“Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.”
― Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities ―

When I was little, I thought that by the ripe-old-age of 23, I’d have a house, a full-time career, a book published, and a Maserati or two to spare.

Instead, much to the chagrin of my poor, bewildered parents, I decided to plunder my life-savings and move myself and my half-finished manuscripts to Italy for a year, to study and write.

As luck would have it, I’ve ended up in the most beautiful sinking city in the world. And, as ever, my disdain for social media has led me back to the most literary form of it – blogging.

Hopefully my not-so-witty reflections will help brighten up your morning commute, or evening scroll – either way, please come along with me as I stumble over the metaphorical (and literal) cobblestones of life in Venice.