Wednesday, August 24, 2016

How about those Naples?




Naples is a strange creature of a city. I've written before about the city, but it really can't be captured. There's a vitality, a rawness...a feeling of....? I'm not certain. There's something special in the loud voices, the dirt, the grit and grime and pizza. The saint-like depictions of Diego Maradona and a woman handing out coupons for gelato from the steps of the Basilica. It's as if a rag-tag juxtaposition of elements come together that shouldnt, but somehow, they fit anyway. Like a bunch of pieces from different puzzles are forced together into some kind of glorious modern art. 

There's something endearing about the strange man that used my husband to metro-hop and the couple at the table next to us who each ate two pizzas, and the little boys playing soccer in the middle of traffic as if the street wasn't full of cars honking and people screaming. It's a wonderful madness and it is easy to understand how the people that live here think a little less of you if you don't have the privilege of a Naples address yourself. 

Some favorites:
Pizzeria Sorbillo - the best pizza on earth. Confirmed. Signed, sealed. 

That's all for today. Pizza and chaos for you, you're welcome.

xx

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Capri for Free






It’s good to have friends. Well-connected ones? Even better.

So, we’re in Amalfi, and we’ve arranged with one of my dearest local friends to spend the day on the Isle of Capri. Our ferry tickets are purchased, we’re patiently waiting above said ferry, and there is no Maria. The boat will leave at any moment and we’ve had not a phone call, nor a text, nor seen hide nor hair of her. 

Until she emerges on-board. She is talking to the captain in her sing-song Italian and gesturing about, smiling and laughing. We are getting off the boat she says. We are getting on another boat she says. It is a private speedboat and we are going for free she says. Her uncle’s cousin’s son has a charter company that usually charges $100 a pop for a ride to Capri, but for us, for family, it is free. And if we are Maria’s friends, then we are family. 

We walk over to the other dock, where the sleek, white luxurious speedboat is bobbing in the water. The paying customers are clustered in the back, eyeing us newcomers with goodwill, and some confusion. We hustle up to the front, towels are laid out and we are meant to lay and sun ourselves while everyone else sits in the back. If I have never felt important before, I certainly do now. 

The boat slips away from Amalfi, and quickly gains speed. The blue is so blue it is almost painful, the sky above so clear it’s almost unreal. We laugh and talk,  friends from across the ocean, as the boat skims over waves and past the gorgeous terraced coastline. We stop for a swim, the salty ocean water already permeating my skin and hair through the wind that has been blowing through my hair, and we jump in, like children, splashing and flipping about in the sapphire blue. 

We’re back on board, having had a chance to converse a little in the water with the rest of the party. A married couple from Turkey, two ladies from New York, a lone Australian. All smiles, united,in a blanket of blue water and sunshine. We cruise up to the Isle of Capri, passing the grottos and circling the island, allowing all of us to take in the sights. There are a lot of oohs and ahhs, but not from me, as I do not personally like the island very much. Too touristy, too expensive, too many stairs to climb for my already almost-broken-by-the-Roman-steps legs.I would prefer to stay aboard the speedboat, flying around on the waves, bronzing in the sun.

But, we alight on the island and climb, climb, climb, to the top, sweat pouring and tempers flaring. It is hot, unbearably so. We seek out fresh lemonade made from local lemons, and a cool place to have a light lunch, if any lunch including a bowl of pasta can be considered light. The view from the top of Capri is lovely, though, and well worth the trouble to get to the top. Pictures taken, hunger and thirst satisfied, we make our way back to the speedboat.


They let my husband, who, again, did not pay, drive the boat on the way back, much to the continued confusion of the other passengers aboard. And as we came closer and closer to the the twinkling white city of Amalfi, the glittering waves tumbling under our speedy boat, my husband at the wheel, I had to agree—It’s good to have such friends as we have.

xx

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Golden Latte


Coffee and I have a weird relationship. I only like it when it is drowned in heavy cream and sugar, and even then it bothers my stomach. I'll do a café con hielo in Spain or a café  freddo in Italy--but if I'm at a coffee shop in the US I'll usually go for chai or herbal tea. 

