scrunchie

It’s market day in the small village ten minutes down the road. Painted, sewn and harvested artisanal fare offers a feast for the senses in a place that feels old as time. Flower stalls born of tuscan soil and sun exude colours artists could only dream of, silk scarves and table cloths billow in the breeze offering a lesson in craftsmanship passed down from nonnas. A symphony of feminine food, flowers and fashion.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.