Ever since I learned to draw flowers in the Pyrenees, I’ve wanted to try my hand at teaching writing as a travel experience. Because one thing I’ve learned after writing as many books set in Italy as I have, penning travel experiences leads to deeper travel experiences. I wanted to teach others how to still their mind, reach for instinct, shed anxiety, and open themselves up to place.

Lucky for me, I’ve known two of the co-owners of Ciao Andiamo, a boutique travel company, for years. Cristiana is from Spello and she and Max have a popular rental apartment there. Our paths crossed years ago and we’ve become closer as we’ve toured a frantoio, tasted Sagrantino at Scacciadiavoli and Romanelli wineries in Montefalco, and now we are the proud owners of Max’s father’s Fiat Punto. With the outings, I knew that Max and Cristiana shared my travel sensibility of honoring authentic experiences. With the transfer of a car, I knew them to be careful and patient humans who can make even dull activities, like signing over a title, a fun adventure.

So you can imagine my pleasure when Ciao Andiamo took a chance on my idea. With Jonathan, the other co-owner (based in NYC), we conceptualized a focus of Travel Write to Travel Right. Over a Zoom call, the team and I decided to base the trip in Liguria, whose dramatic landscape would offer us plenty of scope for imagination.

mountains and sea in cinque terre, liguria

Now, when I told people I was leading a tour of Liguria, I hastened to add that I can’t guide my way out of a paper bag. I left the travel organization to the good people at Ciao Andiamo and put our group in Max’s capable hands. As a native son of Liguria, I knew he’d lead us into the heart of the region.

Even now, I find it a preposterous gift that my singular role in this whole venture was teaching the fundamentals of travel writing.

Travel writing is much like any good writing, only with the explicit goal of transporting the reader—even if that reader is you, years from now. Which is why I used travel journaling as a vehicle. It’s how I got my own start, in that my writing career began when I started blogging about my year in Umbria with my husband, three school-age children, and two cats who had a propensity to get lost over Italian rooftops. After publishing that memoir, I’ve moved on to fiction, but my travel blog is still a vibrant part of my process. I sink into writing these posts like a warm bath. Travel journaling is home, I just make that journal public. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but for those with a strong stomach, it allows for the accountability that can override the challenges of beginning.

In any case, I created a curriculum to teach those fundamentals, and arranged with Ciao Andiamo that our breakfast hour each day would be free for the day’s lesson. Participants would use the days’ travel as content for a journal entry, which they’d submit to me each evening. For instance, day one focused on quieting the onslaught of thought to tune into the senses and then translating those sensory experiences onto a page. Each evening, I planned to edit their entries with an eye towards underscoring the day’s intention, but also teaching other aspects of good writing—pacing, tone, sentence variation, etc.

I left the entirety of the trip specifics to Ciao Andiamo, though I did insist the week include plenty of food-related experiences. I intoned the importance of writing about senses. The truth is I love food. Not a surprise, I know, to anyone with even a passing knowledge of me. People have all sorts of lenses through which they admire the arc of human history (art, governance, industry), and mine is food. In other words, to me there is no better way to understand a people than to understand the history of their food.

The execs at Ciao Andiamo nodded. And then delivered in spades. Let me walk you through our days. And you tell me if you think this trip was like no other, because it certainly seemed like it to me. I had no idea how powerful it would be to nerd out with like-minded people about travel writing, how language impacts perception, and the power of words words WORDS to define an experience.

Day One of Travel Writing Tour

The tour began with collecting us all in Milan and delivering us to Torrone della Colombara in the Vercelli area of Piemonte. If you watched Stanley Tucci’s “Searching for Italy”, you know Vercelli is famed for growing rice used to make risotto. Tucci visited a restaurant, but he really should have gone to Torrone della Colombara, as it’s one of the few farms where every step of production happens on site. In fact, the visit began in the blue-toned cow room, where historically cows munched hay grown on the farm, in order to gather their manure to fertilize the crops. I loved learning about the families that lived on the farm (especially picturing the kids in the little school room) and the seasonal women workers who wound up kick starting social change in Italy.

