1864. In Ireland, there are interesting churches everywhere, and while this one is not particularly old or architecturally notable, it sits next to the former Poor Clare’s Convent founded by one of the town’s most famous residents, “The Nun of Kenmare,” Otherwise known as Sister Frances Clare (otherwise known as Margaret Anna Cusack). She was a prolific and especially intellectual nun: scholar and Irish nationalist, she established the convent and proceeded to write an impressive 35 books in the 1860s-80s.

A fairy fort in Reenagross Woodland Park, Kenmare.

You can learn more about this super-nun in the homespun and delightful Kenmare Tourist Information Office, which doubles as a history museum, chronicling the town’s industry, notable figures and daily life. I love small museums like this one that tell the stories of ordinary people (Nun of Kenmare aside) in ordinary towns. It might seem boring in the abstract, but its street-level humanity fosters a more intimate connection with a place.

Nature

Reenagross Woodland Park is the best nature one can see in Kenmare without a car. Like many beautiful Irish parks, this one is attached to a property designed for the wealthy, the 5-star Victorian-era Kenmare Park Hotel. Behind the grand stone structure are manicured gardens that dissolve almost imperceptibly into forest. Knobby trees perch over ferns and moss-covered stones, and gravel paths run along the edge of Kenmare Bay. While it’s no match for the spectacular views as on the Beara Peninsula or Ring of Kerry, it feels like a fairy-tale forest just a short walk from the bustling town center.

It’s these natural, magical edges of Kenmare that I found myself drawn to the most during our stay. Walk through the town center, take a left at the pizza place and proceed up the hill, and you’ll cross the River Finnerty, the tiny river that gives Kenmare a large part of its charm. Further up the road you’ll find Cromwell’s Bridge, an improbably steep structure that was built in the 1800s (though there was a similar structure here as far back as the 11th century). The bridge is unfortunately named for Oliver Cromwell, the English politician who led a bloody conquest of Ireland in the mid-1600s resulting in mass killings, land theft and forced servitude. The naming of the bridge is a mystery; Cromwell’s war did not even enter Kerry. The historical marker hopefully suggests that the name of this bridge was simply a mistake – the Irish-language word for “moustache,” alluding to the bridge’s rainbow-like shape, sounds like “Cromwell.” Name aside, if you’re a sucker for dry stones covered in moss, you’ll find it as enchanting as I did. Nestled on a small green surrounded by wildflowers, it’s the kind of place you can imagine reclining on a lazy afternoon.

Near Cromwell’s bridge is another of those especially Irish attractions: a shrine to the Virgin Mary, settled against a stone wall and tall hedge. This was one of Ireland’s “holy wells,” a site of folk religion during the period of anti-Catholic penal laws in the late 1600s-1900s. This well’s origin is not known; it may have begun as a site of pagan worship, then was blessed and turned into a Christian site. For pilgrims or simply curious onlookers, it’s another pocket of Kenmare enchantment.

Eating and Drinking

Lamb stew and Guinness at Coachman's — Lamb stew and Guinness at Coachman’s in Kenmare

As illustrated by these examples, life in Kenmare is not lived fast. It is a town for wandering, without expectations, and seeing what you’ll find. But while I may be making it sound like the humblest backwater, it should be known that the “cosmopolitan” label isn’t all spin. The town has quite a few fine pubs, restaurants and shops for its size; unlike other places I’ve visited in Ireland, its choices for dining and drinking are fairly numerous and high-quality. The Horseshoe, the town’s best-reviewed mid-priced restaurant, offers delicious food in cozy, candlelit surroundings. For a more ebullient dining experience, the touristy-looking O’Donnabhain’s was better than expected, offering a huge menu of well-executed Irish classics by similarly precarious candlelight (Kenmare is really not worried about people setting their hair on fire). Here the setting is a bustling pub environment soundtracked, at least when we were there, by a hipster college student alternating between affecting folk songs and improbable covers of “Dancing Queen” and other radio hits. Another standout, The Coachman’s, lacked in as much atmosphere but served an amazing Irish stew.

Atlantic Bar, a no-frills institution with a blue façade on the town square, became our go-to pub for lunch. With its perfectly presented toasted special (a hot ham sandwich with aged cheddar cheese and onion on robust buttery toast, served with golden chips), delectably fluffy Guinness, and cheerful proprietor, it was the platonic ideal of the Irish pub. Each time we visited, local workers of various professions laughed together and mingled with a few tourists enjoying a slower meal. On our second visit, we sat next to two friends on holiday from the UK, who engaged us in conversation on issues ranging from Paul McCartney to British and U.S. elections.

Traditional music session at Crowley's Bar — Trad session at Crowley’s

At night, the pubs come alive, and many try to offer live music, at least in the summer when tourists are around. This is highly variable; “live music” could mean a true Irish session, a solo accordionist, or an earnest young man playing “Wonderwall.” (Granted, the latter style can still be appealing; my husband and I did enjoy a pint in front of P.F. McCarthy’s as the band inside played a fine cover of Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.”) Crowley’s Bar is known as the place for “real” trad sessions, though Kenmare is not celebrated for its music scene like Dingle or Doolin. But the crowd packs in, and the festive atmosphere accompanied by lively fiddle, guitar and mandolin is irresistible. Elderly tourists holding iPads aloft seem to come out of the woodwork for a trad session, but a pervasive atmosphere of good cheer envelopes everyone anyway. During our visit, an Irishman visiting from another county treated the audience to a beautiful Sean-nós performance of the traditional tune “Little Saro.” His clear voice rang out in the hushed room, stopping for a moment the extroverted environment of the pub and turning inward – an old song and a new emotion.

