Travelling

Every time I leave home, I carry more than just clothes and the usual necessities. I carry a new version of myself — one ready to connect with a new place, new conversations, new air. I like to think that somewhere along the road, I’ll meet a version of me I haven’t met yet. And so, I prepare.

There’s something sacred in the ritual of getting ready. The list, scribbled in a notebook or typed in a Notes app, starts simple: hat, sandals, sunglasses. But each item starts to evoke more — a mood, a tone, a vision of the version of myself I want to bring along. Like that face mist with SPF that leaves a soft glow on the skin, not just protection but a suggestion of light-heartedness. Or the Turkish towel I pack that folds like a scarf and dries like magic — practical, but also poetic.

I find myself imagining new moments before they happen. That quiet morning light filtering through a guesthouse window in a town I can’t yet pronounce. A roll-on perfume tucked into my bag — gardenia and fig, a scent I haven’t yet worn, because I want the place to remember me by something new. The portable charger I’ll be grateful for while photographing lemons and conversations and faded ceramic street signs. These aren’t just things; they’re companions in a version of joy I haven’t lived yet.

And yes, sometimes budgets ask for moderation, but happiness doesn’t need grandeur. Often, I let myself fall for a little Amazon find — a straw hat that folds into a beach bag without losing shape, a book sleeve to protect my summer read, or a compact power bank that’s less “tech” and more a quiet enabler of long afternoons. If you’re curious, I’ve left a few of those finds.

Because vacations don’t begin the moment we lock the door behind us — they begin the moment we start writing the list. Each item packed is a whisper toward a memory we’re hoping to make. And that, to me, is its own kind of magic.

And if you’re curious about the little things I’ve tucked into this season — you’ll find them gathered here.
👉 [Explore my Summer Finds for travel]

A poetic journey from Rome to Puglia aboard the Espresso Salento

There are journeys we don’t take to arrive — but to remember that we’re alive.
The Espresso Salento isn’t just a night train. It’s a hushed path inward.

The platform lights blur behind glass. It’s 9:20 PM at Roma Termini.
In my small cabin, softened by a lamp’s dim glow, I open a book whose first line halts my breath:

“Sometimes the end of the line is just the beginning.”
— The Cabin at the End of the Train, Michael V. Ivanov
📖 View on Amazon

The train moves. The city slips away like a memory that doesn’t follow.

Outside, darkness folds around the window. Inside, time exhales. My thoughts tap against the glass like curious fingers. The hum of the tracks isn’t noise — it’s a remembering. A soft kind of becoming.

Foggia flickers past in silence, and I don’t need to leave the train to feel something shift. Then comes Polignano a Mare — or perhaps, just the idea of it: cliffs like altar stones, sea foam curling like breath, a quiet café that may or may not exist but I can already taste the espresso.

488454 gargano foggia province 1 — Foggia

Monopoli floats in like déjà vu from a dream I haven’t lived yet: alleys with citrus trees, laundry dancing between balconies, voices I don’t understand but trust.

Ostuni appears as a whisper of white — a city that doesn’t boast but reveals. Simplicity here doesn’t mean absence. It means truth.

Brindisi, with its ancient harbor, arrives like a pause in a poem. You don’t need to leave this place to feel departure. It reminds me: ports don’t travel, but they send people home.

And then, Lecce. Golden and gentle. A city that doesn’t greet you — it receives you. With warmth. With no rush. With a kind of understanding that no longer asks “Where have you been?” but simply says “You’re here now. That’s enough.”