Beyond the Postcards: A Summer in Italy, 2025

This summer, the boys and I packed our bags, kissed routine goodbye, and set our compass toward Italia. What started as a “wee trip” quickly turned into an epic adventure—one that left me with over 1,800 photos (yes, I counted, and no, I don’t know how it happened). Facebook got a teaser reel, but I know vacation photo dumps test the patience of even the kindest friends. Still, a few brave souls asked for more—so here they are, living here for a short while before I tuck them away again.

Rome greeted us first, a living museum where every cobblestone seems to whisper history. Standing beneath the Colosseum’s arches, it wasn’t hard to imagine the roar of the crowd, or gladiators waiting just behind the gates.

But Florence—ah, Florence was the jewel for me. Renaissance genius painted into every corner, streets humming with art and invention. And then Tuscany. Rolling hills brushed with vineyards and the medieval towers of San Gimignano rising like a dreamscape—it was the kind of beauty that makes you stop mid-step and just breathe it in.

Positano and the Amalfi Coast dazzled like a postcard come alive—though, truth be told, they were bursting with crowds and heat. Still, the shimmer of the Tyrrhenian Sea was enough to make you forgive the chaos.

Then there was Venice, where romance floats on every ripple of the canals. Gondolas gliding, reflections dancing, and the kind of old-world magic that feels like slipping into a storybook.

Milan brought its own electric pulse—fashion, speed, and a nightlife I would’ve loved to explore hand-in-hand with my baby. Someday.

But the crescendo came with Lake Como, where the mountains lean in to kiss the water, and villages like Bellagio gleam in the sunlight. We crossed the border to Lugano, Switzerland, where the beauty shifted from Italian warmth to Swiss precision—both breathtaking, both unforgettable.

In the end, Italy gave us more than landscapes and gelato (though, plenty of that too). It gave me a creative spark that I know will keep fueling my writing long after the jet lag fades. And for my boys—I hope it planted seeds of wonder, of dreaming big, of chasing the kind of moments that make life shimmer.

Every journey to Rome begins with the icons. We climbed the Spanish Steps, tossed coins into the Trevi Fountain, and stood in awe before the mighty Colosseum. But if you asked my sons what the highlight was? Forget the monuments—it was Gladiator School.

Picture it: two boys, wide-eyed with excitement, slipping into ancient armor, gripping wooden swords, and learning the art of battle. The clash of shields, the laughter as they “conquered” other kids in friendly duels—it wasn’t history in a textbook, it was history alive. That’s what they crossed the Atlantic for! Victory claimed, we celebrated like true Romans—with a reverent stop at the Pantheon and an evening of food, laughter, and music among the locals in Trastevere. That night still lingers like a warm candle glow.

Our adventure then carried us south, to the legendary Amalfi Coast. Just outside Sorrento, we stopped at a lemon grove turned limoncello factory, where the air itself was perfumed with citrus. A sip of their golden, sweet-tart creation was like bottling sunshine. From there, we wound along cliffs until the pastel cascade of Positano came into view—a city tumbling down the mountainside, kissed by the sea.

It’s true, Positano might be one of the most beautiful places on Earth. For me, though, it whispered of a return trip—this time in the quieter off-season, hand in hand with my lovely lady. A slow boat ride along the coast, time to wander the hills without haste, and sunsets that belong to no one but us.

But the place that hushed us most was Pompeii. Walking through streets frozen in time, we saw stone doorways, mosaics, and casts of lives interrupted in an instant. It wasn’t just ruins—it was a reminder of fragility, of how quickly the world can shift beneath our feet. The boys were quieter there, too, absorbing what words couldn’t capture. For all the laughter, adventure, and sunshine, Pompeii gave us something else: perspective. A whisper across centuries to cherish what we have now, because tomorrow is never promised.

We had a special day at the Vatican, that tiny city-state my youngest never fails to point out is a “whole different country.” He lights up whenever I ask how many countries he’s been to, carefully listing them one by one as if he’s tallying rare Pokémon cards. I first walked these halls when I was sixteen, but returning now, the place felt even larger, grander—like it had expanded with time itself. I remembered a statue whose foot I once touched for luck, a ritual no longer allowed, our guide explained. A small loss, perhaps, but it made me ache for that tactile connection across centuries. Still, the wonders here remain overwhelming: Michelangelo’s Pietà, serene and sorrowful in its perfection, and beyond it all, the tomb of St. Peter—the fisherman turned apostle, resting beneath the weight of millennia. That quiet place, more than any gilded hall or soaring dome, stilled me the most.

Part Two began as we left Rome—and the formidable summer heat—for the beauty and grandeur of Florence. Firenze, the city I’d dreamed of more than any other. It did not disappoint. The Renaissance was born here, and you can feel it in every cobblestone, every archway, every breath of the city. The churches soared with awe, but the food—oh, the food—was divine in its own right.

We climbed the mighty Il Duomo, spiraling up through narrow, winding passages where stone walls seemed to press in with history itself. My youngest, bless him, has a fear of heights and a streak of claustrophobia, and I could see the struggle written all over his face. But he gritted his teeth, toughed it out, and when we finally emerged into the light, the city of Florence stretched beneath us in a red-tiled sea. His grin in that moment was worth every bead of sweat.

