Every weekend, there is some crazy way to be out in our equally crazy spring-in-February weather. So what’s a traveler to do when the best place to be is her own back yard? Take a day off for the traveling equivalent of endurance racing – the 24-hour Mileage Run.

For a frequent flier like me, a mileage run is a way to maintain elite flier status – and the perks that come with it. The combination of free baggage, skipping to the head of security lines, priority boarding and complimentary upgrades are easy to get used to, and hard to give up. They just require logging 25,000 miles a year with a single airline.

My big trip and a few weekenders get me close every year, but I usually have to keep my eye on fare deals to get me over the top. And those deals are typically in off-season months like January, February and October.

This year, in a fit of organization, I planned my run early. But not wanting to give up any more of the Arizona spring than I had to, I went for a one-day / mid-week push to Boston. Flying midnight red-eye to East Coast night flight, I would have a 9-hour layover in Beantown and be there and back in just one calendar day.

There are a lot of potential pitfalls to traveling this time of year. While it is beautiful in Arizona, it’s still winter everywhere else. Unpredictable weather can cause unpredictable delays. It can also mean a layover of bar-hopping rather than neighborhood walking.

Luck was on my side for the skies, but not for the airplanes themselves. Both in and outbound flights were delayed by hours with mechanical problems. My 9-hour layover shrunk to 7.5. I returned to Phoenix in the wee hours of the next day.

As with my running and riding friends, my body is now in endurance recovery. I am dehydrated from a 24-hour diet of chowder, coffee and beer. My knees and back ache from the double whammy of walking a city then sitting in a small place for hours. I am not quite sure what day it is.

And just like my friends, I shake my head in disbelieve over what I’ve done but still have a sly smirk on my face. Riding, running, traveling. These are our passions, and sometimes – as crazy as it may be to the others – it is fun to see just what is possible.

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 Finalborgo where the town is bracing for rain and possible floods. Nonetheless, my unannounced visit is still welcome. I say hello to the sisters at the coffee shop, Alessandro in his workshop, and even have surprise run in with Heinz, who is usually managing a Swiss hut this time of year.

At noon, I walk into the butcher shop where the couple who adopted me as a sister work. This time, my Italian is even better and the customers wait as we exchange hugs and kisses. Within minutes, I am invited to lunch and the surprise visit becomes an impromptu party. Danilo runs next door for a bottle of wine. Carolina calls home to set an extra plate. In true Italian fashion, an average lunch for them is a feast for an American. On the menu: polenta, cinghale stew (wild boar), carne crudo, anchovies, and of course an array of desserts and coffee.

By 2:30, the family continues its normal routine. The dog chews on pillows, the kids eat the peanut butter I brought, and Danilo leaves for a siesta. I help Carolina clear the table. “You are our family,” she says with a hug. They do not need to feed me to make this statement true. But it sure is nice, and I make my Italian sister a promise: No matter where I am in Europe, I will always come to Finale for lunch.

It is an unusually warm fall morning as I walk the quiet streets of Paris on my way to mass at Notre Dame. The streets are damp from rain the night before but this morning the sky is blue and cloudless. Paris mornings are typically slow, but this Sunday is even more tranquil as I navigate metro closures and join the stream of tourists crowding buses towards the cathedral. I worry I have missed the early mass until someone tells me Europe has “fallen back.” Suddenly I have a full hour to grab a coffee and croissant and look at souvenir stands. Soon the bells announce the time to enter the darkened, incense filled church. Organs play, choirs sing, and the stained glass lets in glimpses of diffused light. It is an interesting experience for this occasional Catholic, but the true Ode de Joy is after the ceremony. Outside, Paris is awake and congregating in the famed plaza. As tourists snap photos in the front, family life takes place in the back. Children play in the park in the shadows the gothic building, leaves drop from the fall-colored trees lining the Seine, and on a nearby bridge a musician provides a Rose en Vie soundtrack to this Parisian Sunday.

November 6 – Finale, Italy

I have traded in the grandeur of Paris for the simplicity of Finale, and crisp fall days for a cold November rain. I have arrived on the brink of the first winter storm of the season and with the forecast comes a strange drama as the town readied itself against flooding. It is not unplaced worry. By Friday floods in the much larger city of Genoa have claimed six lives. But on Sunday, the worst has passed and I see my adopted home in yet another light. When I left in June, the town was an explosion of tourists and summer visitors. Now the streets are empty. Even the locals are safely inside. I trace familiar steps along the boardwalk listening to waves crash along the empty beach.  Familiar church bells ring as I walk up the vicolo alleyways, but soon all is quiet and there is just the sound of trickling water making its way from rooftop to sea.

November 13 – Reno, Nevada

Casinos and canned beer are probably not the best remedies for jet lag. For three days, I have had no need for a watch and have floated from time zone to time zone in the surreal setting of Reno, Nevada.  I am as far from France and Italy as I can be as I roam these wild-west streets but I still see distorted versions of my travels. I have passed by weddings and rock climbers, hippies and homeless all within the few blocks of the main strip.  I’ve gotten lost in my hotel and circled a ballroom sampling American craft beer in cans. Time is irrelevant in Nevada, but now I must try to adjust to an Arizona schedule. It isn’t easy. As I pass through the casinos, people who have been up all night are still playing their luck at slot machines and tiring enthusiasm still crowds around a craps table. At the Nugget Diner, scrappy locals take advantage of “hair of the dog” omlettes and Bloody Mary’s.  The best beers of CANFEST are still keeping me happy and I pack a few for the road in my rollie. A few hours later, it is dark again and the cab drops me and my beer-soaked bag in front of my desert home.

