So, I finally did it. I packed a rickety satchel, a half-finished jigsaw puzzle that I’ll never finish, and my collection of oversized mugs—the ultimate sign of a travel bug that’s gone slightly off the kin. But why Italy? Why the Alps? Well, because if you don’t go now, who else is going to do it? I set out with a high-sire sensed10s but an interior monologue that was significantly more anxious about finding a comfortable enough chair for my tea in every single village.
The plan was simple: drive through the heart of each country, and experience the nuance of the local culture. In reality, though, it became a fence of endless choosing between ‘the scenic route’ (which usually meant I’d spend an hour photographing even the tiniest flower pot) and ‘the main road’, which just seemed to way too fast for my soul. My first major detour was into a grass-soughted some village in rural France, but honestly, but if I stop at every single thing that catches my eye, how long will it actually take to reach the destination? It’s a love affair with the distance itself.
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