Embrace the Boring

We made quite a few day trips from Kenmare, to beautiful and impressive surroundings (recommendations below). But when traveling anywhere, I’ve learned not to take for granted the ordinary experiences that aren’t on anyone’s bucket list. Next time you’re staying in a humble town, even one that’s never been labeled “cosmopolitan” or “colorful,” I recommend plunging yourself into the mundane, the boring, the every day. These are the things that make the essence of a place, and these are the things – as evidenced by my 23-year-pining for Kenmare – that you’ll remember.

Things to see near Kenmare

Gleninchaquin Park & Uragh Stone Circle: This breathtaking private park and neighboring stone circle on the Beara Peninsula is like something out of a dream. It’s a long drive on an incredibly narrow road, but worth it.
Kissane Sheep Farm: For animal lovers, a sheepdog herding demonstration on this picturesque farm is a delightful way to spend a morning.
Killarney National Park: This one’s obvious, but a hike in KNP is a must-do if you’re nearby. Tourists tend to flock to Muckross House and Castle, but the trails are peaceful and wooded. Arthur Young’s Walk was our choice; a lovely trail along the lake.
The Ring of Kerry: Another obvious one. There’s a lot to do on the Ring, but I’d recommend choosing a place and staying a night or two, rather than driving the whole thing in one day. See my previous post for discussion of Cahersiveen and its surroundings.

Rome, Even When It Rains

I just finished a devastating novel called Last Summer in the City. It was published in 1973, the first novel by a screenwriter named Gianfranco Calligarich, and it is the Catcher in the Rye-style tale of Leo Gazzara, a journalist adrift in Rome on the eve of his 30th birthday. When I started reading it, we had just arrived in Arezzo, Tuscany after three whirlwind days in Rome, and Calligarich’s descriptions, animated by my experience, leapt out from the page. Though this was my fifth visit to Rome, my time there is usually brief. But even I’m aware of the city’s reputation as a knotty, frantic place: plagued by loud traffic, besieged by the worst kind of tourists, famously garbage-strewn. Last Summer in the City‘s protagonist, a Rome transplant from the north, seems to feel Rome as both a cresting wave and a whirlpool: capable of lifting you to euphoric heights or sucking you down, drowning you.

Last Summer in the City by Gianfranco Calligarich

He writes, “Rome by her very nature has a particular intoxication that wipes out memory. She’s not so much a city as a wild beast hidden in some secret part of you. There can be no half measures with her, either she’s the love of your life or you have to leave her, because that’s what the tender beast demands, to be loved” (9).

He continues to explain that if you love Rome, it opens itself up to you:

“You’ll have summer evenings glittering with lights, vibrant spring mornings, café tablecloths ruffled by the wind like girls’ skirts, keen winters, and endless autumns, when she’ll seem vulnerable, sick, weary, swollen with shredded leaves that are silent underfoot. You’ll have dazzling white steps, noisy fountains, ruined temples, and the nocturnal silence of the dispossessed, until time loses all meaning, apart from the banal aim of keeping the clock hands turning. In this way you too, waiting day after day, will become part of her. You too will nourish the city.” (9-10).

This rumination concludes on a slightly less hopeful note: “Until one sunny day, sniffing the wind from the sea and looking up at the sky, you’ll realize there’s nothing left to wait for” (10).

Calligarich’s story is one of deep alienation and sadness, though the point of the novel is not that our protagonist is destroyed by Rome — instead, Leo sees in the city’s own vices and volatility a reflection of his own. His inclination is to get away, but he ultimately realizes that no city is more suitable as the backdrop to his self-destruction.

*View from our hotel of the Baths of Diocletian, Rome.*

Once I finished this haunting novel, I couldn’t help but think a bit more deeply about the Rome I had just experienced. Does Rome really encourage the darkness and despair that Leo thinks it does? Is it the type of city one must fall in love with or leave? Are all the world’s major tourist destinations this enrapturing and also cruel? Similar things have been said, after all, about New York and Paris (just for two examples). When in Rome this summer, even before my thinking was infected by Calligarich’s bitter prose, I had been trying to wrap my mind around the average Roman tourist’s intentions and impressions. Why visitors flock to this city is obviously, but what do they hope to find, to feel, once they get there?

Faces of Rome

I’ve been every kind of tourist in Rome, and it seems to show a different face each time I visit. I’ve rolled in as a clueless undergraduate backpacker in 2004, thrilled by the ease of wandering through the Forum (no ticket required in those days) and dutifully visiting the Colosseum and Vatican. In 2011, my longest stay yet, I enjoyed a quasi-insider’s view from a friend’s apartment up a hill north of Piazza del Popolo, dining with hipsters in Pigneto and drinking clandestine champagne at the foot of a monument on the Isola Tiberina. I’ve stayed, in 2018, mere blocks from the heavy tourist district and strenuously avoided it, passing a two-day idyll in the Doria Pamphilj and Barberini Galleries and walking the Jewish Ghetto at night. And in 2021 I braved the tourist areas again with a study abroad program, for the first time in the smartphone era, only to find them delightfully half-deserted in a post-pandemic hangover. I suppose Leo Gazzara would say I loved Rome, for each time I had to leave it I felt disappointment rather than relief.

This summer, however, again accompanying a student group, I found myself carried along by circumstances beyond my control, thrust again into the heart of summer tourist Rome and somewhat stunned by the ferocity of its crowds. It was this year, exposed to the ugliness of overtourism, that for the first time I felt perhaps an inkling of relief upon leaving. I thought I had loved Rome, but which Rome? If I only love Rome with its most hellish tourists redacted, does that even count? What follows are some reflects on my most memorable moments in Rome – with still much more enchantment than misery.

