Founded by the Phoenicians in the 9^th century B.C., Nora would change hands between the Carthaginians and the Romans. Most of what I observe are vestiges of Roman rule, proof that no island was isolated enough for the Romans to reach.

And like any respectable Roman site, I come upon an amphitheater, or at least its half. The show must go on regardless of erosion and time.

Nora fills with more former stages of ancient life. Exposed and open to the elements, all that remains of Nora’s patrician villas are intricate mosaic floorings. Like walking on a piece of art, life was decent back in the day in Sardinia’s first town.

Some of Nora’s ruins have scattered into the water, only seen when the sun is shining. Sadly today is a May spring day on Sardinia, when thunder grumbles, almost out of distaste for my invasion of this ancient city.

As the light drizzle turns more downpour and the skies darken ominously, I head for Nora’s exit. I pass by what appear to be piles of rumble, but they are in fact a town, a former home to many, a place of devotion. The sky and sea are the only constants that have seen the pieces of Nora’s puzzle come together and fade away. Nora can be in ruin, forgotten and left to crumble, but those constants know who she was.

The Greek’s believed Sorrento was the site of the mythical sirens, those creatures that would lure sailors, Odysseus included, with their song as a trap. And while many believe Sorrento to be nothing more than a tourist trap, I found myself trapped in its subtle songs, even those songs, or shouts, of persistent taxi drivers.

I was studying Italian and Tarantella, the area’s main song and dance that tells its history over the last 500 years. I frequented a number of these tarantella shows. While most of those in the audience were 60 years my senior, the youthful emotions of Sorrento’s performance side carried throughout the room. Tasso Theater buzzed with song and dance, proof yet again Sorrento  knows how to keep you entertained.

When I wasn’t in class or down by the water in Sorrento, I would try to find those spaces in the city that weren’t so touristy. From a little train running through Sorrento’s main thoroughfares to countless shops selling lemoncello, the town on the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Naples can seem devoid of locals. However down at the weekly market, little old ladies pushed their rolling suitcase like carts to load up on the fruits of the land.

Families worked behind these stalls, with each member assigned to a certain job. From the son’s task of shouting out for shoppers to the father hurrying the bagging process, Sorrento’s market is a family and local affair.

Most know of Sorrento’s Marina Piccola, where the ferries depart for Capri. Marina Grande is actually less frequented  in Sorrento and much more localized. Crumbling old buildings stand covered in scaffolding. I suspect it might still be this way. A lone old man keeps his perch on a balcony above. Little toddlers play in boats just beyond. Fishermen cast off for the day in rickety boats. It is activity and inactivity all rolled into one marina.

Sorrento trapped me, much like those sailors in mythology, most importantly with the color of her sunsets. From Villa Comunale Park, I would watch the sunset over the Bay of Naples. While the space seemed more town square than park, the sky was the attraction. Tourists and locals gushed over these magenta and lavender skies each night. And for a moment while watching the sun fade over Mt. Vesuvius, I think I heard the sirens of Sorrento. Sometimes the myth is no myth at all.

Have you been to Sorrento?

Picked up in a strange city by a man holding my misspelled name on a flimsy piece of paper, I placed my trust in another to drop me off at my assigned apartment in Florence. I was studying abroad for a semester, a little more wide eyed, if that’s possible, at the time on Florence and travel as a whole at the tender age of 20.

 The names Gucci, Cavalli flashed rapidly through my window view in a rickety white van. On a one-way, busy street, one I quickly noticed seemed to be dripping in Florentine high fashion, the van screeched to a halt. The driver threw my bags on the sidewalk and headed for the driver’s seat. I shouted, “Quale numero?” and received the most rapid of responses. With giant golden handles and a list of buzzers before me, including my neighbors, Gucci, I rang the bell. Jet lagged and unsure, an elderly man warmly greeted me with the double kiss, motioning me inside. I would meet his wife and the other student I would be sharing this home stay apartment with for 6 months. And throughout the walls of that apartment in Florence, I learned a thing or two about the Florentines.

In case you haven’t heard, travel and accommodation hunting company Go With Oh has launched a Blogger Competition, inviting travel bloggers to share five reasons why they are oh so deserving (pun intended), creative and all around wonderful to receive a month of accommodations throughout four of their European cities. The blogger must list five reasons why they want to Go With Oh to their selected city. The blogger then will be tasked with documenting their stays and travels. This is my hat in the ring of the five things I would most like to experience in Florence. If you would like to see me in Europe this fall and/or enjoyed this post, please let me know by leaving a comment.

