The tide had receded. There were no warning sirens piercing through the city at the break of dawn. I opened the shutters to let in the damp lagoon air. Gentle rays of morning light seeped in, tinted with dusty hues of the Dorsoduro palaces and their worn stones. The sky was limpid after overnight rain that had lingered into the early morning. "I missed it again," I thought, comforted that the mystical spell that somehow always kept me from witnessing rain over the lagoon city was still a pact I could count on. 

The day's agenda was still unformed, aside from a dinner date I was already looking forward to with a dear old friend. Time was mine, as was the choice of where my footsteps would lead. 

I set out, crossed the first floor which was still musty from the receded waters and shut the heavy front door behind me, happily aware of how quiet the calli still were. Sounds of gentle sweeping, suitcases rolling over the cobblestone on the way to the vaporetto or the ferrovia, conversation bouncing off the narrow lanes' walls, the distant clinking of stacked espresso cups at the bar... And soon, added to those heartwarming sounds, my own footsteps on the Venetian pavement, up and down its bridges, around corners and corners of its infinite maze. 

I hadn't ventured far when my head instinctively faced my right. An arch stood as a gateway, its bricks betraying its age, telling tales of centuries past. It was a portal to a tranquil lane guarded by pretty flower boxes and façades of various ocher and peach hues. 

The memory of rain lingered on the pavement, storing tiny reflections like little secrets of the universe.

I smiled. How could you not, when your heart sings? #mademelook

Bring this moment home on paper, canvas, wood, acrylic or metal. 

More posts in the "Made Me Look" blog series

Some places linger in my mind as a color and a sound, before any actual sights or anecdotes are called up from memory. Maybe it's an extension of my synesthesia, or it's just what happens if a place made an impact on your senses while you were there. 

When I hear the word "Wales", I immediately think of that special hue of green that's actually hard to accurately describe - a fresh hue that becomes even more vibrant in the maritime mist and fog. I think of light and dark blues that touch but don't mix. I think of seagulls - ridiculously chatty seagulls who would circle my windows and wake me up way before my alarm. I think of the sounds of the Welsh language, which was present alongside English everywhere, even up and down elevators that announced the floors. 

Now and then, a color or light or sound triggers your nostalgia for a place, and can make you feel close to it, even though you're a vast ocean away.

Bring a sense of Wales and England home to your walls.

From my heart to yours.

This year was such a jam-packed whirlwind of new experiences, achievements, travels and growth, it is no wonder that I'm actually having trouble remembering all its details!

As I do every year, I've been using the holidays to wind down and reflect on what I did, felt and let go of this year. Once I've looked back, I begin to look forward. I dream up the year ahead with wishes, hopes and adjustments that stem from my reflections of the current year. I'll share these with you in a personal post very soon, along with my process of organizing my thoughts when I chart out my look-backs and look-forwards, should you wish to do something similar for your personal or business goals. 

One of my goals at the end of 2016 was to write more - not only to grow Veni Etiam and my audience, but also as an act of mindfulness and self-care. I wrote over 100 blog posts this year (holy cow!) and spent a ton of time journaling and writing travel stories. 

Today's post is a throwback to my favorite blog posts of 2017. These posts span a range of topics but are dear to my heart because they took Veni Etiam - and me - in a new direction. Click on the post(s) that interest you most to see them in a separate window.

To my readers who have been following along for a while now - thank you so much for staying connected! I appreciate you SO MUCH and can't wait to share more of my world with you in 2018.

It was the city in which I found my wings. A city I had hated during my first trip to Italy a decade before. "I hate Milan," I had dared to write on a postcard home. "I'd never live here."

Never say never, right?

It was a time when the whole world - my world - was wide open. A Bachelor of Science in hand, I set out to pursue the most unconventional M.Sc program possible - not only Erasmus, but in three separate European countries: Italy, The Netherlands and Germany. 

Italy and I already had a longstanding love affair, but I had never lived alone in Italy. I had never lived alone, period. Living alone abroad was daunting and exciting and liberating and inspiring in rapid alternation over the course of a single day.