A risotto lunch underscored the care put into growing (and aging! Did you know that really good rice is aged to amend the starches for a saucy-yet-toothy risotto?). With each bite, I felt the work and creativity that defined this region for generations. Talk about delighting in the expression of a landscape.

Plus, it was quite simply the best risotto I’ve ever ever EVER had.

What a meaningful entry into our travel journaling trip to Italy. I could hardly wait for the content ahead.

Day Two of Travel Writing Tour

A series of revelations marked my first day in Genova, a city that boats the largest medieval center of any European city and also is home to the American Express office where I blew through to pick up mail when I backpacked through Europe (you’re more likely to find the former fact in travel brochures).

Revelation 1: All first days in all places should begin with a tour. Why have I never realized this before? Rather than spinning like a mad top, wondering if I’ve crossed this street before, my understanding gained ground with every passing moment.

Revelation 2: Our city guide, Loredana, said: “Genova reveals her secrets slowly.” I savored that sentence (I was not alone in the savoring, with all of our antennae attuned for the impact of language, this phrase worked its way into more than my journal entry) as I noticed how the buildings of Genova appear weather-beaten and worn, marred by graffiti. But peek inside and it’s like someone broke a kaleidoscope over the altar.

There’s a reason that Genova is (arguably—etymology always require an argument) named after Janus of two faces: one toward the mountains and one toward the sea.

Genova overflows with contrasts.

The sound of a woman singing opera arching above cobblestones worn by generations of footfalls. A department store with a statue, David-like in triumph, a holdover from the palazzo that once stood in this spot. A striped church, like something out of Dr. Seuss, built atop commerce.

Revelation 3: Genova is human-scaled. Wander any crooked alley at night and you’ll find a fish market, a butcher shop, and a fruttivendolo pushing back the darkness. I didn’t find any restaurants down these caruggi, but each little alley had its own trifecta of what to make for dinner.

The humanity of Genova came alive in the cathedrals. Genova may be the only place in Italy I’ve seen lit confessionals. As congregant communed with priest, light cast a glow across the steadfast marble.

Am I hitting you over the head with the contrast of light and dark? I sure hope so.

Revelation 4: Genova smells like bubbling broth and motor exhaust, like sea water evaporating on stones, like bread freeing itself from the confines of a tin. Apropos of nothing perhaps, but this was the day our writing lessons began with a discussion of senses. I instinctively pay attention to my senses, but never more so than when I’m instructing others. How marvelous to have a reason to pause and breathe and experience fully.

Revelation five: Italian food is deeply regional and Genova is a teacher. Especially the market, which I never would have found without our guide. In fact, I went back later looking for it, and it seemed to have vanished, like a video game mirage.

Showcasing again what Max explained on our drive into Genoa—the city can look simple on the outside, but when you open a door, you reveal a world. Okay, those are my words, however the idea came from Max. Who frankly said it better…so many times during our travel journaling course we had to pause and give Max gold stars. English might not be his first language, but perhaps that makes him even more intentional, when he says things like “let’s grab this bite of sun while we can.”

Anyway…the market! It’s in a former monastery, so you shop in the halls framing the courtyard. I mean. That’s just awesome. Plus, when you walk in, it smells like an unseen hand opened a spice drawer.

One of my favorite things to do in a market is check out the prepared foods to get an idea of what locals crave. Here I found ponsotti, the filled pasta with wild greens often napped in hazelnut sauce. Isn’t it amazing that in Italy, each region has their own claim to filled-pasta fame?

In the afternoon, we headed to Bocadasse, a part of Genova that perfectly exemplifies its contrasts.

Boccadasse is a tiny fishing village WITHIN the city of Genova. When I say within, I mean literally within. Like, you park on the city streets, walk along admiring the pretty buildings, aim your footsteps down down a sudden alley, and poof! You arrive in a village of colorful homes and green shutters, water rustling at her rocky shore.

Kind of like walking through Chicago and stumbling on a wee Cinque Terre.