 For Loriana’s Cooking

You won’t find this attraction in any guidebook, but in studying abroad in Florence, my stomach grew with each passing meal at Loriana’s table. She was my Italian host mom, serving up risottos I only could dream about upon returning back to the United States. We would dine in a kitchen no bigger than an American closet, discussing our cultures, our dreams and our lives. It was a sacred space. Dinnertime in that very kitchen was everything about Florence to me. While the world compliments Italian cuisine, it is the Florentine flair for flavor I crave.

For Church Perch People Watching

Florence crawls in church steps, steps that turn into chairs for anyone with throbbing feet. I haven’t perched on enough of these steps. I haven’t seen every church or piazza in the city. Part of what makes an Italian city so appealing to me are these spaces where the goal is not so much in seeing an attraction, but watching that place go by.

For Gelato Research

Being the supposed birthplace of gelato, my time spent in Florence consisted mostly of grabbing gelato as a “snack”. I reasoned if I walked and ate my gelato nightly, it wasn’t so bad for my waistline. The gelato in Florence is some of the best I have ever tasted, so much so that I didn’t mind when the Bacio dripped all over my hands, down to my sandals as I hit the cobblestone streets of this living, breathing, outdoor museum. If I could return to Florence, I would make it my job to taste as many gelato flavors as possible. That’s the sort of spoonful you take for granted when you get back home.

For The Noises

I frequently woke from my Renaissance apartment in Florence to the sound of vespas traveling well beyond any city’s speed limit. The garbage trucks were even more annoying in their loud screeching, and yet, I miss them. Head into any piazza in Florence and there is a song in the air. It might be someone trying to scam you, an Italian man looking for a date or just the sigh of the casual traveler seeing Brunelleschi’s dome for the first time. You can’t recreate the noises of a city and Florence has her own. Music, yelling, traffic, Italian, I will gladly experience the noises of the city again if given the chance.

For The Indoor and Outdoor Art

A lifetime could be spent exploring the works inside and out of Florence. From strolling through Renaissance sculpture in Piazza Signoria to marveling at the Ponte Vecchio under a midnight blue sky, the details of the city require more than one visit. I want to take my search for Florentine treasures inside, over the Vasarian Corridor and down to the Bargello. Florence’s art scene proves, there is always more to see.

I manage to survive crossing the road to the center of Trieste. To get to know this blunt city, you must uncover its core, the very heart of its character. That heart beats in Piazza Unitá d’Italia. The main square is made up of imperial buildings on three of its sides, with the fourth side appropriately Trieste’s meeting with the sea. It is after all a vital part of the city’s heart. Trieste’s town hall features several Italian flags whipping in the wind. I know I’m not in Slovenia any more. The colors of green, white and red can’t help but spur an excitement in this Italian fiend.

A thriving port since Roman days, Trieste was given a neoclassical makeover by Maria Theresa of the Hapsburgs. The city has changed hands so many times, it can be difficult to keep score. At the end of the World War I, Trieste would become a piece of Italy. However the end of World War II would bring the occupation of Allied forces and Yugoslavia. It wasn’t given completely back to Italy until 1954. I’m thankful it was given back to Italy, a country I get cravings for when I travel.

If you can stand Trieste’s winds long enough to wander, you will notice a wealth of cafes. Those who holed up in corners penning works like A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Dubliners made Café culture in this northern Italian city famous. James Joyce, Sigmund Freud and 20^th century novelist Italo Svevo spent time in Trieste, just to name a few. When you have such a strong café culture, you obviously need a strong beverage. It is no wonder Illy coffee hails from Trieste, the very spot where founder Francesco Illy began mastering espresso in 1933.

On this bitingly cold winter day, I pop into the only open restaurant I can find. I came to Trieste for a purpose after all, to have pizza. When you are driving down from Slovenia to Croatia and you notice Trieste just sitting there in the middle of your journey, you can’t resist the urge to go for lunch, just because you can. In Trieste, I realized my cravings for Italy rock me to the core of my being, perhaps in part due to the bora. I hope to return again to Trieste. It is a city I knew only briefly and time I knew would not be enough.

Have you been to Trieste?

What would become Milan’s idea of a shopping mall in the 19^th century, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II opens up to a dramatic archway. Within a ceiling of steel and glass, you can still spot the heavens. It’s design takes on the shape of a crucifix for what I believe to be purposeful. We all need divine intervention when braving an indoor shopping mall.

The designer of it all, Giuseppe Mengoni, died just days before he could see his creation opened to the masses of Milanese. It always seems creators of great works of art and architecture often never get to fully appreciate them. Something tells me Giuseppe probably didn’t anticipate these fashions to grace the interior of his work.

Today’s Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II is a melting pot of this fashion-forward town and every tourist who has decided to give this commercial city a chance. A gaggle of Buddhist monks even stop to admire the windows of Prada.

