Today millions of Americans have traveled near and far to see their families and loved ones to give thanks for what we have. Whether you’ve just gone over the river and through the woods, or flown across the continent, this annual trek isn’t an obligation. It’s a tradition. The question isn’t really how far you’d travel for a home cooked meal, but when can you get there? After jumping the pond to Paris, going the extra mile to Finale for a few days seems like nothing. It is really about 400 miles and I arrive late Thursday evening just before a big storm. The next morning, I make my way to...

In the spring of 1999 a gal pal called me with the idea to meet her brother in London then go to Paris. It was still off-season, tickets inexpensive and the romance of April in Paris irresistible. In a week I had a flight booked and I had my passport on an express request. Two weeks later, the three of us emerged from the metro on a warm spring night. As we oriented ourselves, a couple ran across the cobblestone street to greet each other with kisses. My more experienced traveling friends were  focused on the map. I was wide-eyed at the scene before me. This was Paris. It was just as it looked in the...

What comes first: the travel or the collection? After the experiences and excitement of a trip, there are the memories. Photos can bring these back, but so can souvenirs. Intentionally or not, over time, these reminders of places I’ve been start to fall into categories. This became glaringly apparent as I finally unpacked from my three months in Italy. After living out of a suitcase for so long, it was hard for me to move more than the essentials back into my Arizona home. My shelves were empty, my closet had a few shoes and summer clothes. Even my pantry was at a minimum. In a wave of “cost...

This Easter was a good example of one of the best answers I have to the question of why I climb. Friday night I grabbed the fourth spot in a climbing quad going to La Spezia for the holiday weekend. The only thing on the agenda: climbing the walls of Muzzerone – a scenic area overlooking the heart of the Italian Riviera. La Spezia is a port town on the Gulf of the Poets which is something of a joke because at first glance, the only poets La Spezia might inspire would be Sylvia Plath or Edgar Allen Poe. The town has a fitting industrial and military feel with matching smells and sounds. But what La...

Two weeks into my new Italian life and my standing in Finale changes – from tourist to local. What does that mean? That my grace period for piecemeal Italian is over. No more pointing, saying a few words and getting by reading body language. My friends now insist that I learn the language and speak complete sentences. Alessandro is the first to call me out. When he introduces me to new people, they often compliment me on my attempts to speak their language. But he teasingly corrects them. My pronunciation is not so good. Neither is my grammar – and he laughs at my garbled text messages....