Granola Bars

Last week I was staying in a small, one-room cabana on the beach in Tulum, Mexico. Sand surrounded the cabana so a short path had been dug out to the door. Inside, everything was a warm shade of white: the walls, the wooden bed frame, the sheets and pillowcases, even the mosquito net draped over the bed. A bright green blanket was the only exception.



Each night I fell asleep to the sound of waves crashing on the beach and wind rustling through the palm trees. By morning a pile of sand had collected on the floor, swept under the door by the wind, and I woke up to the chirping of birds and sun pouring in through the window.
Some mornings I ran on the beach. Running barefoot in the wet sand as cool waves licked my feet. Other days I woke up and read on the beach as the sun rose in the sky. When our stomachs began to grumble for breakfast my family walked a little ways down the beach to a rustic Italian restaurant where the menu was painted on to a small board of wood. There were seven options and by the end of the week I had ordered each one: the giant pancakes, sliced and stacked into a tower; the egg in a hole, made with fresh eggs and their homemade bread; the toast, served in a hand carved wooden dish with nutella and jam.

Blood Orange Tart

When we were in Italy this summer we travelled around and got to see beautiful cities like Milan and Florence. But it was Vernazza, one of five small fishing villages that make up Cinque Terre, that was most memorable for me. The main street that runs down the center of Vernazza is lined with small boutiques, restaurants, and gelaterias. The street, made of flat square stones, runs from the top of the village, where a flight of stairs leads up to the train station, down to the pier, where colorful fishing boats are docked and people lay soaking up the sun.

Branching of off the main street are narrow streets with the doorsteps to apartment buildings on either side. The apartments like all other buildings in Vernazza are painted light pastel colors and the windows shaded with deep green shutters. Clothes hang on the clotheslines below the windows and potted flowers sit on windowsills and the doorsteps of ground floor apartments. These apartments exude a warm feeling of home and life.
The apartment we rented was on the second story so when I pushed open the shutters I could look down to see people walking on the main street and look out to see the pier and the Mediterranean.

In the afternoons we read our books while bathing in the sun on the beach or the pier. When the afternoon became hot or the sun, blinding, I set my book down on a rock with my clothes and towel and jumped off the pier into the cool, salty sea. I rested there for a while, floating. Melting into the slow rhythm of the waves.
After a refreshing swim one day, my sister and I strolled up to the main street with a few coins in hand looking for something to eat. The village is the size of a small neighborhood so my dad didn't mind letting us walk by ourselves. We stopped at a pizzeria and exchanged a coin for a piece of focaccia topped with tomato and herbs. We sat down at a table outside and shared the bread while watching passersby.