Trevi Fountain Terror

First up: the Trevi Fountain. It is, perhaps, the biggest obstacle standing between me and an embrace of the eternal city. Completed in 1762 and thus fairly new by Roman standards, the fountain was popularized with tourists in the 20th century when it was featured in a series of films set in Italy, including the middling 1954 Clifton Webb feature Three Coins in a Fountain, which introduced the idea of—you guessed it— throwing coins in the fountain. (Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, the classier film to prominently feature the fountain, encouraged the now-illegal practice of jumping in à la Anita Eckberg.) For some reason, people enjoy throwing money in fountains, even better if a movie has imbued this action with a sense of superstition. At least it is less harmful than attaching locks to beautiful old bridges.

*I wasn’t in the frame of mind to photograph the Trevi, but witness the crowds around the Pantheon and you get the idea.*

And so despite being one of Rome’s more minor attractions, the Trevi is a tourist magnet on par with the Colosseum, (and it’s particularly popular now that people are not allowed to sit on the Spanish Steps). Tourists clamor to get a seat near the fountain’s cloudy blue waters, and others simply gather around to take photos, throw coins and then ultimately stand, some jostling strollers of crying children, to stare into the heart of tourism for tourism’s sake. It is here, on my second day in town, that I started to wonder what tourism was really all about. I looked around at the tense, sweaty faces, the iPhones held aloft, the dripping, overpriced gelato cones and the beleaguered families settled at tables outside cynical tourist cafes with congealing pizzas in the windows, and I wondered if anyone was having any fun. But maybe “fun” is not what tourists, trained by Disney to adopt a theme park mentality of ride-hopping, are really looking for.

To wit: Too many minutes near the Trevi Fountain is detrimental to a love of Rome or even a love of humanity. Too many minutes near the Trevi Fountain, and nothing makes sense any more.

Piazza Navona Splendor

*Beneath the blue skies and ivory awnings of Piazza Navona*

But then! Once one extricates oneself from the Trevi Fountain, hurries past the snaking line to get into the Pantheon, ignores the husbands with sour faces ignoring their wives and the bossy Americans trying to return cheap puro lino clothing, one can break free into beautiful Piazza Navona. Piazza Navona, which never did anything to anyone (except overcharge them gratuitously for cocktails and coffee). Piazza Navona, where the history is casual and the feeling of the sun on your shoulders is priceless.

Piazza Navona has fountains, but seeing as no one ever made a movie about them, people don’t clamor to see them. These fountains are coinless, and one of them—La Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi—is a baroque masterpiece by Bernini. The piazza is big enough to absorb the impact of crowds and retain its sunny sense of calm, a silent smirk barely visible behind its cream-colored awnings. The cafes are host to tourists but don’t pander to them, and there’s always an empty chair in a sun-dappled setting for those who can accept a 10 euro cover charge.

In some of Last Summer in the City‘s more hopeful passages, Leo Gazzara makes the journey to Piazza Navona to meet his doomed, drunken friend Graziano:

“‘I’ll wait for you here,’ he said, ‘it’s a real beauty.’
The beauty was Piazza Navona, and when I got there I had the usual stupid idea that the sky was more beautiful there than over the rest of the city. I spotted Graziano immediately. He had on one of his legendary white shirts and was sitting in a small armchair at Domiziano’s, his pale face turned to the sun, his eyes shielded by a pair of dark glasses. He’d let his beard grow and both his hands were occupied, one holding a glass of beer and the other a glass of scotch” (66).

When he’s feeling down, Leo Gazzara often seeks refuge in Piazza Navona, and once you’ve been there, you can see why. During my visit to Rome, after I escaped the Trevi Fountain, I too sought refuge in Piazza Navona, where I sat on a bench and waited for my husband and our friends to emerge from the Pantheon. Piano, piano, as the Italians say, the sun came out. And we settled down in a cafe and everything was suddenly coated in a soft, hopeful light.

Peaceful Palazzi

The Doria Pamphilj Gallery

Which brings me to my favorite place in Rome, to date, for seeking refuge: the Doria Pamphilj Gallery. The Doria Pamphilj is a private art collection housed in a 17th-century palace that sits mere blocks from the Trevi Fountain and Pantheon and a short walk from the Roman Forum. Given its location and its high quality collection, featuring major works by Caravaggio, Titian and Velazquez, among others, I was shocked when I first visited on a sunny morning in 2018 to find the place nearly deserted. Wandering its incredibly still, grand hallways lined with painting and sculpture, adorned with chandeliers and lit by tall windows and gilded mirrors, I felt a sense of awe over this tranquility in the heart of such mayhem — an awe on par with any I had experienced over Rome’s more attention-getting landmarks.

Of course, this is not to say that the Doria Pamphilj is neglected. Each time I’ve visited (now three times in total, including last week), I am in the company of a small handful of art lovers. But the gallery’s great strength is that despite being in a palace, is it not clearly visible from the street. To enter, one must locate a small sign that leads up a long corridor to the ticket office. After that, you proceed through the garage where the heir to the Pamphilj fortune keeps his sports car, and then scan yourself in through unmanned turnstiles. It’s kind of like waking up alone at a rich person’s estate and being granted access to wander through while they’re out shooting clay pigeons or yachting (or whatever it is people who own a palace might be doing). It’s one of Rome’s many under-appreciated treasures.

The Barberini Gallery

Rome’s neighboring Barberini Gallery offers another opportunity to see excellent art in a palace atmosphere, but no doubt due to its splashy signage and grand presence on a major thoroughfare, it lacks the Doria Pamphilj’s degree of quietude. It is also somewhat aggressively overstaffed, with ticket-scanners popping up repeatedly during one’s journey through the labyrinthine palace grounds, inordinately concerned that one might be sneaking in (though it seems unlikely anyone ever has or would, especially considering the modest price of tickets). But nevertheless, the Barberini offers a similarly enchanting atmosphere to the Pamphilj; once while wandering through I witnessed a string quartet practicing in a gallery, preparing for some event, and this time I was happy to discover a room in which lounge chairs were lined up in front of a grand display of tapestries, inviting guests to sit awhile and study them, as though looking up at the night sky.