And yet just off of this monumental indoor shopping mall is the city’s center of faith, the Duomo. The Gothic Cathedral is so detailed, covered in saintly statues, flying buttresses and spires, that I could stare at it for hours and never fully grasp its entirety.

I enter what is said to be the fourth largest church in the world, a place of worship that can hold 40,000. I am drawn to my feet, where a pattern of red, black and white marble flooring infects the entire interior.

Begun in 1386, Milan’s Duomo boasts 135 spires and over 3,000 statues. It holds a 4^th century baptistery where Saint Ambrose supposedly baptized Saint Augustine. Travelers know of the saint’s famous quote, “The world is a book and those who don’t travel read only but a page.” The quote is about as overused as a kitchen dishrag, but at the same time incredibly accurate. I could live knowing the evils of the indoor shopping mall or believe a church is just a church, but thankfully I have traveled to Milan and seen this is not always the case.

I am standing in the middle of a structure that took five centuries to create, a place where no detail was left unturned. Right next-door is a shopping mall, intended to beautify not complicate. I might not want to enter a shopping mall this time of the year, but I would gladly enter Milan’s idea of what retail should be. And I would know that I will get out alive with a crucifix over my head. Milan wishes you were here…

Have you been to Milan?

When I do travel in this month, I have managed to uncover a sweet December, a month unlike any other time of year. One of my favorite aspects to travel is its ability to connect one person from another culture or background with another. December might be the best month to see this first hand traveling. Most of the world is doing something different from the rest of the year, whether it is putting up extra trees about town or finding a certain faith in tradition. It is December that connects the traveler to customs of their home, even if they may be half way across the world. It is the act of tradition, the act of doing something special and different that makes this month the same for us all. While my travels haven’t led me too far away from home for December, I have found a few moments away from the familiar and entrenched in an undeniable connection found in this magical month.

The Nubble Lighthouse, Maine

On the southern coast of Maine, you will find the Nubble Lighthouse near York village. Perched on its own green island, I visited this site when most wouldn’t dream of getting out of their cars, December. The wind whipped me into a spinning shivering mess, but I didn’t care. The lighthouse to me was iconic December. With no sun in sight, the white and red lighthouse oozed the holidays.

Just across from this famous lighthouse, a restaurant set up its own holiday decorations, a lobster trap Christmas tree. Countless traps went into its construction, something you would only see in this part of the world. It was Maine’s spin on December and yet still a familiar sight.

Candy Cane Factory, Colorado

It’s not everyday you sit down and ponder how your candy cane came to be. Hammond’s Candy Cane Factory offers free tours of just how those classic December treats are made. Turning out 1,000 pounds of sugar a day, Hammond’s began in 1920.

I toured the factory several Decembers ago. While mostly children participated in the tour, I watched as employees of the factory twisted, pulled and pushed sugar into the red and white ribbons of a candy cane. As I watched behind a glass window, you could see the smirks on the candy cane makers faces. To them, it was a job. To most of those watching, they were pure Christmas elves. This candy cane factory visit reminded me that every aspect to December travel, right down to those candy canes you see everywhere, is an entire process, one that calls for several individuals to make successful, not just one.

Sicilian December Festivals

I had never traveled outside the country for December until I studied in Sicily. I was able to participate in two of the island’s biggest events, the Feast of Santa Lucia and the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. On December 6^th, the town of Siracusa parades a statue to Mary throughout small, snaking streets. It is still a sight I can’t wipe from memory, countless Sicilians so dedicated and devoted to a single cause.

Later on in the month, the town and island celebrates Santa Lucia, Sicily’s patron saint. On December 13^th, all of Sicily seems to arrive to Siracusa’s Piazza Duomo. Fathers hoist their children on their shoulders in hopes of catching a glimpse of Santa Lucia, a silver statue to the saint hailing from the 16^th century. The town processes yet again through the streets of Ortigia, with several men needed to carry Lucia. In old uniforms and costumes, I watched this scene from my Sicilian balcony.

December might not be the best month for travel with chaotic airports and hefty ticket prices, but it is all worth it to me in the end to see the powerful link of tradition and the shaking up of routines across the globe.

Do you travel in December? Have you found more events and iconic cultural moments throughout the month?

Tiny coves with beaches only further my excitement. So far removed for any Italy I have known up to this point, I continue to head south, imagining what it would be like to live along the end of Italy as a few do.

As the anticipation builds, I come across a strange sight, a taste of architecture far from the Italian villa style. Villa Sticchi stands a little run down and out of place amidst nothing. The Moresque style hints at the seaside resorts of old. Built for Giovanni Pasca, the first concessionaire of the Santa Cesarea thermal baths, its appearance only furthers my feelings that this place is of fantasy. Constructed by Pasquale Ruggieri, Villa Sticchi plays on his passion for the east.

