rain, rain, come and play...

there's a slight, steady rain here in new york today.

which means i'm destined for a walk through central park.

where, for just a moment, i'll allow myself the luxury of pretending it's the villa borghese in rome.

but for now i'm in bed.

listening to an ever so slight pitter-patter. lost in a book. and dreaming of an unknown future.

this photo is from 
a trip to rome in 2005
with my mom and dad.
my mom and i pictured outside
the villa borghese gallery.

a fire red vespa. and a dream.

There's a fire red vespa that sits on the corner of 67th and Columbus. I want it. I want to steal it. I won't. But I want to. And this is not an invitation for you to do so either.

But sometimes, in my darkest moments, I dream up ways to surreptitiously flip the kick stand and peel off through the park, hair flying in every direction under the matching red helmet I just happened to have in my bag that morning.

However, if I had been riding my vespa last night instead of walking, would I have missed the gentleman in a suit stealing the tree-sized flowers from the Plaza Hotel's dumpster? Or the young boy practicing racquetball against the giant marble wall outside his doorman-guarded building?

Maybe New York is best seen on foot.

Not to worry, I'll get my vespa when I move to Rome. And all will be well in the world.

roman holiday.

The whirr of the espresso brewing. The lively Italian dialogue coming from the corner television. Three hours of my Sunday morning spent in the corner drinking mocha coffee and pretending I live in Europe. 

I may not be able to afford the real thing right now. But this is pretty good too. It might just be my favorite place in all of New York. For now. 

274 Columbus Avenue (between 72nd and 73rd)
photos by moi

I'm desperate to live in Rome.

Just for a little while anyway.

I'd wake up early every morning. With the sun. Or maybe even before it. I'd sip coffee at the cafe around the corner. And I'd go to church every day. Be the good Catholic I've always known I could be. I'd study the architecture. And listen to opera. I'd eat gelato every afternoon. And pasta every evening. I'd never eat alone. Or with anyone I knew. Always strangers. I'd eat cookies all throughout the day. And drink wine. So much wine. Red, not white. I'd parade around the streets in sandals and barely-there-skirts. I'd chop all my hair off in the style of the latest Italian movie star. And play futbol in the streets with the young boys before their mothers called them home for dinner. The people of my piazza would soon recognize the cadence of my gait or the peel of my fire-engine-red vespa. And I'd write. All day long, I'd write. I'd kiss the Italian air with my words. And then I'd be loved. By my perfect Italian lover.

Please, oh please, won't someone give me a reason to go to Rome?

PS: we all know when it comes to travel guides it doesn't get better than Rick Steves...but man, oh man, can he write...this is his delightful, little article on my much dreamed of city