These two galleries call to me each time I’m in Rome, and they illustrate the fact that this city is simply brimming with arts and culture, so much so that despite its massive amounts of tourists, there are still plenty of incredible places you can discover, peacefully.

The Rain and Revelations

To conclude this lengthy post, perhaps my tolerance of Rome’s weather is an ultimate sign of enduring love. In the past I’ve staggered up hills in record-breaking heat, seeking refuge in the Borghese Gardens and learning to embrace the sticky-skin feeling of July and August. This year’s visit, alternately, was hampered by periodic downpours. These have the desired effect of scattering the tourist hordes, but cut short the kind of exploratory walking I enjoy.

*Ponte Sant’Angelo leading to the castle*

Naturally, Roman weather plays an outsized role in Calligarich’s novel, which begins on our protagonist’s bleak, waterlogged birthday. He observes the rain’s impact on the city:

“Torrents of rain hammered down on the decapitated statues of the Forum, the collapsed columns, the palaces in the paved squares, the desolate afternoon arenas, the ornate churches, and, absurdly, the overflowing fountains. For a while I waited in a doorway, splashed by rain and cursed at by passerby — other castaways seeking salvation, like me, in the dark, cavelike entrance — then, taking advantage of a break in the weather, I ran, hugging the walls, until I reached a small movie theater nearby” (18).

I had to smile when reading this, as it was almost exactly what we experienced during our Roman visit. Buoyed by our time in Piazza Navona, our group ambled out on foot to the shores of the Tiber, winding our way to the Castel Sant’Angelo with its magnificent bridge. (It is on this bridge that, fresh off the plane in 2011, my husband, friend and I bought beers and joined a number of young revelers in drinking and taking in the sunset.) Realizing that the afternoon was waning (we had a group dinner with the students later that evening), we followed the river back up just as the first drops of water began to fall. Far from our hotel, we decided to wait in a taxi line until, after a few moments, we realized that no one was coming or going. Taxi plans abruptly abandoned, we embarked upon our 30-plus minute walk back. The downpour that quickly ensued was much like Calligarich describes, and seemed to bring the city to a standstill.

Like Leo Gazzara, our group sought refuge in the doorway of a particularly down-and-out looking cafe, and I was pleased to find that Romans, unlike Americans, don’t particularly care if you loiter in their place of business and don’t buy anything (at least when it’s raining, and all bets are off). The proprietress was a dramatic and charming woman who jumped at each loud crack of thunder and joked in Italian and English with her international clientele. After about five minutes of the rain continuing full throttle, we gave in to the charms of this strange tourist dive and settled in to a booth on a raised platform at the back. We ordered some of the world’s cheapest wine and shook out our raincoats as our hostess infected everyone with good humor; I began to hope the rainstorm wouldn’t end, so attached was I becoming to this quirky little place and this warm company.

Conclusions

The more I visit Rome, the more I start to understand how challenging it is, and also how multifaceted. Rome is not a theme park, despite tourists treating it as such; it is not, as Calligarich’s novel emphasizes, the Happiest Place on Earth. It has a garbage problem and a drunken tourist problem and traffic problems and a lack of taxicabs; but it remains, even to the most casual visitor, an absolute wonderland of history, art, culture. It’s a place at once peaceful and chaotic, solemn and gregarious, and it’s hard, really hard, not to love it.

Penitent Magdalene by Caravaggio, Doria Pamphilj Gallery

A casual tourist can’t really know a place, and our memories our selective: upon each visit to a city, there are parts we choose to remember and those we choose to forget. I choose not to dwell on the obnoxious, unhappy tourists I encountered, the long lines and the sad pizzas and the glowing smartphones. I choose instead to remember the knockout skies of Piazza Navona; the still, gold-flecked hallways of the Doria Pamphili; Caravaggio’s Penitent Magdalene bowed with hair flowing; the rain ricocheting off centuries-old statues; the greasy cafe with the sticky floors and the warmth that carried us off into the night.

On Losing Yourself: Preparing for a Trip Abroad

After a long hiatus, I’m excited to resume my writing about travel! As much as I enjoy writing about travel all times of the year, I’ve gotten out of practice due to work, other creative projects and various life events (including having to unexpectedly move), not to mention the fact that I haven’t done much Traveling with a capital “T.” But my husband is teaching a study abroad course in Italy this summer and attending a conference in Dublin beforehand, with me along for the ride. (He noted that he did not even tell me he applied to such a conference until he received his acceptance because, apparently, I tend to get unduly excited about such prospects.) So I currently find myself, for the first time since my spring semester abroad 15 years ago (yes, I am now OLD), preparing to spend a substantial amount of time (two months) abroad. It’s pretty cool, and I feel incredibly lucky that we (barely) have the money and the flexibility to pull it off. But I do have one small worry: that my anticipation, high expectations and tendency to over-plan juuuuust might be my downfall.

Born to Itinerary

The thing is, I am a great planner. I love planning a trip, something I didn’t realize until I planned my first, our honeymoon to Dublin (where we met) in 2016. I was drunk on the freedom of deciding where we would go and what we would do, thrilled by the ability to put together pieces on how we could get to each place and move smoothly from one thing to the next. The truth is, I was probably born to be a travel agent (but not really, because the idea of dealing regularly with airlines makes my palms sweat). But this tendency doesn’t necessary help one enjoy travel; in fact, it can have the opposite effect. While I strive to take a slower pace and avoid the marathon sightseeing of the stereotypical tourist, I have to admit that the kind of planning I do – writing down in a notebook everything I’d like to do, reading restaurant and coffeeshop reviews and the best hive-mind recommendations – is not exactly a recipe for the more romantic and immersive aspects of travel I claim to love.

