Cinque Terre Edition

It started as a joke — a throwaway phrase I used every time I needed to escape something, or someone. Fuck it, book it.

But somewhere between too many deadlines, too little sunlight, and a Paris that already felt like Fashion Week chaos before it had even begun, the joke became a mantra.

I hadn’t really left the city all summer. My tan came from my balcony, my dopamine from iced lattes, and my patience… well, she’d packed her bags months ago. Italy kept calling — in the scent of basil, in the clink of wine glasses from the terrace below, in every photograph of a sunlit table I scrolled past.

So one night, alone on my couch with a glass of red wine and the fan humming like an old Vespa, I did it. I opened my laptop, typed “La Sosta di Ottone III,” and without overthinking, I hit book now.

No plan, no budget, no guilt — just a whisper in my head saying,

God will provide.

A week of sea and pasta-bility.
A little bit of running away, a little bit of coming home.

Welcome to my accidental pilgrimage through the Cinque Terre, one affogato at a time.