So...when I heard of Golden Milk and Turmeric Lattes, I was intrigued. I mean, 'golden milk' sounds like something a deity would drink in a fantasy novel or a compendium of ancient mythology. There's a bevy of recipes online for varying renditions of this drink, but the one I drink most often is a take on this version from the Goop

To this recipe, I add a little black pepper, some cinnamon, I substitute local honey in for coconut sugar. Oh, and I use unsalted grass-fed butter instead of coconut oil, but that's just because I had the butter in the fridge and the whole coconut oil craze makes me a little nervous anymore. 

Anyway, check the recipe above, and make yourself a cup. Turmeric and ginger have anti-inflammatory properties, and turmeric is touted for all kinds of miracles. From aiding in depression to clearing your skin and regulating your weight, there's a long history of the benefits of turmeric across cultures. Check this article if you're interested: Turmeric Benefits.

Anyway, it's delicious, and it's golden and I like gold and yummy things. 

That is all. 
More travel and adventure posts on the way. 

Also: have you ordered the book yet? Order the Word Collector
xx

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

The tippy-top of Positano

Most people will tell you that the gem of the Amalfi Coast is Positano. I disagree, one because I like to be difficult and secondly because I genuinely think that there are far too many sandal making boutiques, tourist restaurants and people wearing socks with their sandals. For myself, I prefer the city of Amalfi itself, which is still unspoiled in some places. But, today’s tale is set in Positano, amidst the lush purple vibrance of bougainvillea and bright white and pale yellow buildings that dot the terraced city. 

We had really only come for one reason. From where we were staying in Amalfi, Positano was an uncomfortably warm ferry ride filled with the crush of tourists and children who take up too much of the seat next to you. As stated before, I am not tremendously fond of Positano, a fact that I take no pains to hide from my long-suffering husband, but we had mutually agreed to return in order to eat at a wonderful restaurant perched at the very tippy-top of the city that overlooks the harbor. The food is delicious and the view is resplendent, with twinkling blue waters and the colorful houses cobbled together out the windows of the restaurant. 

The last time we had been to Positano, a friend of mine was working in a swanky villa, and had arranged transportation from said villa to this restaurant. We had arrived in grand style, seated right in front of an open window, and ate for free because I had been touted as a “famous American travel writer”, which if not wholly false, was certainly flattering and I didn’t feel at all guilty about the free meal that accompanied this fiction. 

While we were not expecting the royal treatment this time, I did not expect to walk to the top of this mountain in order to eat. But we had no one to arrange the transport and had no working cell phone on hand. So, we walked. 

The climb to the top of Positano from the harbor is about 45 minutes of straight incline up Roman steps. These are not modern stairs with set inclines, these are crumbling narrow steps meant for tearing the muscles in your calves into pieces. We walked, in the bright sunlight, sweat pouring through my hair, from the tops of my arms, from my knee caps, from every inch of my body that I have never seen sweat before. Up, up, up, with no break or water, or even a cloud to pass overhead to offer a moment of respite. 

But then, we emerged down the street from the restaurant. It glittered and beckoned like a mirage, but was real and tangible, and though I looked terrifying, a dripping, sweat covered vagabond, we arrived. 

If they found our appearances distressing, they have the decency only to give us dark looks and point us toward a table near the wall. No windows for us. I tell them I write for travel magazines. I tell them we walked from the harbor. It didn’t matter. 

And though the food was still delicious, our special little dream place was brimming with tourists. It wasn’t special anymore, we had no window view, only views of tour groups and fanny packs and those terrible zip away pants that become shorts.


We traveled to the top of the mountain, returned to our own little heaven, to find it utterly ruined by our countrymen. Nothing was left but the walk down and another uncomfortably hot ferry ride back to Amalfi. Amalfi, where one can still escape to lemon groves waterfalls, in the places tourists never go. 

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Travel Capsule for Brass Blog





Check out my latest Travel Capsule post for Brass Clothing on their blog. Tips for packing, looking posh, assembling outfits and keeping your clothing fresh on the go. 


xx


Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Wine Slush



You guys. If I was at home,  I would treat you to a romping post about traveling somewhere gorgeous. I would complain and whine and make snide comments and self-deprecate myself until you smiled. But, at the moment I am off, rollicking around the Southern Italian coast, drinking wine and eating pizza and smooching my husband and my sister, Maria. Right at this very moment I am probably drinking an Aperol Spritz at a nightclub in Naples and maybe getting murdered. Or at least mugged. Or I might be laying on the beach, looking out at the Tyrhennian, but instead of feeling blissful I am also looking at the size of my thighs and thinking about how much extra pizza has gathered in my hips. 