The Beauty of Being a Know-Nothing

When I think about the experiences that solidified my love of travel, after all, they were not those that I had written beforehand in a mini-notebook or booked through Trip Advisor. During my semester abroad in Dublin, for example, I pretty much knew nothing about anything, bouncing around to whatever bars and clubs that I heard about from my peers (quite a few of them trendy hell-holes), wandering the streets not knowing where or what the historical, cultural or other tourist attraction were, but rather learning as I came across them. (My brother loves to tell the story about visiting me a few weeks into my study abroad experience and having to point out the Spire of Dublin to me, which I had never noticed despite standing right next to it.)

When I returned to Dublin (and I will again this summer), it was with a mind of correcting that behavior a bit, learning more history and culture and trying to go to “good,” “authentic” and “historical” places. Did I see interesting things and eat good food? Yes, of course. But was it more impactful and enriching than the first experience? Absolutely not. Sometimes to really immerse in a culture, you have to try losing yourself, ignoring that pesky controlling voice within. Sometimes, I suppose, you’ve just got to go to some trendy hell-holes to see the light.

Yet with our two-month European adventure – to Ireland, England, The Netherlands and Italy – just a few days away, I’ve already written way too much in my little notebook (and the impulse remains to write more). The travel agent in my head wonders if it isn’t a good idea to look up a few more London restaurant recommendations, to pour over my Dublin map and find out what route I might take on a meander (yes, I’d still prefer to call it that) through the city. You really should review a map of Venice, it says, despite the fact that I’m not even going there until July, and I’ll have my laptop and phone with me the entire trip.

Thus, I’m attempting to push that little travel agent within aside. Instead of building my anticipation and sheer delight at the thought of the summer ahead (and that delight is a big reason travel planning is such an addiction), I’ve decided to turn my attention to why I really enjoy travel. I’ve written in the past about things I like to do when traveling, the places I love, and why travel is important, but in my cloud of precision-planning, I don’t want to lose my own reasons for travel, its mental and emotional impact.

Focusing on the Why

So, why is it that I like to travel? This may seem like a strange question, as generally in our society long-distance travel, even for work, is something about which we’re expected to be excited. When I happen to share the news that I’m embarking upon a two-month trip to Europe, the standard responses include “That’s so exciting!” “You must be so excited!” “I’m jealous!” etc., etc. I’m sure that, in part, this has to do with my tone and countenance; if I sighed heavily and explained that I *had* to travel all summer because my husband was dragging me all sorts of places, perhaps they’d react differently. (Though they’d probably think I was at best odd and at worst a potentially miserable person.) But what is it about going somewhere with a different culture (even one that’s only slightly different in the grand scheme of things) that feels so thrilling?

Lost and Found

There are many schools of thought on travel, and it’s honestly a subject that’s been written to death by backpacker types on every blog and website imaginable (insert photo here of girl in anorak standing on edge of mountain). Two perspectives seem to come up again and again: 1) that travel helps you find yourself and 2) that it helps you lose yourself. I’ve personally vacillated between these. I think of the times, when I was a kind simple traveling to my grandparents’ house in eastern Pennsylvania from Illinois, how I felt blissful at the opportunity to be away from home, and how it stoked my imagination with dreams of being somebody different. I think of the delight I feel still in being anonymous on a foreign city street, in a market, on a bus or train, willing myself to fall into a new city’s complex choreography. These sensations fit pretty snugly in category two.

But I also think of the more enriching moments of travel, the negotiations and interactions, the attempts to explain myself and to find out about others. I think of the things I’ve seen and the things I’ve learned, and how I must wedge them into my formed conception of the world, how I’ve turned them over in my mind and processed them through my experiences. I think of the experience of a semester abroad, and how what at first felt disappointing and disorienting became a time of personal evolution, of coming of age and developing a sense of myself.

It’s this last thing that really gets to the heart of it. The fact is, travel can be about both losing yourself and finding yourself. If I really dig deep to suss out the appeal of travel, to me, is the way it combines a feeling of hyperawareness of oneself with a sort of forced reset. Thrust yourself into a foreign country, with all its attendant communication issues and challenges, and you’re forced to confront the person you truly are: how you relate to others, how you respond to challenges, what aspects of culture you are drawn to, which ones you misunderstand or fear. You are removed from the familiar surroundings that sometimes obscure these aspects of your identity, and thus they come into sharp relief.

But you lose yourself in some ways, too. Trying to forge relationships with those from other cultures can be challenging; because you lack a cultural shorthand and perhaps also have a language barrier, it can be difficult to show them who you really are. It can be frustrating to compare these encounters to those with friends at home, and wish the people you met abroad could know you in that same way. But isn’t it thrilling to be someone ever-so-slightly different, to figure out how to present yourself in a new context? To navigate new situations like this can make us feel foolish and uninteresting (in Italian my conversation is basically limited to asking a person how they are, and then naming different types of food, clothing and animals) but it also shakes you out of complacency, and forces you to answer for your beliefs and attitude in ways you never have before.

Coping Mechanisms for Losing Yourself

When I’ve led study abroad classes in the past, I’ve at times had to check my frustration when students become absorbed in Instagram during sightseeing expeditions, meals or meetings, or when they ignore the tour guide’s insights in favor of discussions about the minutiae of life back home. Think about where you are! I want to remind them. You may not be here again! And yet, I also realize that these behaviors are not a sign of apathy or disinterest per se: they are in fact a natural response to the unmooring sensation of travel. The students are out of their cultural context – many for the first time – and it can feel alien and dangerous; not only in the sense of physical, walking-down-an-unfamiliar-street-at-night danger, but in the sense of losing the context within which we feel defined and unique. Some of us turn to social media and to banal discussions of fraternity parties to continue to grasp a firm identity, to make sure we still understand ourselves.