Art surrounded us at every turn. The colossal David, a titan carved from marble, and the delicate, ethereal beauty of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. It felt like flipping through the pages of the world’s greatest art book—except here the colors glowed, the scale astonished, and the air itself seemed charged with genius. For me, a personal highlight was visiting the Medici-Riccardi Palace, a place that once fueled my imagination while writing Masters of Science. To stand in the same halls where I once set my fictional world was a thrill I won’t soon forget.

From there, Tuscany called. We wandered into rolling hills that looked painted by hand, stopping at a winery where the air smelled of grapevines and sun-warmed earth. With San Gimignano’s towers standing proudly in the distance, we lingered over a long lunch and a tasting of local wines, the kind of meal that makes you forget what time it is.

In Siena, we stumbled into tradition at its most fierce. The city buzzed with anticipation on the eve of the Palio, their legendary horse race. Flags of rival contrade waved from windows, locals debated with fiery passion, and we found ourselves right in the heart of it all—guests at a centuries-old rivalry that felt as alive as family drama.

Finally, no trip could end without Pisa. Yes, we joined the ranks of tourists “holding up” the tower for photos, but we also climbed the real thing, step after tilting step. At the top, leaning slightly into the sky, we laughed at the absurdity of it all. Sometimes, being a little cheesy is exactly the right way to honor history.

With half the trip already behind us, we traded the golden hills of Tuscany for the cooler breezes of the north, following the curve of the Mediterranean until we reached a place unlike any other—Venice.

What a city. What a marvel. Its narrow canals, labyrinthine alleyways, and sudden, sun-splashed piazzas felt like stepping into a dream painted centuries ago. We wandered endlessly, every turn offering some hidden trattoria or café, the smell of espresso and the sea mingling in the air. The famous sites were no letdown—St. Mark’s Square, its basilica gleaming with mosaics, and the Doge’s Palace, a wonder that left us gawking at opulence preserved through time. More than once, it felt as though we had stumbled onto the set of a grand period film.

And then, the gondola. Sliding quietly through the canals, our boatman guiding us with a few strokes of his oar, we were suspended between past and present. My boys laughed as we glided beneath bridges, the echo of water against stone carrying us back to another age. Crossing the Rialto Bridge, we couldn’t help but grin like kids—history has a way of making you giddy when you let it.

Our journey took us further, to the islands of Murano and Burano. Murano shimmered with molten glass and artistry, each workshop alive with glowing furnaces and skilled hands shaping beauty from fire. Burano dazzled in color—its houses painted in bright, joyful hues that seemed to sing against the sky. We wandered through lanes where lace-makers sat at work, their craft as timeless as the canals themselves.

Venice also elevated the culinary adventure. Where Rome and Florence had spoiled us with pasta and Tuscan fare, here it was the sea that fed us. My son declared it the freshest fish he’d ever tasted, and even I surrendered to plates of shrimp, monkfish, and yes—even tripe—each dish carrying the briny tang of the lagoon. Paired with crisp local wine, it was a feast I hadn’t expected to love quite so much.

From the canals of Venice, our compass pointed westward toward the energy and elegance of Milan. If Venice had felt like a living painting, Milan was a stage alive with movement—a city of fashion, speed, and style. The magnificent Duomo di Milano rose like a forest of stone spires, each carved detail demanding awe. Inside, the hush of devotion contrasted with the bustling piazza outside, where locals hurried past high-end boutiques and cafés. We lingered before Da Vinci’s Last Supper, silent, spellbound, as though the centuries had paused just for us. Milan buzzed with a modern heartbeat, and though I wished for a night out with my lovely lady to taste its nightlife properly, even in daylight the city’s vibrancy was undeniable.

From Milan, we slipped north into a different kind of grandeur—Lake Como. Imagine mountains folding into shimmering waters, villages like jewels strung along the shore. Bellagio greeted us with its winding lanes and bursts of flowers tumbling from balconies. Boats skimmed across the lake’s glassy surface, and for a while, time felt suspended. Each view was a postcard, but better—alive with wind, light, and laughter.

Our final leg carried us across the border into Switzerland, to the lakeside city of Lugano. Here, Italian warmth blended with Swiss precision, the language still flowing with music, but the mountains now sharper, the air crisper. The lake mirrored the peaks in perfect stillness, a reflection of everything we had seen—ancient ruins, Renaissance glory, seaside cliffs, and now alpine calm. Beauty beyond compare.

As the trip drew to a close, I found myself not just full of memories but lit with inspiration. Italy—and Switzerland at the finish—had given us laughter, adventure, art, and perspective. It had tested us (heights, heat, and endless staircases), fed us (more pasta, fish, and wine than I’d admit to my doctor), and connected us more deeply as family. I hope, more than anything, it planted seeds in my boys—the kind that grow into dreams worth chasing, no matter how far across the world they reach. For me, it gave a creative spark that I’ll carry into my writing for years to come. For them, perhaps, it was the beginning of understanding just how wide and wonderful the world can be.