And with each passing mile, I am closer and closer to Italy’s end, right near the town of Santa Maria di Leuca. Just beyond is Punta Ristola, geographically the lowest point of Italy. Saint Peter is reported to have arrived here to head up to Rome. The Greeks have long told mythological stories of reaching this point. A place with so much to live up to, Italy’s pointy stiletto is somewhat underwhelming. You can see the two seas meeting, the Adriatic and the Ionian, by the way in which the currents collide. While not really anything to write home about, it is and it isn’t. I’m at Italy’s conclusion, a point many saw as both the beginning and the end. And so I will write home about Italy’s stiletto. Wish you were here.

I swooned over several aspects to Sardinia. I think it began in Cagliari, the port town founded in the 7^th century B.C. by the Phoenicians. With the Golfo degli Angeli, the Gulf of Angels, watching over this city, at night, Cagliari gives off an enchanting glow. With views of the Cagliari port and coastline, the Medieval Castello quarter is the only place to be at night in Sardinia’s capital city.

I drank Sardinia’s love potion again just outside of the town of Fluminimaggiore. Say that three times fast. The Tempio Punico-Romano di Antas stands so isolated and mysterious. You can stand in the 1^st century B.C. Roman place of worship, which doesn’t seem right for preservation reasons. Regardless, I perch here and imagine the civilizations that have done the same.

As if ancient temples and glowing cities weren’t enough, Sardinia even gives me my own private island, Isola Rossa. Near the town of Teulada, I discover the Beach of Porto Tramatzu where I haven’t felt sand so silky. Whenever a beach describes itself with “fine, white sand” I am always a little skeptical. Here, “fine, white sand” doesn’t do the beach justice.

Rising out of the sea as though someone just pressed a button to make this appear to me now, Isola Rossa, otherwise Red Island covers in typical Mediterranean vegetation and a coppery hue. It is an island best seen from above.

The temples, private islands and golden cities aren’t enough. Sardinia even has to show off its Phoenician settlements, still stuck back in the 8^th century B.C. Nora, near the town of Pula, has traces of Roman, Phoenician and Punic civilizations. Ruined housing quarters and an amphitheater are endearing, but it is the preserved colors and designs of the Roman mosaics here that intrigue me. The mosaics are proof that the ancients believed a work of art should always be at your feet.

Most of the traffic I encounter comes in goat form. The Italian island is so far removed from my reality that for a few days, and those days only, it is all mine.

I make my way to the town’s premiere attraction, the Teatro Greco. Constructed in the 3^rd century B.C., it is the second largest on this island. Scaffolding is up, hinting a production is eminent. In Taormina’s warmer months, performances take the stage here.

Set in between the sea and sky of Taormina, Teatro Greco proudly holds one of the best views of the town. One particular bend is a stopping point for pictures by most who pass through here. Even the skeptical of this tourist town can’t deny this view, myself included.

I continue on to Piazza Duomo, the center of activity in any Italian town. Taormina’s Duomo almost looks more fortress than religious institution. The 13^th century cathedral fills on Sunday nights with locals taking a seat on wooden pews.

Taormina’s perfection makes a full circle at Villa Comunale, the city’s gardens. Created by an English woman, the hanging gardens present a lush paradise in the midst of a coastal dream.

Clutter aside, Taormina’s appeal comes in its position, up high on a hill, almost like that forbidden toy as a kid, up high on the top shelf. However, Taormina still can’t compete with Mt. Etna glaring in the distance.

As rain approaches, the active volcano turns unquestionably gray, but Taormina is still keeping up shiny appearances right down to its own private island, Isola Bella.

Coming up on Locorotondo, my skepticism got the best of me. It didn’t look like much, a city on a hill but not one a pilgrim would write home about to relatives across the pond. Getting out of my car, I was quickly blinded by Locorotondo and all skepticism stepped aside.

The village only colors in one shade of crayon, white. The buildings uphold this trend and so do the locals it seems. As I wandered the streets of Locorotondo, I discovered the uniform in town, white shorts, white shirt, no problem.

The only pops of color come in flower boxes where blood red flowers add simple, yet effective contrast to Locorotondo’s all white state of mind. Perhaps it was the hour of the day, but the town felt deserted, left here perfectly paradisal.

The few shops open in Locorotondo show off the village’s specialty, none other than white, light and sparkling wine. For those who can’t appreciate a good glass of white wine, Locorotondo does provide a respite for your sunglasses. As the village sits on a hill, you can gaze out onto a green valley, speckled with what appears to be Locorotondo’s influence trickling down to the countryside in white building form. Officially one of Italy’s most beautiful villages, this skeptic agrees. Locorotondo looks good in glistening, blinding and angelic white.