Let’s put some things on the table right now.

Yes, I spent almost three weeks in Europe.

Yes, this was very unlike me to blaze ahead in the midst of family chaos (aka The Move) and just make selfish choices.

And yes, this trip might very well have saved me.

Cinque Terre is not to be believed. Nothing this precious could possibly exist. I did not see cliff sides terraced with Italian gardens like green risers for angels to perch upon and sing. I could not possibly have heard opera’s melodic wailing bouncing across limestone faces, floating up into a piercing blue sky.

“Oh! Do you guys watch that show,” NY child psychiatrist said.

“Watch it? She has it memorized,” I laughed pointing at Jen.

“You’re so cool,” squealed the doctor.

And this was the moment the evening turned from Strangers in a Cooking Class to Generational Social Experiment of Americans in a Foreign Country.

Whether we know it or not, we absorb every place we travel (actually every place where we take up space) through the vibration of light and sound. Eighteen years ago I sat in Rome with a very jet lagged baby, past exhausted and ready to lose it, when the sun pushed out behind some rain clouds. If I had a spoon that could scoop light, I would have eaten past full.

This trip for me is about coming back to me. For the last month, I have been living in a city that I knew before I was a wife or a mother. We both have changed; new areas of growth, scars deposited by life and time. Gluten, dairy, wine, nights that last into the wee hours… all the things that I have avoided to maintain a balance, a composure. Control. It’s time for me to let Italy take the wheel for a while. Time to let go.

Our life in Southern California was lived in a spectacular bubble. Every day we woke up the sun was shining. Waves peeled along miles of pristine beaches, lined with stately homes positioned to view pods of dolphins and gasp worthy sunsets.

The bravest act I’ve ever witnessed was at a gas station off a highway in the middle of nowhere California.

In about two weeks, the Home and Garden Television Network will be calling to tell me I’ve won their Dream House Sweepstakes and the people of Warren, VT are waiting with open arms.

You know how when you travel somewhere you are constantly sizing up the people, trying to figure out if you could live there? Or at the very least, if you were suddenly struck with a burst appendix, would the locals rush to your side and comfort you or step over you and continue on down the sidewalk?

After 15.5 hours in a car eating nothing but soy crackers and grapes, you can imagine how excited I was to find out Boise is the farm-to-table mecca in the Pacific Northwest. Really sad I didn’t pack elastic waistband pants.

I try to be gluten, dairy, sugar and most alcohols free. If I’m not, my body beats the crap out of me. But sometimes the beating is worth it. So when the waitress at Marcus Samuelsson’s Red Rooster Harlem asked us if there were any food restrictions, I sweetly looked up into her face and said, “Nope. Not here.”