I'm back from Italy. For more details on the trip, you can feel free to visit my new travel blog.
This was a different sort of trip for me. I wasn't really sure what to expect from it. There was something slightly dangerous about it-- navigating through the streets of Rome, knowing only a few words of the language. Florence was much nicer, more romantic. Next time I go there, I'd like to be with someone I love.
I spent an incredible amount of time in museums and churches. I've also discovered that while I have a good head for beer, drinking wine at dinner every night makes me a bit silly.
Everything in Italy draws the eye up--domes, balconies, painted ceilings. You find your head tipped toward the heavens constantly. And I made my pilgrimage to the Protestant Cemetery to visit Keats and Shelley, then to the Keats and Shelley Museum by the Spanish Steps. We also stood at the corner around which Dante is said to have first seen Beatrice in Florence.
It was all too brief, but inspirational none the less. I took many notes, nearly filling a new mini Moleskine. There is, I believe, fodder for at least two short stories and a handful of poems within these fevered scribblings. Though it doesn't perfectly match the image given to me by 19th century literature, it is country whose nature lends itself to an amorous nature. The combination of delicate beauty along with wildness stirs the poet, the artist, the architecture.
It poured with rain the whole time we were in Florence, but that was beautiful too.