And some of us, we plan.

It’s a natural reaction and, whether or not you give in, travel will change you.

I know that this summer will not be as life-changing as a first trip abroad, but I also know that if I let go a little, these two months will have something to teach me. Here’s hoping I can stay committed to write a bit about the amazing places I will visit. Stay tuned!

On Anthony Bourdain and Transformative Travel

Bourdain taught us that travel is more than a vacation, and people around the world are more alike than we think.

Like most people who love travel, I was hit hard by Anthony Bourdain’s death earlier this month. When we heard, my husband and I had just wrapped up year two of the short study abroad program we lead in southern Italy (for the University of Oklahoma), and were visiting friends in Exeter in Devon, England for a few days before heading back to the states. We spent the day and night following his death in a way Bourdain would appreciate: exploring a place we’d never been — the rocky English coastal town of Lyme Regis — and then settling down for an epic dinner of local crab salad, sausages, cheeses, beer, and wine over conversation with good friends.

In that moment more than ever, I felt that these are the kinds of experiences that make life worth living. Anthony Bourdain believed that, too — or at least he expressed as much in his writing. Why a man with so much passion for life decided to end his, we can’t know. We can only hope that at this time of crisis in our country, his straightforward, inspiring, important body of work can continue its reach and impact.

Anthony Bourdain’s Legacy

As with most things, I wasn’t able to truly appreciate Anthony Bourdain until he was gone. I had followed two of his travel shows — No Reservations and Parts Unknown — and read some of his work, even assigning one of his essays, “The Hungry American,” as part of last year’s study abroad curriculum (this year I subbed it out to make room for more women writers). I knew, as clearly as one knows that Neapolitan-style pizza is superior to Domino’s, that his travel shows were by far the best in the genre. But I hadn’t really reckoned with the complexity of his work — what it was all about, and what it was doing — until he passed. I came home from our three-week European trip jet-lagged, sick, and determined to return to Bourdain’s oeuvre, for my money one of the more impressive in the history of travel writing.

When I returned to No Reservations and Parts Unknown, it hit me immediately just how much of my perspective had already been subtly shaped by years of watching these shows. When I became familiar with Bourdain in my early twenties, I was already in love with travel due to my study abroad experience living in Ireland and traveling in Western Europe. But funny as it sounds, Bourdain’s work actually helped me to better understand my own experience of living and traveling abroad. And he also introduced me slowly to new places I had never thought of traveling, approaching them in ways both accessible and unexpected.

The Saturday market in Catania, Sicily. — The Saturday market in Catania, Sicily: a Bourdain-esque cultural experience, 2018.

Though Bourdain has stated that before beginning No Reservations he’d “been basically nowhere,” his perspective is informed by his experiences as the grandson of French immigrants and as a longtime chef. Chefs, I would have to imagine, confront on a daily basis the influence of the global on our day-to-day life. Whether brought here by immigrants, colonialism, or other means, American food as we know it would not exist without the influence of a great many cultures. So it was natural that Bourdain evolved into a crusader for global travel and cross-cultural exchange, and in his down-to-earth, freewheeling way, took viewers around the world like no one else on television has done. Geared toward all curious parties (recognizing that the majority of viewers would never make it to such far-flung places), Bourdain’s shows eschew the guidebook format of hosts like Rick Steves and Samantha Brown. He brings viewers as close as possible to the experience of transformative travel in the interest of creating a more open-minded and better world.

The Bourdain Philosophy of Travel

Overall, watching Bourdain uncovered for me something I had already learned, but perhaps refused to acknowledge: that to travel and really learn something — truly connect — is difficult. Due mainly to our work-infatuated culture, we in this country often see travel as synonymous with vacation. Escape is a term that comes up often: escape from our day-to-day lives, our responsibilities, our mundane selves. But transformative travel, of the kind Bourdain favored, is quite the opposite.

The busy streets of Naples. — The busy streets of Naples, 2018.

Claude Levi-Strauss’s 1955 travel memoir Tristes Tropiques features one of my favorite travel-related quotes:“Perhaps, then, this was what traveling was, an exploration of the deserts of my mind rather than those surrounding me.”

Of course people — relationships, meetings, connections — are central to his work, but I think Bourdain would agree that travel is at its heart about the traveler. That the primary reward of travel is its impact on one’s consciousness and perspective, the way it nudges one’s mind open painstakingly, almost imperceptibly. For travel of the non-“escape” variety, as Bourdain knew, means not shirking but taking on additional responsibility — the responsibility of the respectful, curious traveler who attempts real connection with another culture and the people in it. This traveler must navigate the attendant confusion, awkwardness, discomfort, and self-consciousness this implies. It’s not easy, and attempts may even feel “unsuccessful.” It may take days, weeks, months, years to sink in — until one morning, you wake up to find you’ve grown to understand the world just a little bit more.

With our study abroad group in Napoli, learning about the mafia, 2017.

Study Abroad à la Bourdain

Our study abroad course, taught through the College of International Studies at OU, is technically a hybrid of Art History and Travel Writing. My husband the art history professor tries to teach our students (as much as one can in the course of a mere 11 days) how to look at things, how to notice and describe and make meaning from the act of seeing. And I introduce them to something called “travel writing” (of which most have never heard) through readings and discussions about what it means to travel, to be a traveler, and how to tell stories about travel and evoke a sense of place.