So as you can see, I am busy.

But, I do have a link to the easiest, most delicious little wine slushy. All you need is wine + frozen fruit and a blender, and cups, obviously. Unless you drink things out of your hands like an animal. In that case, skip the cups. 

You can find the recipe ---> <HERE> Layered Wine Slush Recipe

Chill out, drink a little. (Or A LOT)
xx

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Wednesday, July 13, 2016

The Word Collector, A Novel--Release Date and Teaser


Hey all, I am so excited to announce the upcoming publishing of my newest work: The Word Collector. 

It will be available for Pre-Order for Kindle on July 30 and available for purchase on August 5th in paperback and Kindle. 

To whet your appetite, and hopefully entice you to buy, please find the book blurb below. And next week, I will have the Prologue on the blog...to keep you salivating. Hopefully. That's the master plan anyway. 

The past has a habit of invading the present. For Petra, a linguist and self-proclaimed wordsmith, her own history  future have a way of blending and mixing, blinding her from the moment at hand. 

The past, though, is not a safe place for Petra. It is filled with terrors, with memories she buries beneath obsolete and archaic words.


Until the diary surfaces. A lost diary, discovered in a chest at the bottom of the lake. The book plunges Petra into the life of Nerissa Swifte, another woman that lived beyond the bounds of her own time, whose struggles and sorrows echo Petra’s own.
The more Petra reads about this woman of the past, the more she finds that her own history is revealed. 


But when all the painful memories are laid bare, where will Petra stand? Oblivious and tucked securely within the safety of her world of words…or will she use the truth of her history to propel her into an unknown future?
Magic and memories, pain and secrets all await her at the lake’s edge. And words,  glorious words—the greatest enchantments of all. 

from, The Word Collector, by Alexandria V. Nolan


Get ready to pre-order, bookworms!
xx
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Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Milano; Not just a delicious cookie







Ok, so Milan was totally rad. First of all, it was beautiful. I mean, devastatingly beautiful. I was made to believe that it was an ugly, industrial wasteland of car and clothing manufacturing--and, it wasn't. The wide streets and blend of neoclassical, modern and experimental architecture is a draw to the eye. Blended within these elements are sights like the Duomo, the Sforza castle and numerous small churches, all from different periods. Though the streets are made up of buildings from different schools of architecture and time periods, it all seems to...go together. With panache, even. 

We were blessed by the Gods in that the weekend we visited was a gelato festival, possibly the two most beautiful words ever combined in the English, or really, any, language. We ate probably the second best pizza ever, (the first is still in Naples!) at a place called, Piz, which is owned by the appropriately named "Pizza Man". Our other food hallelujah can be found at Carlo e Camilla in Segheria. A cool, laid-back industrial type space with incredible aperitivos and cocktails, where we also stayed for the tasting menu. The walls are bare, but glistening chandeliers twinkle overhead and everyone is seated family-style at long tables. This would probably encourage conversation and camaraderie, but our speaking-Italian is limited to,"Please", "Thank you" "I would like", "where is the bathroom?" and "How much?", and on a good day, "I am from Michigan, but now, I live in Texas."


My favorite of all though, was the Pinacoteca di Brera, a museum called, "The Italian Louvre". Mr. Nolandia especially liked the statues of the nearly-naked Napoleon, who is his hero and celebrity crush. There were a few too many religious paintings for my taste, a lot of suckling old-man looking baby Jesuses, and a lot of bloody martyr stigmata filled triptychs from old churches. I prefer the romantic scenes, pastoral scenes, nature...and really, who doesn't like a still life with apples and grapes and maybe a dead chicken in the corner? 

Anyway, Milan was tops. I'd go again. I'd stay a week. I'd stay a month. 

xx




Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Lago di Como








Lake Como. Let me start off by saying that it rained almost the entire time we visited. Also, it seemed...somehow less vibrant than Amalfi. Perhaps it is unfair to compare the two places, as they are wholly different, but...I mean, Amalfi Coast, you guys. This wasn't it.