November 20 – Flagstaff, Arizona

I am back in Arizona, where our summer has finally lost its hold in Phoenix. Now our days are an ideal 70 – 80 degrees and we no longer need to get up before the sun to climb. An Italian has joined our Tempe group and a call from Flagstaff is all we need to get in the Festa to show The Kid an American road trip. We make the transition from desert to high country – summer to fall. As we approach Flagstaff, icy rain showers are on our heels. It is a three-season day but we are set to outrace winter and quickly toss our bags into our friend’s car and dash towards The Pit. We have dodged the rain and as we walk toward the trailhead, the rocks come into view below glowing in the momentary sun. The Kid breaks into a smile bigger than his face and we are all but running down the path. The clean, cold air fills our lungs, we skip over left over snow, and he stops for only moments to take photos. “This is a beautiful life, no?” he says. And on this Sunday, back in my home state surrounded by friends old and new, only one word comes to mind: “Amen!”

It’s a tough standard to meet, so when I finally find the pair that works, it is very hard to say goodbye. But that day always comes.

These Patagonia’s were made for walking. Who knows just how many miles they’ve logged from Dublin to Dubrovnik, the Emerald City to the City of Lights , and Old Amsterdam to New. Not only do they have good support for all-day walking, but are stylish enough to pass muster in any Seattle coffee shop or Italian piazza. They’re a sturdy leather that resists water and dries fast. Even better – I bought them on sale at my favorite discount gear website: Steep and Cheap.

The soles are worn through in these beloved scarpe and have an embarrassing and annoying squeak when I walk. I’m putting them through their last paces in Finale before I retire them in Phoenix. Next up for testing will be a pair of GoLites. I have high hopes that these “cross-trainers” will serve me well for both climbing approaches and city walks.

We were a strange trio – two Nordic siblings and one naive Arizonan dragging our rollies down the narrow streets that Hemingway once roamed looking for a hotel. We were ignored as tourists, not even mistaken for locals, and none of us cared. I didn’t know it at the time, but Paris had its hooks. Over the next few days it would change me from a road-tripping American to an international traveler. From this trip forward I would spend the next decade filling my passport with stamps from iconic countries.

For the first part of the 21^st Century, I returned to Paris. I traded Francs for Euros and watched the exchange rate go up and up. As I gained more experience and confidence, I learned to blend with the locals and started traveling by myself. I discovered Italy, Croatia, Ireland and Central America. But Paris is like a first love – always in your heart.

It was time to go back to where it began, and when fall travel fares hit the right mark, I booked my flight. Twelve years after that first spring night, I left my apartment on a seemly beautiful fall morning. By the time I stepped off the bus and walked toward Rue Mouffetard, the clouds had rolled in. Within minutes, rain poured down and Parisians and tourists ran for cover. Now I sit in that same square just steps away from my first sights of this city and observe another Paris in the fall: Strangers gathered inside, sipping hot chocolates and Irish coffees and all wishing they’d remembered their umbrellas.

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 cutting,” I decided it was time to give up my storage unit and move everything back in. I didn’t have a lot of boxes – I’m not a hoarder. But inside each I had tiny reminders of my trips: metal pencil sharpeners in the shapes of city icons, wooden figurines, postcard size books, pinecones (?!).

Hello, I’m the Girl From Arizona and I collect small things.

There is some logic to this. I’m a light traveler and am usually on the move. Anything larger adds an unwelcome challenge to the rest of my trip. Wine has been the only exception to this rule. I’ve been with others who are on the look out for larger items, and they always have a plan for how to pack it along.

Like with any travel, what you take with you – and bring back – is always a personal choice.

Another summer is in the books in Arizona and that means two of my favorite things are back on the regular schedule: Scooters and rocks.  But unfortunately, not at the same time.

In Finale, my first Italian scooter ride couldn’t have been better as I jumped on the back of my roommate’s moto with a visiting friend and we sped off toward the rocks. The helmet case was converted into a rope box and we had our gear in one pack. We took the back road out of town careful to avoid the carabinieri – my friend did not have a helmet which is now a big no-no in Italy. On a spring afternoon the town quickly disappeared with a turn and we followed a creek up into the hills. The temperature seemed to drop with every curve. Soon, we saw our exit off the main road and passed through a “town” of four buildings. The paved road ended and we continued on the gravel trail stopping directly in front of the rock. It was the perfect approach.

Apparently posts and fences in some of Europe’s most romantic cities have become new symbols of love. While no one knows exactly where or how it started, most attribute it to an Italian book and movie “I Want You.” But there are also similar rituals in Serbia and Greece.

Whatever the source, it is as timeless a tradition as carving your initials on a tree. Couples will put their names on a padlock and attach it to a fence, post, bridge, etc. in a romantic setting or a place holding personal significance to them. They then throw away the keys, keeping this memento of their love permanently on display.

On the day after my dear friends became engaged against the backdrop of Finale and the Ligurean sea, they attached their padlock to this post I have passed dozens of time with barely a pause. They swapped keys and a kiss then walked hand-in-hand to Finaleborgo for some gelato. I walked behind… Not because I was a little teary-eyed. But because now I had one more reason to return to my adopted home.

The Garn + Joni Show: Locks of Love

(There’s a reason these two are the cutest couple anywhere. Just watch the video. Dare you not to go “awwww.”)

The best part about being a travel AND beer blogger is that I have no problem making the trip to Reno on my own dime. I’m looking forward to sharing some canned drinks with some new social media friends in a couple months. Cheers until then!

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