Sitting on a curb lining the sea, I licked my hazelnut gelato in perfect contentment—listening to the call of sea gulls and the click of stones moving with the tide. I watched a child play with a soccer ball on the sidewalk and a woman nursing her baby as she gazed out at the murmuring waves. I couldn’t snap a photo of the latter of course, any more than I could photograph the lit confessionals earlier that morning. Which became a wonderful teaching moment for my participants about how travel journaling can serve to document experiences that one cannot—for reasons of propriety or practicality—photograph.

Honestly, if I’d seen the TripAdvisor listing for Boccadasse I probably would have skipped it. Who cares about a nice little inlet? So I’m glad that Max, with his intricate knowledge of the area, thought to add Boccadasse to our itinerary.

I went to sleep at night abuzz with how much Genova had already taught not only myself, but my students whose journal entries snapped and sang with admiration for this undervalued Italian city.

Day Three of Travel Writing Tour

I always thought of focaccia as one thing—a doughy, flat bread, full of dimples. Liguria surprised me. Because, yes, I found what I expected (though leveled up with fruity Ligurian olive oil), but I found varieties. Did you know there’s a sweet focaccia? Almost twice as puffy as regular and covered with a fall of sugar. With that Ligurian olive oil, it reminded me of a doughnut. Fabulous!

But the biggest focaccia revelation didn’t even resemble focaccia—focaccia al formaggio.

I had it three times on our tour. The first at a sciamadda—a small Ligurian eatery with a wood-fired oven at its architectural and spiritual center—Max picked out for our first lunch in Genova. He offered to order several dishes for us to share so we could sample a wide array. Who doesn’t love a tasting table?

At that sciamadda, I fell in love with farinata, a wood-fired chickpea flatbread that I’ve had before but NEVER LIKE THIS. I couldn’t get myself off it, and probably veered into rudeness, elbowing myself in for seconds. So I didn’t pay attention to the focaccia al formaggio aside from noting its resemblance to a quesadilla—two layers of thin, yeast-less dough sandwiching melty cheese.

Then I had focaccia al formaggio at our cooking class and spent more than a little time kicking myself for not paying more attention to it the day before. It’s a testament to this cheesy wonder that I preferred it baked than fried.

Let me pause for a moment and talk about the cooking class, because in my opinion, a cooking class is the very best souvenir. There is no better way to remember your cherished travels than by recreating the flavor of those travels at home.

Max found us a delightful cooking school, a real combination of modern (all fancy equipment) with old (as you’ll see in the mortar and pestle I used to pound pesto). How perfect in a city FULL of contrasts.

We learned to make pesto, torta pasqualina (I thought I didn’t care for the greens filled pie, but it turns out I hadn’t had a good version), and gnocchi. I’ve made both pesto and gnocchi many times before, but the class upped my pesto and gnocchi game. I have a ridged paddle for rolling gnocchi but I had been using it all wrong!

The class ended, as all good cooking classes should, with a feast. And me secreting away another slice of focaccia al formaggio.

That afternoon, Max made an appointment to check out a winery in Genova, and invited us to tag along for a tasting and introduction to Ligurian wine culture. I was putting on my shoes before he finished the invitation.

The observant among you will notice that I enjoyed focaccia al formaggio three times during the week-long tour and I’ve only mentioned two. You’re not wrong. But the third time was the following day. The fourth day, the day the rain began.

Day Four of Travel Writing tour

The rain began.

It began days ago, to be fair. But that was an ordinary rain. The kind that prompts travelers to wish for blue skies. A petulant rain.

That petulant rain turned churlish over breakfast, as I discussed with my intrepid group of travel journalers how to use language to surprise a reader. I walked them through my technique for finding punchy verbs that summon feeling. As we rose from the table, I could see their gears turning.

Tonight’s homework would make for interesting reading.

I had no idea.

