I keep thinking I’ve just had my best day here, only to wake up to a day that tops it. A day when then sun is shining and the sky is saturated blue and the clouds are white as cotton balls suspended overhead. A day when everything is so sprightly green despite the fact that we’re well into the winter months, and the warmth of the sun heats your whole body and reminds you of long-gone days of Spring. On this day, I walk through the rows of canopied pathways winding around the gardens, with only the sound of birds chirping in the distance and the crunch of gravel at my feet. The old stone walls, moss covered and etched with centuries of erosion, give off a faintly damp, cool air that I breathe in as I pass through. The sun peeks through the leaves of the shaded rows of cypress trees, like we’re playing a game of hide and seek. The sun-washed stone statues are frozen in their poses, some gazing up at the sky, some smiling at me. The water at L’Isolotto is still, save for a few ducks paddling their way through. I stop at a water fountain to fill up my bottle, the cool water running down the length of my hand and dribbling down my wrist.

I find a bench along the edge of the fountain in the sun and take out the sandwich I made for myself, taking an unapologetically big bite. I savor the salty crunch of the schiacciata, the perfectly tender, paper-thin slices of prosciutto, the briny kick of the olive tapenade, the bite of the arugula, the juiciness of the tomatoes, the slight tang of the pecorino. I take a swig of my water, cold and pure and refreshing.

It’s one of those rare winter days when you don’t even need a coat, not when you’re sitting directly in the sun. I tilt my face back and close my eyes, letting the sunlight wash over me like a baptism, not worrying what I might look like or who might be watching. I open my eyes and look down at my lap, my black jeans littered with flaky remnants of my sandwich. A crane comes swooping in from the tops the the trees, escorted by a flock of pointy-tailed birds, squalking as if to announce his arrival.

Coming back time and time again gets easier. I feel settled more easily, and more quickly. I feel like I can pick up just about where I left off. Leaving, as it turns out, does not get any easier. I always feel like I’m preparing myself to tear away from something fantastic, like forcing yourself to put down a book just when it’s getting good or getting interrupted at the climax of a film.

But then, I think what a great relief it is to no longer be plagued by the worry that I may not remember this moment, exactly as it is. I know enough now to trust that I’ll remember it all, vivid as it is in this living moment, and I’ll feel light and whimsical like I’m halfway in a dream.