The town is on top of a hill with a castle, and the second we pull in, people start showing up. This one’s the mayor. That one’s the building commissioner. They’re all dressed in suits; I’m in yoga pants, but they treat us like important people. Everyone’s waving their hands. They’re calling us DiSalvo and Marino, our grandparents’ names. My sister spots two ladies – one brunette, one strawberry blonde – and goes, “Hey, Judy, they look like us!” Turns out they’re our long-lost cousins. A little old farmer in his Sunday best starts crying, which gets me crying.
My advisor knows I’m a picky traveler. My husband snores; I need a suite with an actual door and another bed in case I need to kick him out of the room.
I’m a bathtub girl, so soaking tubs are very important. So are views. When you can combine the two – like at Amangiri
in Utah, the most beautiful hotel in the world – even better. It’s far from everything, but my advisor reminds me that paradise is never easy to get to.