Even though we’d had it twice, Max declared we must enjoy focaccia al formaggio in Recco, its birthplace and a town luckily on the way to Sestri Levante, our next base. En route, we noticed sunlight on Camogli and impulsively decided to make an unscheduled stop. Camogli, as one of Max’s favorite Ligurian places, was on our docket later, but who knew how long the sunshine would hold? (Spoiler alert: Not long).

Camogli. Dear Camogli.

One notable feature of this little jewel-box of a seaside village is the trompe l’oeil. I noticed this way of painting buildings to appear to have more architectural flounce than they do in Genova. Our guide had explained that trompe l’oeil is common throughout Liguria to make simple buildings more elegant. Turns out Ligurians also used painted windows to avoid the window tax, as you could get all the glory of looking like you had an extra window without paying for it.

What amusement! Is that building really built of big stones, or is it an illusion? Is that really sculptural trim around the doorway, or a mirage?

In the middle of this game of architectural peek-a-boo, the clouds cracked open and the rain, once petulant, then churlish, lost its temper. We dodged our way back to the van, arriving to Recco drenched and immediately gleeful at the cozy tables, the smell of wood smoke, and the crisp Ligurian wine. Max ordered three kinds of focaccia al formaggio (along with a few local pastas because, again, a table with Max is a tasting table).

Here’s the video of Max explaining the flavors we sampled which will also give you an idea of how Max kept us in perpetual stitches.

Max of Ciao Andiamo guides us through the kinds of focaccia al formaggio

So many stitches, we didn’t notice the sky above clotting harder.

We gathered ourselves to leave for Sestri Levante, but stalled at a man frantically and fruitlessly sweeping water from the entrance. Not wanting to wade through the water, we elected to wait for the rain to slow enough for the sweeper to get on top of the overlfow.

After ten minutes, Max announced, “The river will flood. We need to get out of here.” These seemed alarmist, but Max is from the area. He knows.

Oh, he knows.

I watched him tie garbage bags around his legs to wade to the van. Our group dashed to meet him in the less flooded front, me huddling deeper into my sweater-now-sponge.

We slammed the doors, laughing at the ridiculousness of the rain. “Biblical!’ we cried. Before experimenting with language. I was about to offer up “assault”—

Then I saw the river and the word died on my lips.

Max: “Michelle. Get your phone. Take a video. Now.”

And so I did.

And here you go (though if you can watch it on Instagram so much the better, as the music adds to the effect).

Watch as stairs became waterfalls. Walls sprung leaks as if they were holding back water rather than earth. Rivers resembled a crashing sea, foaming against bridges.

The sturdy van and Max’s capable handling got us safely to Sestri Levante. And as we accepted the hotel’s offer of a welcome drink and raised a glass to Max’s fortitude, I told my crew, “Remember how I told you, when you write about travels, the challenging bits become content? Congratulations. You have content.”

I got some pretty captivating journal entries that night.

Day Five of Travel Writing tour

The rain caused flooding and damage all over Europe. Wave after wave of storms. We had to scrap our boat trip to the island convent because rivers had poured so much debris into the Mediterranean, the sea had become a stew of hazards. I was so proud of my intrepid group, they waved off the disappointment with great cheer.

Maybe they were just relieved to be on terra firma after yesterday’s drama. I know I was.

So imagine our surprise when, in the middle of reading our harrowing storm stories, we found the clouds thinning, disappearing, leaving a crystalline blue sky. Like an apology from the heavens for yesterday’s tantrum.

Sure it couldn’t last, we hopped into the van to Cinque Terre. When I imagined group tours, I always thought they were locked in, no room for flexibility. I didn’t know that small group tours like Ciao Andiamo’s had so much room for pivoting when capricious weather took the reins.

En route to Monterosso, taking a road known only to locals, Max pointed out other villages along the sea. I watched merry groups of backpackers step onto a trail and realized that Cinque Terre does not, in fact, have a monopoly on colorful villages connected by footpaths. I definitely want to explore these and took copious notes on Max’s thoughts about each town. I loved how the towns felt real, livable, relatively devoid of tourists.