In Milan, I learned to get over my anxiety of uncertainty. I learned to cook fabulous meals, to be inspired by locals, by language, by my own strength and sense of adventure. I learned to love roasted chestnuts because of their intoxicating aroma riding on the crisp autumn wind. I learned that Italians can have gelato in precarious waffle cones in scorching heat while on a vespa in suits and stiletto heels (#notastereotype). I learned to love risotto though I'm not that fond of rice. I learned to laugh from a part of my gut that had not fully known this kind of giddy, profound happiness. I learned about photography - slowly and extremely experimentally - as I played with the first camera I ever owned. I learned that with that camera, a notebook, and my sense of self, I could be immensely happy anywhere. I learned about neuroscience, aphasia, synesthesia and the most obscure concepts in linguistics. I learned to love life, fiercely, without reservation. I learned that long distance relationships are easy and difficult and tolerable and intolerable. I learned that very different people from all corners of the globe can quickly become best friends. I learned to adjust to closed supermarkets and stores on afternoons and on Sundays. I learned that the Duomo looked different every day and in every light. I learned Italian idioms and vocabulary words that, despite my experience with the language, had alluded me until then. I learned that connections with other souls are sometimes inexplicable, random, touching and infuriating, and that people come in and out of your life for a reason. 

I learned all the different lights of all the different days of all the seasons, and I learned that my heart could feel very, very full. 

I learned that I don't at all hate Milan, and that I could and should and would live there, wholeheartedly. 

For all that Milano brought me and taught me, it is my most precious city (after Venice, of course).

If Milan means something to you, too, you can bring it home on canvas, metal, acrylic, wood or paper "Milano Mio" is featured above on a round aluminum disk, ready to hang.

From my heart to yours.

P.S. I'm writing a book of my travel stories. Hit the subscribe button above or follow me on Instagram to be kept in the know!

One of my favorite aspects about Veni Etiam Photography is that there is SO much to choose from in the collection. My mission is to offer something for everyone - every style, mood, memory or dream. Whether you've been to a place and miss it, or whether it's a dream you're holding onto, I love it when these snapshots of places speak to you in a certain way.

Recently, a customer asked me whether I had more Portugal images than the ones already in my collection. I promised to send her some more options upon my return. This led to a fun exercise of sifting through photographs of Portugal that I had initially overlooked.

I love rediscoveries as much as I love custom requests! They always surprise me and make me nostalgic of places and moments I have loved.
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These Portugal scenes have now been added to my international fine-art collection, and are available both in my shop and on Etsy. 

From my heart to yours!

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Four years ago (already), I lived in a small town, on a quiet vineyard, on the bank of the Adige river, at the foot of the Dolomiti mountains. It was the first time in my life where the coordinates of where I lived depended on nature terms, rather than urban terms. I let myself be slowed down by all that there was to notice around me. I let my rhythm match that of the town, of its locals and its churchbells and their understanding of time. I savoured the food and wine, let the crisp mountain air purify the connection between my head and heart. I watched the seasons change, watched as the scraggly vines that once trembled in the snow became green and full and replete with promise. 

Every so often, I feel nostalgic of that time and place, of that yellow house on the vineyard where my first duty every morning was to open the shutters of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and say good morning to the towering mountains. When I worked from home rather than the office, I'd let my eyes leave my screen and wander out for a moment or two, running over the vines and up to the mountaintops, over the houses and church towers that were stacked along the rows that came in between. 

Every so often, in the hustle of my days and rapid page-turns of my agenda, I crave that daily connection to elements of nature. I crave being anchored to scenery, of feeling its effect on my mood and my perspective. I love my home, yet I am grateful for all the other homes I have temporarily had, here and there - places that have remained part of me. 

From my heart to yours.

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There are some days in life that gain a special status -- days you just know, even while you are still in the midst of living them, will stand out as one of your core memories. Some of these days can be tied to major life milestones, while others can truly take you by surprise.
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Two years ago, I traveled to Italy’s heel – Puglia and its Salento. I took my time discovering the gems of the region – the whitewashed old towns and cliffs lining the seas, fishing villages and beaches that were each worthy of time and attention, the countryside dotted with ancient olive trees, the hills and valleys and conical “Trulli” houses, fresh fish and pasta and conversations with locals that left you longing to stay… Each day was filled to the brim with exhilaration and inspiration, with my senses overloaded, heart overflowing, and stomach in a giddy knot (not to mention full of orecchiette). 