But the real point of the course is much larger. What we hope students really take away is not the ability to describe the mosaics at Pompeii or write an entertaining essay about getting lost in Naples. Ours is (or should be) the goal of every study abroad course: for them to learn that travel can be more than just taking a photo with the Colosseum, or sitting on a beach at a resort (though there’s nothing inherently wrong with those things). That the real reward is the process of learning about, negotiating, and connecting with another culture. We want them to see that difference isn’t scary. We want them to learn that there are people all over the world, speaking different languages and practicing different customs, with whom they have an awful lot in common. And in the end, we want them to see that traveling with an open, curious mind is one way to grow as a human being in this world. It’s a tall order for less than two weeks. The best we can hope for is to plant a seed.

Learning about food at a local farm, Sorrento, Italy. — Farm in Sorrento, Italy, where our group learned about local food, 2018.

This same mission statement is behind pretty much all of Anthony Bourdain’s travel-related work. In an America that grows increasingly paranoid and isolationist by the day, he made it his mission to demonstrate that our differences on the surface belie our similarities underneath. Recently, I revisited his Travel Channel series No Reservations, which I remembered as perhaps less intentional than Parts Unknown. I was surprised to find that from episode one, the Bourdain philosophy made famous by the best episodes of Parts Unknown (“Hanoi,” “Iran,” “Cuba,” “Jerusalem”) was already crystal-clear: that much of the ethnocentrism and xenophobia present in our culture is a result of ignorance, and that travel is its essential antidote.

I had forgotten that No Reservations began just a few years after 9/11, when the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were in full swing and the United States had adopted a with-us-or-against-us position regarding its allies. The first episode takes place in Paris, with Bourdain critiquing the ridiculous anti-French sentiment and “freedom fries” rhetoric of that era. In this episode and others, Bourdain performs a balancing act, highlighting cultural differences and idiosyncrasies while always keeping up his mantra: we’re all pretty much the same. This is a delicate message for a cable show, but he makes it look easy.

Bourdain and Obama in a clip from Parts Unknown, "Hanoi." — Bourdain and Obama in a clip from Parts Unknown, “Hanoi.” (Source: Pete Souza / Barack Obama Twitter.)

Take Bourdain’s conversation with then-President Obama on the most famous episode of Parts Unknown, as the two share a dinner of bún chả in Hanoi, Vietnam: “We’re at a point where we seem to be turning inwards,” Bourdain remarks. “I mean, we’re actually talking about building a wall around our country. And yet you have been reaching out to people who don’t necessarily agree with us — Gaza, Iran, Cuba — I mean, I just wish that more Americans had passports. The sense in which you can see how other people live seems useful at worst and incredibly pleasurable and interesting at best.”

Obama, nodding his head, agrees. “It confirms the basic truth,” he says, “that people everywhere are pretty much the same.”

Students doing Judo with teenagers in at Star Judo Gym, which helps children in Scampia through sport — Our students doing Judo with teenagers in at Star Judo Gym, which helps children in Scampia through sport, 2018.

This is the kind of balance those of us who teach study abroad courses must strive for: to highlight the specific and unique aspects of a culture without exoticizing or othering, always attempting to maintain that tacit acknowledgement that really, we’re all the same. For our program, we’re lucky enough to work with an Italian guide (the marvelous Katia) who integrates Bourdain-like experiences into our curriculum: meetings with immigrant-advocacy and anti-mafia nonprofits, as well as locals whose lives have been touched by the mafia, a visit to a local organic farm, and even a visit to a judo gym for underprivileged children and teens. Of course, Italian culture is not such a difficult one for new travelers to embrace, and it’s unencumbered by the negative associations Americans have with places like Iran or Cuba. But it all comes down to the same principle: introduce travelers to actual people from that culture, and those travelers will likely come away with a great deal more empathy and less fear.

Global Education in Trump’s America

And so though I’m somewhat new at this whole study abroad thing (and this whole teaching thing, for that matter, as I’ve only been doing it for a few years), more and more I’ve realized how crucial learning about other cultures — even if one can’t travel — is to becoming an educated citizen. Every day in Trump’s America, we see the results of the opposite. Trump promotes ignorance and fear of those different from us and a belief, despite this ignorance, that we are superior. It’s a sickening, cynical way to look at the world, one that directly results in mistreatment of immigrants, people of color, the lgbtq community — and the list goes on.

Meeting with staff at Eleven, a restaurant that hires and trains immigrants from Northern Africa. — Meeting with staff at Eleven in Catania, Sicily, a restaurant that hires and trains immigrants from Northern Africa, 2017.

It’s true that not everyone can afford to travel the globe, and many lack the financial means to travel even to another state. But through work like Anthony Bourdain’s, they can approximate the experience. And that’s worth a lot. Because in addition to teaching us open-mindedness and empathy, travel — or the approximation of it — humbles us. This is true for young and old, experienced or first-time traveler. The world is staggering and vast, we quickly learn. But this revelation need not be a negative one. Personally, when I think about how much of the world in all of its beautiful complexity I have yet to learn about, I feel awestruck, energized, even comforted. People are mostly the same, yes. But that fact makes their differences all the more interesting.

One of my favorite Bourdain quotes to this effect comes from an early episode of No Reservations set in Peru. Plainly inspired by his experience, Bourdain demonstrates the enthusiasm, passion, and embrace of life that made his death so difficult to comprehend. “It seems that the more places I see and experience, the bigger I realize the world to be,” he says. “The more I become aware of, the more I realize how relatively little I know of it, how many places I have still to go and how much more there is to learn.” He pauses. “Perhaps that’s enlightenment enough — to know that there is no final resting place of the mind, no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom, at least for me, means realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.”