All the tourists, as it happens, were in Cinque Terre. Yesterday’s rain must have rescheduled plans as I saw double the number of tourists I would have expected on an October day. Even a gloriously clear one like ours.

Once back to the hotel and before meeting up for another fabulous Ligurian meal, I went to the hotel bar for a glass of Franciacorta. I sipped my bubbly and pretended to read but really just watched the sky change over Sestri Levante and contemplated this idea of calm following storm.

Day Six of Travel Writing tour

We began the day with a lesson on conveying emotion and vulnerability in writing. Heady business! While my participants mulled that in their room or while exploring, I took a ramble through Sestri Levante.

Sestri Levante.

Oh, this town now holds my heart. No wonder Ciao Andiamo made sure we spent a few days here.

Sherbet colored buildings, a welcoming beach (especially as the storm subsided and the water regained its blueness), and excellent food.

Meal highlights over the three days in Sestri Levante:

-pasta with shellfish in parchment, which somehow steamed the flavor into the pasta? I don’t know, call it alchemy.

-risotto with porcini and shrimp, a wonderful marrying of the land and sea that exemplifies the region

-octopus and potato salad, see above—same marriage, same happy union

-carbonara with bonito flakes. Max warned us about reading the Italian too loudly as it doubles as a rude word. I scanned the menu, saw Katsuobushi and burst out laughing. If you don’t know, I’m not telling. I will be responsible for no one learning Italian swear words. In that way, I am just like the main character in my cozy mystery series. I flush pearlescent in the face of bad language. At least the thought of myself uttering them, I weirdly enjoy the swearing of others.

Besides food though, the town has this worn, beach town vibe like it’s comfortable in itself and isn’t looking for approval. The market is a simple small town market, no extra effort to please tourists. I bought a bunch of grapes and a bag of mandarini and enjoyed bantering with the seller.

I especially love the spit of land that juts out into the bay, so you have the marina on one side, with the wide beach, and families playing in the water on the other, embraced by oranges and yellows.

That final day, I enjoyed lunch on my balcony—a sandwich made with focaccia followed by sweet foccacia and grapes from the market. I wiped my hands of the sugar and popped in to see each of my participants for their one-on-one session, bringing them grapes and mandarini. This wasn’t part of my planned curriculum, but I realized early on that it’s impossible to take off my therapist hat. I can’t be in a group of people without connecting the dots between their personality and their writing style, without tuning in to see what they need, to work to make it happen together. And during our morning lesson on emotion, I intuited that they would benefit from individual time to talk about how to get their emotional journeys onto the page. As ever, I feel privileged to receive people’s stories. I carried them with me as we jumped into the van for our final Ligurian jaunt, this time to Portofino.

Portofino.

From Sestri Levante the cradle of the Ligurian Sea stretches to Portofino. Visiting Genova, Camogli, Recco, Sestri Levante, and Cinque Terre gave a real sense of the coastline, Portofino was our last destination, the final pearl on the string.

Long a playground of the rich and famous, Portofino feels different than other “discovered” treasures, I think because it was discovered by Italy’s own glitterati and thus has some of that fairy dust, rather than being shaped by wave after wave of foreign tourism.

Even through the miasma of more rain, I sensed Portofino’s charm—the soul of a fishing village with a colorful harbor lined with pastel houses, clear turquoise water cradling floating yachts rather than fishing boats, a winking nod to Portofino’s luxury status.

Since we’d talked about orzo on the drive (our drives were full of fascinating conversation, thanks to Max’s years of guiding tours), I ordered a cup of the caffeine-free coffee alternative made from roasted barley. Pretty good, actually! And according to Angelo—my Italian teacher who fills all my books in some form but especially my memoir—orzo is excellent for digestion.

I mention that because it seems very important to Italians. Not excluding Angelo.

In any case, sipping my humble orzo in a swanky cafe as rain drip drip dripped down, I felt Portofino’s mix of elegance and coastal charm rounded out my Ligurian experience.

