San Francisco, California
The Western Slope of Colorado
This was my second pilgrimage to the Western Slope. It’s a quiet agricultural haven that reminds me of Missouri. We picked peaches and drank wine in Palisade, visited old friends in Paonia, soaked in unmarked hot springs on the way back to the Denver. Never leaving.
After a nauseating ferry ride from Naples to Capri (what a way to learn that you’re prone to sea sickness), we finally arrived at the base of the famed Mediterranean island. We noticed that everyone was jumping into white vans that shuttled them off, but we opted to walk instead.
Four flights of stairs in, the city was still nowhere in sight. We trampled through makeshift rock steps that trailed up Capri, surrounded by white artsy beach houses (owned by the rich and famous, no doubt) with views of baby blue skies and cerulean waters. We emerged from another flight of stairs and came out into a road, where I spotted a local man. Centro? I asked, out of breath. He pointed up.
Hundreds of steps later, hungry and ready to give up, we were almost to the top when we smelled it. Warm sugary scents wafted down the stairs toward us and instantly, we picked up the pace. What was that smell? we wondered. Was it fresh baked chocolate croissants? Was there some new Italian delicacy waiting for us at the top of the stairs? We finally broke out into the centro of Capri and sped walked past the high-end boutique shops and restaurants when we saw it.
The source of those delicious aromas came from piping hot waffle irons, conveniently placed by an open window, churning out just-baked waffle cones for Buonocore Gelateria. In awe, I watched as they took those thin crepe-like waffles and rolled them into a perfect shape of an ice cream cone. It was the most memorable welcome to Capri.
All Aboard to Florence, Italy
I boarded my plane on the way to my “Will Write for Food” study abroad program in Florence, Italy, equally nervous yet excited for the next five weeks to come. My plane ticket — my first huge purchase as a 22-year-old — took me from St. Louis to a brief stop in Montreal, then onward to Rome.
When I arrived in Rome, the plan was to take the train to Florence. However, almost every piece of advice that I religiously followed from Google was wrong. Not every Italian spoke English. You didn’t get your train ticket to Florence from where it said I should. Jet lagged in a foreign country, I did the only thing I could: I followed the signs.Continue reading “All Aboard to Florence, Italy”