I keep having this thought in the back of my mind like I am heading home tomorrow. Maybe because that was the original plan. The easy plan. The one my overwhelmed mind originally chose. Both my romantic partner and my travel partner for this trip insisted I should stay longer. However, after planning multiple trips already this summer, and seeing my credit card balances continue to climb while my checking and savings plummeted, I felt a short trip was the responsible thing to do.

Then I attended a Pink Martini concert where nearly all of the songs were in foreign languages. From French to Spanish, Italian, and even Japanese. Only two songs into the show, tears welled in my eyes. Although Noelle had already bought our flights, I still texted her, “I think I made a mistake.” She agreed and helped me extend the flight for only a small price.

I’ve learned over the years that, in once-in-a-lifetime opportunities like this (or seeing the Rolling Stones with your Mom in the second row) money becomes a bit meaningless. Credit cards are here for a reason, and although I have strict personal rules about keeping balances low, it was not the time to give two shits about the credit card balance being at zero.

When the tears welled, they were both happy, at knowing what I needed to do, and also sad, because that show would have lit my mom’s heart up and forced her feet to step rows and rows down to the one area in the entire space where people actually had the space to bend their knees and swirl their hips to the rhythm.

I knew I needed to extend my flight because the music and singing was a reminder of how much I absolutely cherish hearing different languages and getting to know different cultures.

And here I am now, sitting in un bar across from my accommodation in Firenze, sipping un cappuccino with my right hand and munching on un cornetto (croissant) with my left. Note – don’t try to write with the same hand that is holding the sticky pastry. And over Rihanna’s voice lightly bumping out of the stereo (a bit intense for 6 a.m.) above my head I hear various morning greetings and conversations all in Italiano. Buongiorno! (Good morning!) Va bene. (Okay.) Allora… (So, well, then…a filler word).

I swat at a fly that desperately seeks the foam from the top of my tiny ceramic mug. I almost sat at the bar stool high chairs, centered in the middle of the pasticceria. Four long shallow high tables surrounded one pillar. Not as intense as standing at the bar right in front of the barista, but also not so standard American as sitting in a seat, alone, away from everyone else, in your own little world. But I didn’t, this time.

Honestly, I hate barstools. But, is that a good reason not to sit there and try something different and a little intimidating like joining in on someone else’s culture without an actual invite or directions on how to do so? No! Tomorrow, I’ll arrive without my bag and notebook, maybe, and just be. Be with my Italians. (Note: I did exactly that the next day, and it is lovely).

Side note: there are three slot machines between me and that bald man in jeans and a blazer with a brown leather satchel over his left shoulder. One or two men have gone up and played a round.

Anyway, so I extended my trip an additional five days which would never actually be enough but was the most I could squeeze into my schedule. And what did I decide to do with that time? Well, I stopped and asked myself, “What do you want to do in Italy, while alone?” Because this is the essence of the beauty of solo travel – doing whatever you gosh darn want to do!

The answers: run while touring beautiful places, write, and cook. Although I haven’t yet felt inspired to work on editing my memoir, I have had my mind on writing something, anything, to capture this gorgeous trip that I’ve dreamed about my entire life. The plan for today specifically is to sneak back to il Duomo to see the rest of the places that are part of the 20 Euro Giotta Pass, hopefully before the masses of tourists collide in the area, then head back to the room for a lie-down and maybe some writing/editing of my own projects (i.e. memoir, blog or personal essays without deadlines or paychecks) and then head out on this “jogging route” that is marked on my paper map we got from a hotel. Whether or not I will jog or walk this route is undecided. I haven’t run in three weeks (thanks to the flu and a sinus infection) and I didn’t bring my running vest (because I kinda assumed I wouldn’t have the energy to run and I was trying to pack light.)

I’m feeling quite eager to leave the city again, even though I absolutely adore the buildings and the history. Not that I am actually reading any signs or doing any guided tours to learn about the history, but the visuals of history here are incomparable to anything in the States I’ve seen.

But back to this feeling. Yes, I am great at digressing here.

It is homesickness? Is it wishing I was sharing this magical land with the people I love most in the world (in addition to Noelle). Is it fear? Exhaustion? Fun fact – I’ve been tired every single day. I only thought I got tired like this while on bike tours or backpack trips but I genuinely feel old every day compared to the 22-year-old version of me who first went to Europe. That version also didn’t have the right clothes to wear here and also felt awkward and not herself. Now I am me, and I feel great! Also, she drank and danced the night away until the sun came up. This new version of Natasha traveling in Europe can barely stay away until the proper dinner time in Italia (after 7 p.m.).

Noelle swears that my fatigue is due to the aforementioned illnesses, and also this hoax I have heard about – jet lag. Just as I have ever since I turned 30, I mentally deny the standard and expected things that might affect me – well only if they have to do with my slowing down in any way.

But here I am in the city for a little more than 24 hours, ready to continue people-watching and looking at statues and architectural masterpieces and fighting this fly until the end of time. Please get out of my personal space fly! I give up. The plate is yours fly. The foam too. I’m done. Eat all the little croissant crumbs and the flaxseeds and drink your latte.

The other feeling I’m facing is – should I drive there, and there and also there? Everything feels close to Firenze – Sienna, Cinque Terre, and so many other little gems I know nothing about. I could go and see the places people go to see and take pictures of. Or I could hang back and write. Cobblestones and eavesdropping on conversations I can’t really understand, or solitude and creativity? Both?

I keep thinking back to when I first visited Byron Bay. I felt that I needed to get up into the mountains and climb and hike and sweat and become exhausted physically. But that wasn’t what Byron Bay was about. Is about. So, I hung back, did yoga, ate the healthiest and most delicious food out at cafes, and made friends that have seriously impacted my life and even my career.

What are Italia, Toscano, e Firenze all about? Food and coffee for sure. I’ve been doing that pretty darn well. And what happens if I don’t carve out time to work on my memoir? Nothing – I’ll work on it later. But there is this pressure to either do what I set out to do and envisioned or do what I believe other people expected me to do. Pretty lame, huh?

Instead, I should be showing people to do whatever the hell they want to do and that traveling is not all about seeing the sights or selfies or even an IG story of my balcony to perch my laptop on and live the dream of being a writer in Italy.

Travel = Connection.

Connection to a culture, a people, and to the world. I could be standing in the middle of a busy Firenze train station, staring out into nothing and everything all at the same time, and still be connected. Physically I am connected to all of Europe and all of Italy right there in that train station. But also surrounded by languages, perspectives, and experiences from around the world, I am connected. Different outfits, accents, and words. Even the three American girls within earshot sound like they have an accent to me now.

If I work on my memoir, which is not about Italy, will I stay connected? Or do I find the connection to my memoir and focus there? The memoir can be edited anywhere, but I can’t write about my experiences in Itay anywhere. Okay, yeah I can that’s why I like being a writer, but there is something about the fresh thoughts that are fun. A lack of perspective can be a little exciting.

Why am I even debating this?

Because a writer writes and I desperately want to get back into editing my memoir so I can finish it and I worry if I don’t start now then I never will but I know it’s not time. Maybe 30 minutes a day or while riding the train, or at the airport, in the airport hotel, where there are no other adventures to be had. Then, I carve out the future time to work on it at home. And you all can keep me accountable because I know you want to read this thing already.

I can do this.