am one of those suckers who believes the postcards. I see the commercials on television, with the dazzling shots of deserted castles and empty, winding beaches, and I really do believe the only thing separating me from that nirvana is a plane ticket and a Rough Guide. Years ago, when I arrived at Macchu Picchu after a three-day hike, I was stunned and horrified to discover I was sharing my first sunrise there with five hundred other grubby backpackers. Where did these people come from? Was it possible to push them over the cliff? It’s always a little disappointing and embarrassing to bump up against these expectations, because they are so childish and naïve. It’s like thinking you are the only person in the world who loves Michael Jackson. Though maybe, these days, you are.

Venice and Florence were packed. There was always a crush of people, a long line to wait in, a throng of tourists to navigate. It was lovely; don't get me wrong. But We were always getting lost, getting separated, getting bumped from one side or the other. Scusa, scusa. Now, I am by myself for the first time since I arrived, taking a train from Florence to Rome, along a rolling countryside dotted with dilapidated cottages and pockets of forest. A few sprays of bright yellow flowers. A river. The occasional vineyard. This is the only place in Italy that looks like the postcard promised. It’s empty out there. It’s like no one is home. And what do you know? The train just broke down. So I guess I get to enjoy it for a while.