I don’t know if you can relate to this when you travel, but in dreaming up your itinerary, you sometimes find expectations emerging out of thin air about a place or another. There is often a “shining star” on your list – a place you can’t wait to see, a place you’re already somehow convinced you won’t want to leave. Whether this expectation was born out of intuition or out of reading and googling, it can be quite strong, and I think it is amusing how it can be validated or overturned once your feet and passport finally arrive there.
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There were three towns that I was aching to see, and those three towns did steal my heart. But one place – a place that I can only roughly point to on a map, a place that is more between two towns than in a town itself, a place that wasn’t even in that “top three” of mine – unexpectedly filled me with life, dreams, peace and quietude in a way that had me speechless and moved to tears. 

It was a “masseria” – a manor farm – between Ostuni and Fasano. “Masserie” are typical in that region. When you drive along the state road in that stretch of the countryside, you see vast lands of olive trees interspersed with tall gates. Masserie are working farms that are still functional, but whose estates and stables have also been transformed into small restaurants or hotels run by the family who owns the land.

What was special about my time in the masseria was not about tourism, but rather, the exact opposite.  

​When I arrived at the masseria, I experienced the odd contradiction of feeling my senses completely flooded, while as a whole, I became tranquil and slow. The air smelled like earth – dry, hot earth. The sound of thousands of crickets was deafening. Under my feet, the earth crunched and cracked as I walked towards the main gate, small and insignificant next to giant olive trees, whose unmoving silver leaves cast the only spots of shade on the deep red land. They stood in rows, their trunks gnarled and bottling time, their silence almost audible. 

​I checked in and made my way to my refreshingly simple room. It was dark and cool; the shutters and curtains had done a fine job at hiding the room away from the sun’s reach. On the wall, familiar eyes looked back at me – a man in one of the photographs looked eerily similar to my grandfather. I smiled at the idea of feeling like I was in a family home. Through its details, the manor definitely told a beautiful story, but a visitor like me could only grasp a fraction of its history while slowly walking through, my fingers sliding along old books and white lace, my vocabulary falling dramatically short of names of all the iron tools that hung on the walls. Silence reigned over each of the rooms, though it did not dissuade you from going from one to the other. 

​I walked through the green fringe that separated the inside from the outside and sat in the courtyard for a while. A gardener was working. A cat was napping lazily.  Marina came to see whether I wanted a small snack and a drink. We talked for a little while, our voices low against the backdrop of crickets, although there was no one to disturb. “Everyone is out at the sea or the nearby towns,” she said, “at dinner time it will be more lively”. 

​I spent the afternoon with nature. There were different spaces to explore, similar to the rooms in the house. I felt both blessed and envious that there was so much meaning around me – so much I didn’t know. I didn’t know about the olive trees, how long they’d stood there, what this place would be like at harvest time. I only noticed that the trees had names – like people – and that some of them seemed to have a more troubled past than others, their trunk split into two or bent almost to the ground. I didn’t know a thing about the earth – I only noticed that you could almost choke on its scent and that my shoes were dusted with red. I wasn’t sure in which direction the sea was, or whether the crickets would ever fall quiet. But knowing didn’t matter – only noticing and feeling did. I felt like a little girl, traipsing about, occasionally lifting my head to see a gardener’s kind eyes on mine, over a wall or through the trees. 

​Before supper, I met some of the other guests. They told me about their days, in Lecce, in Alberobello, by the sea. While we talked, the tables were being set in the courtyard. The staff worked in the background as though they were mounting a theatre set between two acts.  Before the curtains closed on Day and re-opened on Night, there was a gorgeous dusk to remember forever.

​I saw the old Fiat pull up. A man in a white hat and a jacket stood next to it, chatting, the sun hitting him with the same golden rays as him olive kingdom. I joined the small circle. We all spoke Italian. Armando was about to give us a small tour. We walked around the land that I had explored alone earlier. Armando explained a few things about the earth, the trees, the air, the sea, the house, the family, the oil and the food. And like that, I knew what I hadn’t known earlier. To be honest, what I remember the most was still the feeling - especially when Armando said that this estate came to him and his wife during a time where they were searching for their path in life. “We travelled long and far,” he said with an amused smile at the corner of his lips, “and the treasure we found was in our own backyard”. He told us about their dream, the risks, the challenges and the blessing of that journey. Armando’s passion and commitment to his homeland shone through his storytelling. It was not about tourism, but rather, the exact opposite. It was about home, one’s native land, and roots that go as deep as those of the ancient olive trees.

