Road Trip

I’ve missed writing from this spot in Gerty’s salon.  I always sit on the starboard side, facing port.  My computer rests on the world map that covers our table.  Our picture wall, with snaps of friends and family, is to my right.  It gives me inspiration.  Light streams in from the two hatches above, the seven salon windows, and today, because it’s beautiful outside, through the open companionway door.

We’re in Licata, Sicily and Gerty is unnaturally still in her winter marina berth.  We spent the morning unpacking and doing laundry.  Now clothes are hanging from every hook, handhold, and makeshift sail tie clothesline that we could string up.  Packages of new hardware lay on the settee next to me, unpacked groceries are on the counter, and our new spinnaker is overflowing the cockpit.  The place is a happy mess, and I’m trying to make sense of it all.  There must be a common thread to help me string the last two and a half weeks together. . . it’s the morning run.

Today I ran along the seawalls and looked out over the Harbor, but two days ago we were running down the slopes in the Italian Alps.  A few days before that, we were jogging along the Arno in Florence, and a week prior, along the Tiber in Rome.

Our jogs cleared my head and gave me the chance to arrange my memories.

Snapshots from all the cities we visited fell neatly into place.  The sunny lemons in Sorrento, and the ancient streets of Pompeii. 

Rome in all its glory. 

Pretty Sienna, and the medieval towers of San Gimignano. 

Firenze in the rain.

When I hit my stride the more subtle memories anchored into the depths of my psyche, hopefully for all eternity; Zachary’s arrival, and the visits with friends. 

The taste of the gelato at Giolitti’s. 

Skiing in the Alps.

The Vatican’s fire engine, and the way that weird spinach pizza made us laugh.  The sheen of the holiday lights in the mist, and the smell of Chinese food on Christmas Eve.  Our chocolate cannoli cappuccino date, and those unforgettable nougats.  In the end we sat on a bench in Gressoney-Saint-Jean with our cold fingers wrapped around cups of hot chocolate.  We drank the rich goodness out from under a perfectly sweet dollop of panna and it took the sting out of saying good-bye.

Yup, the morning run is one way to make sense of it all.  Another way is to write it down.  I’m sitting on the starboard side, facing port.  Clementines are strewn across the galley counter.  I saw them growing just a few miles from here.  The trees stretched into the Sicilian sunset, and the orangey glow welcomed us home.