Travel Diaries / Borgo San Lorenzo's Buried Beauty

My heart races, my torso slowly turns, and my eyes squint in the auburn. With my pupils glued to the glass windows in a slick jet black van that picked me us from the Italian airport, I lift my fingers to pinch a sharp pain on my left wrist to force myself to keep awake. Warned of the intense jet lag, no amount of cardio could've prepared me for the first time experience flying through international air for ten hours. Yet, I had no care in the world to listen to my body’s cry for sleep. It was love at first sight of the Tuscany countryside. The first sip of such a picturesque sunset shot through my veins and converted me into an addict to a newfound beauty. My eyes fixated on the warm auburn in the sky fading quickly to darkness. Without missing a beat, I threw my best punches in my battle against the stubborn jet lag. I had never left the Untied States before—this was the manifestation of divine possibilities, a memorable adventure flat-out of a movie.

Our study abroad group stayed in a large medieval villa flanked by ruins and trees; green timberland governed the encompassing countryside of Borgo San Lorenzo, which was found tantalizingly romantic for this San Francisco native. We whirled around the small town, enticed away hours in the cafes of the town square, and relished the serene Sunday strolls amongst locals passing through closed shops. I still remember the steady sophistication of those Italian women, so boldly and vibrantly well-dressed, drinking a glass of white wine at a table of friends with a cigarette elegantly laced between her two fingers.

But the most memorable were a band of Italian teenagers in the local park during a late-night party. Like all the Borgo locals, these teenagers grew up with one another since childhood and had nothing to do on a Friday night, but drink and hang around the benches while a local DJ spun repetitive electronic beats. Their spokesperson was a twenty-something year old pre-med student named Serafina. She had deep brown eyes, dark olive skin, and stood with a modelesque stature at five foot nine. She wore a fashion-forward mustard long-sleeve top and effortlessly paired it with wide-legged cropped pants. It was very Italian, and I was fascinated. Yet, she was captivated by us Americans—she and her friends asked in their limited English about life and the land of opportunity in California. Did all American college kids party like they do in the movies? It baffled me. It was apparent that they were sick and tired of this tiny charming Italian town and I could not comprehend why. They grew up in wonderland—didn’t they understand that they were the most fortuitous people in the world?

Living in Florence, Rome, Venice, and Cinque Terre for six weeks, I was immersed in the beauty of art, history, and culture. But all good things must come to an end. I landed back in LAX only to discover the city looked dull and dowdy. I dreamt of beautiful terraced houses and fresh caprese salad. I yearn for the day I can escape again. Traveling to Italy for the first time had stir in me a longing to wander.

It turns out the thirst to travel for adventure, novelty, and freedom also means the wrestle to be at peace with where I am. Wandering the world is an adventure as much as living in the present. Learning to be content in regular life is both a daily discipline and struggle. It’s cherishing the moments and the people in front of me. It’s learning to live day by day. It’s savoring the unique beauty of wherever I currently call home. Essentially, it’s replacing my instinct to flee with a desire to plant roots throughout each season of life. The best stories can come between the pages of a passport, but home is the story of who we are and a collection of all the things we love.