​When we came back to the courtyard, the light had changed and the stage was set. I peered over one of the tables and saw my last name handwritten on a name card.

And so, ​Gli Olivi di Armando is named after a man who inspired me and his olive trees.

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Bring it home to you on canvas, metal, acrylic, wood or fine-art paper.

​Or try it on our brand new “Full Circle” metal rount-cut.

Venice is moody – in the ebb and flow of her light, her tides, her seasons, her crowds…in that way only she can be resplendent and decaying in the very same moment.

And what I have noticed is that, by listening to her, truly letting her seep into you, Venice makes you moody too.

If you are in tune with Venice, her melancholy is contagious. Before you know it, you are carried into her rhythm and reverie. If you are alone with her, with no one by your side to drown out those sensations with conversations, it is all the more dramatic.

You breathe differently. Your pace changes. Your thoughts come from your heart. You may even feel wrapped in a dreamlike stupor as you walk, and walk, and walk, up bridges, down bridges, pausing, watching, feeling. Your senses are heightened and every slight occurrence has an effect on you, like it is with a person you are deeply infatuated with and feel deeply connected to.
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And what is it? It is beyond reason. It is melancholy. It is nostalgia. It is the effect of the lagoon air. It is special.

I have always preferred to be alone in Venice. It sounds extreme, but I feel as though no one can compare to her company. 

​She pulls you to unknown areas, quiet streets, obscure canals, uncrossed bridges. And you let her. You let her take your arm and pull. 

​And that is how you end up walking through parts of the city you’ve never walked through before – parts of the city you’re unsure to ever find again.

You walk for hours, not speaking for hours. Just looking, listening and feeling Venice’s mood on yours...

"Canarégio" available on canvas, metal, wood, acrylic or fine-art paper. 

Nine years ago, to the day, was the start of my first real travel adventure. Actually, it was my first whole bunch of things: my first time overseas for more than just a vacation, my first experience living independently in my own apartment, the first chapter of my scientific career and, what amuses me most, I was accompanied by my first camera.

Let’s be clear: this camera was my camera - not one I had borrowed from my parents that was the size of my shoe, with a leather case so weather-worn that I felt like an insignificant part of its journey. Not a camera I temporarily used and returned to them as soon as I developed my (many) rolls of film. No, this camera was new, it was digital, it was a gift to me for the start of this new chapter in my life and it was mine to carry around everywhere. The funny thing is that, while I was already passionate about travel nine years ago, I was not in the slightest passionate about photography. I was simply excited about documenting my experiences, and I barely chided myself if my thumb made a guest appearance in some of the photos.
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Nine years ago, to the day, I moved to Milano – a city I had hated during an earlier, brief, admittedly über-touristic visit years before. What I did not expect was to find a home and my wings there. My life in Milano is a whole other story to tell, but what I can surely say is that it was the great beginning of many aspects of my life that define me now. It was the first anchor I dropped, and the first place that I would thereafter return to, again and again.

My silver Kodak was a great travel companion. After the first two weeks alone in a huge city with no other constant in my days, I noticed that I was ever so gradually becoming interested in photography. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing, of course. But I began practicing and experimenting, and eventually did start scolding myself for shots that did not convey what I wanted them to. Scenes began calling to me, making me stop in my tracks, making me wait, making me cross the street, making me come down on my knees, making me look back. It wasn’t about achieving technical perfection; it was about learning to capture what I felt about a place. With my notebook and my camera in my bag everywhere I went, I was at peace with my new surroundings and my newfound independence, in a life where at least one element of each day felt completely foreign and unknown.

Nine years ago, to the day, I took my first photograph of the Duomo in Milano with my trusty Kodak. It was a spontaneous decision to take it in black and white – the spires felt more intricate that way.
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I’ve returned to Milano many times and have always found it impossible to resist snapping another photo of the Duomo, as if it were my way to say hello, I’m back, I’ve missed you. The seasons changed, I changed, my cameras changed. After a while, my Kodak retired. I tucked it into its weather-worn leather case, grateful that I had been a significant part of its journey – as it had been a significant part of mine.  

P.S. Thank you, Facebook, for reminding me of nine years ago today. What would we do without your (sometimes creepy) look-backs?

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