There are several small villages, coastal-blink-and-you missed-it places along the lake, some with decent restaurants, others that are...not. Think, 80s love ballads (except the ones rejected by American radio) being played very loudly while you sit in a plastic chair and three Italians fight in the parking lot about the closeness of the cars and there's a lot of cheese on your food, which you never thought would be a problem until now when it's too much and your throat and stomach form an alliance against you and won't consume it. Maybe that is too specific of a situation, but...maybe not. 

Anyway, some highlights:
Villa Carlotta-- Tremezzo
Gorgeous villa named after some dead chick that didn't even have the best bedroom in the house. The gardens outside are lovely, with waterfalls and paths and lush greenery.
We spent our life savings here shipping wine back to the states. The barolos and barberas are top notch, the prices are fantastic and the cheese plate was worthy of a write home. 
Tacchi--Bellagio
This is like a...handmade and painted wood-goods shop? Think wooden trays and coasters and bowls all hand painted and ready to put on a table. We bought a coaster for the billion bottles of wine that we had just purchased, and also, strangely, a tray to "put our keys on" (this was a Terrence idea). 

Melzi-Bellagio This was kind of a mistake. When we visited this villa it was raining buckets, Terrence filmed me falling down a hill and there was no actual villa to go into, just gardens and very upsetting statues of babies riding dogs whose necks appeared to be broken. 

So, go. But really, I'd say day trip. Or, at least July or August weather.

xx






Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Bergamo Beauty













If pictures are worth a thousand words, then I've already given you 10,000. Bergamo is a small medieval town, (at least the Citta Alta, where we stayed) walled in and chock full of twisty-turns streets and pastry shops and mountains in the distance. 

Home of polenta, apparently, though my grandmother wouldn't approve of the way they prepare it here. Full of truffles and mushrooms and cheese and nary a red sauce in sight. We feasted though, and watched soccer with the locals and drank campari spritz and espressos and listened to the damn bell in the clocktower clang, clang, clang all damn day. 

There was an interesting historical map museum, with hilarious guesses at what lay beyond Europe, starfish-shaped continents with sea-monsters and what looked like naked ladies windsurfing in the oceans. Not very accurate outside of Europe, but charming, certainly. 
The interior of the  church in Bergamo is enough to give me back religion. Gorgeous ceiling painting and color and gilt and beauty everywhere. 

Beyond that, there is a sad ruin of a castle on the hill, and the funicular is actually kind of exciting and the local wine is spectacular. 

Bergamo-skimmed, just for you.

Final thoughts: go. There were not very many Americans there, if any, besides us, and though low-key, it was everything you'd want in a Northern Italian medieval city on a hilltop. Fine wines, polenta and all. 

xx

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Switzerland, for a day






On our recent trip to Lake Como, we were bored. 

It was raining, and it had rained for two days, and I had brought a swimsuit for no reason.  My shoes were waterlogged from attempting to tour villas and walk through gardens. After visiting every indoor attraction around Lake Como, short of breaking into George Clooney’s villa, we were exasperated. Where was the sun? Where was my suntan? 

At the exorbitantly priced Bed and Breakfast Mr. Nolandia asked owner, yet again, what we could do that day. I think he had grown tired of us and our stupid questions too. There  just isn’t a whole lot to do in Lake Como when there is an unexpected monsoon season, after all, and he’d given the two of us every pamphlet on the desk. So, he suggested we drive to Switzerland. You know, no big deal, just drive to another country for the day. 

And so we did. A forty minute jaunt on a road took us straight from Sala Comacina on Lake Como to Lugano  in Switzerland. We were there inside an hour. And it was….exactly the same. Except that some people spoke German along with Italian and English. Lake Lugano was similar to Lake Como, the architecture was similar, the food was…exactly the same. The only thing that was different was the price of everything because Swiss Francs are stronger than Euros or dollars. 

But it was a different country, on a whim, in the middle of the day, and surely that was something. And it was drizzling here instead of outright raining, and though it was still cold, it was thrilling to think that in less than an hour we had entered a completely different place, while the people around me had only walked from their office to lunch. We decided to  stop to eat as well, hiking up to the top of a curving cobblestoned street, looking for a pasta place an Italian friend had recommended. We ate outside, as the rain had cleared and awkwardly eavesdropped on a Russian man tell stories about the Soviet occupation of Hungary in the early ‘90s to an Austrian woman, English being their shared language. 

