Home is where the love is . . .

I sit shotgun as my cousin Moira zips down the tiny, narrow streets of Somana into Mandello. Windows down, the mountain air blows through the car.…

Wherever I go . . .

Tapping away on my keyboard, I reread phrases, type and delete words, and feel a range of emotions in the span of a few hours as…

Scrittrice. . . The Italian word for a female writer, and extremely difficult to pronounce. Sometimes when I power walk along the canal I say it…

It’s raining in Milan, gray and dreary. I wonder if the weather has anything to do with how I feel, missing home. I talked to my…

My Faithful Friends, Tis the season to show some gratitude . . . and give a little love. I am grateful to all of you for…

Since arriving in Italy, I have spent a good amount of time visiting churches, cathedrals and even an abbey. It’s not unusual for me to pass…

Thanksgiving . . . my favorite holiday This year I will spend it far away from my family, my home, my country. Traditionally, my family cerebrates…

Not sure of the time, but I know I am calling it close. Racing down the station steps, the familiar rumble and long slow hiss of…

A light breeze blows through the kitchen of my uncles’ home, a little relief from the hot steam rising above the iron as I press a…

I quietly dig through my suitcase, trying not to wake him with shuffling and organizing. I glance over my shoulder and he is fast asleep, face…