scrunchie

It’s August and the eternal Italian summer’s closing act commences. Pastel linen and faded beach towels drape over balconies, collecting coastal wind as they dry. Striped umbrellas, cold beer and lively chatter along the shoreline mix with the soft sound track of nautical motions through the harbour. Saluti, summertime.Here, in Italy, I am vibrant and boundless. No plans, just possibilities. Every wrong turn is a detour in the right direction and every misstep is just more magic waiting to happen.In the backstreets of Rome, I scribble love notes to myself and the world on cobblestones and napkins. I unfurl beneath painted ceilings, flanked by flocks of doting cherubs. In Milan, I dance to street musicians playing my song and play the muse for poets and artists.My hair curls and crinkles fresh out of the Amalfi every morning. I leap from too-high rocks into the endless ocean and charm my way onto the backseat of a stranger’s vespa. From Ravello to Positano, to Capri and to Sorrento. An infinite loop of summer sensations.My Italy, Amore Mio.