When I think about travel, I think about my childhood, and the times I spent in southern Italy at my grandparents’ home. They lived in an old town, built into the hillside. It sloped down to the sea, with the mountains behind us. My profoundly deaf nonno (grandfather) had been a builder. We would sit in the garden together, and play cards, and talk in sign language. My nonna (grandmother) was tiny and dark, with bright black, fiery eyes, and thick, curly hair.
I remember her at the kitchen table, hands shiny with olive oil, tucking sage into the meatballs she rolled. I remember the joy of playing with my cousins in the sea. I loved being there.