Just in time to say arriverderci to the region tomorrow…

Day Seven of Travel Writing Tour

Our last day dawned. After a final stunning breakfast with cheeses and meats and a chocolate-hazelnut spread that Max insists is better than Nutella—and could be, I needed three more pots, or four or ten, to decide—we piled into the van for the last time.

The miles flew under our tires as we sped through Liguria to a winery in Piedmont’s Novi Ligure.

Now, Piemonte is known for its red wine. Some estimates put reds as 90% of the region’s wine production. I happen to know this is factually true because I once stood on a hill in the Langhe area and felt perched on the mast of a ship, the sea stretching to the horizon undulating with grapevines for Barbera, Nebbiolo, and the like.

But there is one small area of Piemonte that grows white wine. Our vintner explained that his family lived in Genova for generations and came to these hills as a summer getaway. Being from Liguria, they wanted white wine, rather than the omnipresent red, and so they, like many in this little patch of Piemonte, planted grapes for white wine.

Having just come from Liguria, I GOT IT. I’ve always been a red wine girl, but Liguria had some head-turning whites that made me feel a little flirty. I think I may have myself a little fling with white wine.

I loved the forests edging the vineyards, which made the vines part of the landscape not articulating the whole of it. I imagined the grapes, silently witnessing the wildness of owls, swooping by moonlight.

The Gavi wine, oh so beautiful, with a bit of that wildness to it.

I’ve never actually ordered wine shipped home before and cannot wait for my box to arrive.

If only it came with the selection of beautiful local salumi we had with the first bottle, or the selection of local cheeses we had with the second bottle, or the baked pasta we had with the third bottle (this one with bubbles!). And if only it came with the mingled laughter and regret that this heckuva trip had come to a close.

Closing thoughts about writing and traveling in Liguria

Kudos to Max and the Ciao Andiamo team for this fitting end to our deep dive into Liguria. I am still bowled over with gratitude that they gave me the reins to do this experiment in roving travel-writing-training. I’ve taught writing before, I’ve traveled before, but never both at the same time. I gotta say, I loved it.

I particularly loved knowing that with Max at the wheel, I had the freedom to, at any time, turn in my seat to spur conversation on the power of words. Plus, being along for the travel ride gave me the opportunity to try out a Ciao Andiamo tour so I can now recommend them unreservedly.

As my first time doing this, I assumed my participants would find the writing a nice side-note to the real star—travel. But the feedback was unequivocal—they wanted more writing.

You an imagine my humbled surprise to learn my participants so valued the writing training!

Another surprise? How invested I became in my that writing. I wound up offering them extra writing coaching sessions after tour’s end, designed around their particular goals. I want them to succeed.

An unexpected note in a trip defined by unexpected notes—the contrasts of Genova, the discovery of focaccia al formaggio, the power of a storm, the softness of a Ligurian breeze, echoed in that rounded olive oil.

This trip differed from any other trip I’ve ever taken. Partly because I didn’t have to worry about details—I had Max calling ahead to restaurants to change a reservation to accommodate a sudden stop in Camogli—but mostly because training people to travel with a lens of a writer made me realize, in a powerful way, how much the process of writing matters to me. In my travels, in my connections, in my life. It makes me who I am and I like to think that this training integrated writing into my participants sense of who they are, too.

So if we do it again, we’ll have longer morning lessons that can get into a bit more depth, and also set aside dedicated writing time in the afternoon. My participants tell me this would be a perfect balance. I’ve been talking to Max and Cristiana about destinations where we can have one base with worthy spots to visit in easy striking distance, so that we can have a lesson, go for an experience, go back and write about it during our daily pausa, and then meet back up in the evening for dinner and discourse.

We’re thinking perhaps southern Italy next time, as the October weather will be less aggressive. October is my very favorite month to visit Italy, but while the weather provided some great writing exercises, we wouldn’t mind a bit more predictability.

Ciao Andiamo offered me this chance to travel completely differently and you can bet I will leap at the chance to do it again.

How about you—are you in?

Please share your thoughts about Liguria, travel writing, guided tours, or anything at all in the comment section!

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