Afterward we climbed higher, passing by a church that looked as though its only use was as a clock tower, and curving around the left, Lake Lugano sat below me, and all of the little houses and building were thrown around on the lush green of the landscape like so much confetti. 

And, that was it. It was time to drive back. But, of course, getting home couldn’t be as easy as getting there. The GPS would go out when our internet quit working, and we would get stuck on minuscule roads in a tiny car going the wrong way down streets that weren’t labeled at all. It should have been expected that we would drive around hairpin turns on the sides of mountains with no guardrails to hold my little car from tumbling down the Alps onto someone’s goat farm or some such thing. 

But, in the end, we made it back.  World travelers in a day. The rain had let up on Lake Como, and the sun peeked out. Instead of bored, the drive had strung me out a bit, and we both craved a little relaxation, which is what Lake Como is perfect for. We grabbed a bottle of Barolo from the last city we'd stayed in, brought it out on the balcony which was suddenly worth the extra euros, and pulled the cork. 

All at once, being bored on Lake Como was exactly what we wanted to be.  

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

Milano-Bergamo-Como Packing List Kind-of

Does anybody like these types of photos? Not me. 




So, this is my packed bag. I really wish this post was going to be more interesting, news flash--it's not. People always want packing posts. "What do YOU wear? What should I WEAR? WHAT DO I BRING?" I mean, c'mon ladies.

I'll admit, I'm the kind of person who does search "packing list Milan", "packing list Portugal autumn" and I don't know why, because I find the packing list and I'm disappointed. Either it's written by a complete moron, sorry, or like, the biggest dork ever. 
They either give advice like bring white jeans, and this specific super-mega-awesome-boho-flowy top and heels! Because it's the fashion capital! Or, it's advice like, "bring your money belt, and pants that can zip off at the knee and become shorts and also a rain-resistant, fire resistant, pasta-resistant collared shirt that also can zip off into a wedding gown." It's bonkers, you guys.

So, what DID I bring to Northern Italy in May? Dresses, one shift dress (from Brass) --which, on my hourglass body looks borderline inappropriate-- a sundress, a cocktail dress, a midi skirt, a pencil skirt, and a bunch of t-shirts/ tank tops in black and white and a black sweater. That's really it. I like to keep my color options simple, so think:black, white, red (and a skirt that is black white and pink, because why not) and that's it. One pair of "dressy" sandals, and one pair of Tieks, all packed into my little wonder backpack and spinner carry-on that I discussed two weeks ago-in this post RIGHT HERE

But, here's the low down. If you see an Italy packing list for May-September, and it doesn't have at least three or four dresses on it, get the hell outta there. If someone tells you not to wear jeans, basically anywhere, GET OUT. If someone recommends pants that zip anywhere but up, FLEE. The best advice for packing for any trip is this: be simple. Think plain, well-cared-for tees and tanks, properly-fitting tailored garments that don't have to be expensive, and comfortable but stylish shoes. Like, Tieks, or Nisolo or, I mean, buy some when you get there. Italy and Spain are kind of known for leather goods and shoes, so when in Rome... or Milan, or Madrid, incidentally. 

Anyway, sorry, I'd much rather bitch than write a helpful post, but you knew that already. 
Go somewhere, buttheads. Travel, wear some cool clothes, whatever. 
See ya next week with some rad Italian pictures of probably buildings and wine and beautiful people that I'm not. 

xx

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Bathing in Barca



In Spanish-- and in most romance languages actually--they do not refer to going to the beach as going swimming, even if you are going to get in the water. Instead, they called it bathing. It can be a tad disconcerting  sometimes for  to someone ask if you are going to take a bath when at the beach, because, for Americans, this obviously has a different connotation. And, I have learned, it is because in the US,  we draw a pretty hard line between the two.

The beach in Barcelona is nothing spectacular. It’s a manmade affair, a remnant from their Olympics in the 90’s, but on a hot spring or summer day, no one is worried about where the beach came from, everyone is simply happy that it is there. 

On one particular day, I took the long walk from the Eixample, all the way across town, past the Gothic Quarter, and over to Barceloneta where the beach waits to be filled to brimming by locals and tourists alike. But, it is pretty simple to tell the difference between locals and tourists. 

