blouson sleeve bomber

The River Arno ushers down the morning light that illuminates the forecourt of Palazzo Pitti. Its unassuming stacked stone exterior stand over us, arms wide open, inviting us to see what lays behind the walls. Rooms brimmed with drippings of kaleidoscopic wall papers, tumbling pastel curtains, generations of gifted gestures of love and intricate artworks to mark moments in time – each reminding us to never judge a palace by its cover.Here, in Italy, I am vibrant and boundless. No plans, just possibilities. Every wrong turn is a detour in the right direction and every misstep is just more magic waiting to happen.In the backstreets of Rome, I scribble love notes to myself and the world on cobblestones and napkins. I unfurl beneath painted ceilings, flanked by flocks of doting cherubs. In Milan, I dance to street musicians playing my song and play the muse for poets and artists.My hair curls and crinkles fresh out of the Amalfi every morning. I leap from too-high rocks into the endless ocean and charm my way onto the backseat of a stranger’s vespa. From Ravello to Positano, to Capri and to Sorrento. An infinite loop of summer sensations.My Italy, Amore Mio.