(Top image: Bourdain eating with friends in Iran on Parts Unknown. Source: CNN)

SaveSave

A Love of Travel…and Where It Comes From

There is something about travel that quenches some essential human thirst — to understand the lives of others, to see the earth that we live in and exploit, to experience the truly novel, to feel uncomfortable and awed and like the most rock-solid version of oneself.

A Childhood of Road Trips

I’ve had a love of travel for as long as I can remember. I think one reason for this is that I’ve always felt I’ve had multiple homes. My father is a professor, and with the academic life comes uprootedness: my parents, both from eastern Pennsylvania, moved to a small town in Illinois before I was born and, despite initial misgivings, remain there to this day. For me as a child, this meant lots of road trips “back east.” Every summer (and some winter holidays), we would load up in the car for the one-and-half-day’s drive to Mountain Top, PA, the tiny town near Scranton where my maternal grandparents lived, tucked away up a steep road in the Appalachian mountains. I loved these trips, and the regular contact with relatives far away made me feel not-quite-midwestern, but not-quite-northeastern, either. Though my home was in Illinois, I never remember feeling completely owned by it, always aware of the fact that it is possible have roots all over.

These early road trips meant a lot to me. I loved the chance to go to a different place — to breathe different air, see new landscapes, and be someone just a little bit different. But I also loved the journey itself. My family became pros at the road trip: we would compile bags full of travel games, books, and magazines, load up a cooler with a picnic lunch (bologna and cheese with a mustard happy face, please), and crank up the oldies radio. We’d play wiffle ball at rest stops and splash in the hotel pool — no matter how rinky-dink. Though my brother and I would have our occasional backseat squabbles, and certainly, things went wrong, I can’t remember much of that now. My memories focus on the bliss of being on the road.

One of the things I loved best about traveling was what one might call roadside Americana: truck stops and rest areas; motels, hotels, and lodges; the people, signs, and oddities that flew by the window. When I was only six years old, we took the quintessential Americana road trip, a journey across the western U.S., taking in the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, the Corn Palace, Yellowstone National Park, and a multitude of other things I can’t specifically remember, but which left an impression on me. I recall a big horn sheep perched on the edge of a mountain, aisles of glorious kitsch at Wall Drug, the unfamiliar and thrilling sights, sounds, and smells.

The degree of adventure, however, was beside the point: We went a number of exciting places, like Walt Disney World and New York City, but I never lost my love for that familiar summer road trip, through the flat plains of Indiana to the Cross Country Inn in Toledo, Ohio to the quirky Appalachia of my parents’ hometowns. The trappings of the road were everywhere, and they were enough to satisfy me.

The Magic of Study Abroad

Photo from my semester in Ireland, 2004, which contributed to my love of travel. — One of the few non-blurry photos from my semester in Ireland, 2004. This was taken on Inis Mór, in the Aran Islands.

If those summer road trips were the first way travel changed my life, then the second was the semester I spent in Dublin, Ireland as a junior in college. I had been to Ireland once previously to visit my brother on his study abroad, and briefly to France on a class trip, but that had been the extent of my international travel. My semester in Dublin was a revelation. Difficult at first (and I should note that I wrote a whole essay about this experience for proFmagazine.com), the semester turned into the best of my life. I grew up that semester, came into my own, fell in love with my now-husband, and fell in love with both Ireland and Europe. After a period of poverty and graduate school (don’t they always go hand-in-hand), I was able to go back, and have since been lucky enough to travel more in Europe — particularly Italy.

I realize that my stories are not unique. There is something about travel, whether it’s a simple day trip or an international adventure, that quenches some essential human thirst — to understand the lives of others, to see the earth that we live in and exploit, to experience the truly novel, to feel uncomfortable and awed and like the most rock-solid version of oneself.

Why Write a Blog?

As a writer, I’d never before thought about writing a “travel blog” — one reason for this is that I never considered myself that much of a traveler. Sure, I traveled more than most people, but constricted as I was by a full-time job, I couldn’t be constantly on-the-go, nor could I spent long periods of time away from home. But in 2016, I realized it was time for a change, and transitioned from my full-time university job to a life of freelancing and teaching (more thoughts on that here). My husband is an Art History professor with summers free and many opportunities for travel, and we decided the small hit to our income was worth it for the sheer flexibility of my new career. And it has been 100% worth it, not least because I’ve made travel a central component of my life, and I haven’t looked back, traveling for work (teaching study abroad students), to visit friends and to simply see as much of the world as I can on my limited budget.

I share my love of travel today with college students, leading study abroad trips in Italy. — With our study abroad group in Napoli, learning about the mafia, 2017.

In Lieu of Postcards won’t necessarily be your typical travel blog, however. While I do travel frequently, my husband and I don’t live the #vanlife that’s so popular these days, that nomadic existence of life constantly on the road. We are middle-class people with jobs and responsibilities, after all. I see this blog as an outlet for my writing, not simply to document the places I’ve been and the experiences I’ve had there (though it will certainly be that). I’d like to explore travel and wanderlust more deeply, as states of mind. I plan to supplement the travelogue model (went here, did that) with investigations of the quirks of places I visit, their history, and the attendant pop cultural and literary associations that whirl around in my thoughts. I’m not a mountain climber, a gear-head, or much of a foodie (though like any traveler worth her salt, I appreciate good cuisine — and good puns), and you won’t see me striking meticulously glamorous poses or doing yoga on the edge of a cliff (spoiler alert: I fear cliff-edges). To summarize: I hope to write a blog that’s not just navel-gazing but thought-provoking, not aspirational (did I mention I don’t have much money?) but simply interesting — and perhaps occasionally inspirational — to readers out there who also love travel, whether it’s just a few hours or half a world away.

Did I scare you away with my long-winded thoughts? If not, I hope you’ll consider visiting me here from time to time, whenever that wanderlust mood strikes.

SaveSave