The tourists are wearing tops.

Now, I wouldn’t normally consider myself a prude. In fact, I like to think of myself as a kind of travel hedonist. But when it comes to taking off my bikini top off, stone-cold sober, in the daytime, on a public beach…there’s just something about my mother’s disappointed face that stays my hand from untying those bikini strings. I think, in general, that most Americans have a little Puritan remnant lodged in their subconscious. Something that just says, what if someone takes a picture? What if my boss sees this? What if my mother sees this? And any ideas of public semi-nudity are shied away from. 

Not so the Spanish. And strangely, even on beautiful woman, there is something…non-sexual about it. Just women, fat, thin, old, young, all shapes, all sizes, all colors, topless and without a care. Sangria is served on the beach (because, of course it is) and strange men walk around offering coconut pieces and sketchy faux name-brand sunglasses. And no one seems to care at all that there are breasts, just, everywhere. In fact, as long as the women are European, I am totally cool with it too. Girl power! Making choices about your own body! Yay, Feminism! 

And it was here, in this setting, top securely tied, eyes on the blue waves, soaking up the Spanish sunshine, that I learned a little something. 

A group of four American girls laid their towels out near me. How did I know they were American? Because they were loud, obnoxious, and speaking English. Anyway, they started  whispering, then talking, with lots of gesturing and pointing, while I tried to ignore them. But after a few moments it was clear. They were discussing going topless themselves. 

These were college-aged girls, and so I felt sort of big-sister-y for them. Part of me thought, YES, embrace Spain! Do it! And the other, Puritan part, longed to slap their acrylic nails away from their bikini ties. No! Pictures will surface! Forget every career choice you’ve ever imagined!

In the end, I said nothing. Merely watched, fascinated, as one by one they untied their suit tops, and listened as they  giggled every two minutes or so, which didn’t help pull off the attitude of careless-not-giving-a-damn by any stretch of the imagination. 

I learned a little bit that day about my own American-ness. There is a reason we don’t call swimming, “bathing” and I think it is because bathing has a connotation of nudity, and our American sensibilities just feel…a little weird about that. So, at the beach, the only bathing I’ll be doing is sun-bathing, with my top firmly tied on, thank you very much. 'Merica. 

This article originally appeared in My City Magazine

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Viaggio a Milano


A week and a half in Italy. It's never long enough, is it? Whether it's one week, two weeks, three...we never drink enough wine or eat enough pizza. We never sleep enough or meander around the streets or sit in the piazzas long enough. But we try. 

This upcoming trip we are slated for Bergamo, Lake Como, and Milano. We will be meeting up with old friends, hopefully making new, tasting wine, gazing at lakes, walking, walking, walking and shoving gelato down our throats. (I'm going for a new record)

So, here's a completely incomplete list of things. Basically just a few items that I currently can't live without abroad. 

Packing:
In addition to My favorite Backpack, this is the other half of my carry-on duo. I like the way it opens, the ease of the spin and how lightweight it is. It's hard side luggage, my preference, and it's international regulation size. 

Ok, yeah, it's makeup. Why am I including it on a traveling list? Because when I use the Boy Brow, it not only makes my face look awesome, it also means I don't need to wear a lot of other thick makeup. It brings out my eyes, is easy to apply and really does eliminate the need for a lot of other layers. 
And yo, if you want 20% off, you got it: 20% off at Glossier

Because I live in white cotton shirts. I have their scoop neck as well, and it will also be accompanying me. The organic cotton is grown in the USA and the shirts are made here too. The shirts are soft, breathable and I love how chic they look tucked into my skinnies. 

Nisolo is a bomb-ass company, base case. They work with Peruvian artisan shoe-makers and the shoes are high quality and well made. I have a few pairs, boots and other sandals and smoking shoes. But this sandal is super chic, has a tiny heel for a little lift, and are very comfortable. I'll be bringing my Tieks as well, of course, but these puppies are comfortable enough for trekking around the capital of fashion, and looking damn good in the early summer while I'm doing it. 

I'll be bringing a lot of other stuff, but these are the first, newest additions to the wardrobe that I can think of.  

Check out the companies I mentioned above and their products which I have a huge travel crush on at the moment, and tune in next week for more Italy and pizza related content. 

xx