September 16-October 15, 2025
It’s Italy time. PRONTI, PARTENZA, VIA!
My friend (Olga) told me something along the lines that while Greece is drinking a little glass of red wine beneath an olive tree under the full moon and listening to the bouzouki, Italy is like eating pistachio gelato, in a town square, under an orange tree in the golden sunlight. And I think she’s got it pretty right.
My first stop was on a little farm in the Puglia region (the heel of Italy). I chose Puglia basically because I liked the name. Puglia. And this would be my very first workaway experience. Which, if you don’t know, is a platform where you can pretty much work anywhere in the world in return for accommodation and food. I’ve been wanting to do it for years, so I was very excited (a bit nervous) to finally do it. If you ever want to do this (it can be pretty amazing), make sure you’re smart about it. Especially as a solo wee lass. Look for reviews, video call before going, possibly don’t go where it’ll only be you and the workaway host (especially if it’s a man). You know the drill! Trust your intuition, be cautious, not afraid.
I took a night ferry from Greece to Italy, which was a good experience by my standards (questionable standards). I rolled out my very comfortable paper-thin towel and made a bed for myself in a random corner of the ship. Who needs to buy a room and a bed when there are free corners to sleep in?? The ground was hard, the AC was blasting, and I was using a book covered in a sweater as my pillow. And yet, I managed to sleep (off and on) for a good 6-7 hours. When I woke up, the sky was neon pink. I ordered a Greek coffee and watched the sunrise on the deck, nibbling away at the dried figs Olga had given me as a parting gift.
The instructions to get to this place were very funny. One example for you: “Once you order your ticket in the tobacco shop and get on the bus that leaves at 2 pm exactly (don’t miss it!!), make sure you ask the driver to drop you off at Contrada Galante, which is an informal stop, so make sure you remind the driver at least three times!!”
Once I got off the night ferry, the first woman I talked to at the bus stop was a Spanish woman whose job is to get people specific visas to live and work in places. Was this a sign? Hehe. I then took a bus to the city, then a train. I was feeling quite tired and stressed about getting to this place, a little isolated and intimidated by being so suddenly in a new country with a new language. I was sitting on the train when the girl sitting across from me, who looked to be about my age, made eye contact with me, and gave me a small smile. At her stop, she smiled again and said, “Ciao,” to me. Something eased in my chest. It would be ok, I could do this.
I took another bus to another city, and then finally made it to my final bus stop. (Tip: always buy your bus tickets in tobacco shops, they’re cheaper, and if you don’t, the bus driver may look at you with hatred burning in their eyes). On this last bus towards my destination, I met an older man who was an architect from Toronto. We were the only people on the bus, and he started talking about the housing crisis in Canada as we drove further away from the city and further into windy, small roads through fields. At one point, he looked at me very seriously and told me not to buy a house right now. Thank you, sir, but does it look like I’m thinking of buying a house? (picture me: big backpack, wearing the same clothes I slept in, dark circles). He also told me, “Young people have no idea the future they’re going to have to deal with. I’m glad I’m not your age!” I sat there and nodded away, eyeing the bus driver, worried she would miss my stop.
Thankfully, she did not forget even though I only reminded her once. I said goodbye to Peter, the old, anxious architect, and then I was off! I found myself beside a closed cafe on the side of the road and began following my workaway host’s instructions. I felt like I was in a movie, “Clueless Canadian girl heads to the Italian countryside with no money and no plans”.
I had no address, so I was going off a PDF picture he had sent me of his house on Google Maps. Suddenly, the road was far away, and I was walking through olive trees and past cobbled walls. Was I in a southern Italian dream? Shouldn’t Timothee Chalamet be riding by me on a bike?? I was sure I was lost. But lo and behold, I found it! I walked down a long driveway and greeted my new workaway host, Milo, and the two other workaway girls who were there, Sarah from New Zealand and Indie from Australia.
It was a beautiful property. Milo had grown up in the Puglia region and in 2020 had decided to move away from the city and back to his home region to start his dream farm. We were staying in a trullo, which is a traditional Apulian dry stone hut with the iconic conical roofs. He grows all his own food. Eggplants, zucchini, tomatoes, lettuce, herbs, potatoes, peppers, cabbage, etc, and makes his own bread, jams, yogurt, wine, olive oil. Basically, everything is homemade. I would work for 5 hours (gardening, building a chicken coop, de-heading sardines, pickling eggplant, name something, and I was doing it). It felt nice to have some structure to my days again. Waking up with the roosters, working with my body, my hands in soil. Milo was very particular about how things were done/ how he liked things. For instance, I accidentally used the chopping board meant for bread to mince garlic and olives… He covered his mouth in disbelief at this fatal error, “MADONNA!!” he exclaimed (his favourite word). I didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not. I think he was serious, but in an Italian way, if that makes sense. After work, I would go on long walks. Oh, the glow of southern Italy! Olive trees upon olive trees. Did you know that in golden hour, when the sun is setting and shines through an olive tree, each almond-shaped leaf sparkles, like hundreds of golden embers.
I would say the overall highlight of being here was the food. He loved to cook, and we would all spend hours in the kitchen every night making dinner and listening to music. A rustic version of Ratatouille, Melanzane a Scapece (charred thin slices of eggplant layered with olive oil, vinegar, garlic, and mint), Spaghetti all’Assassina (tomato puree, onion, chili peppers, anchovies, bread crumps), Mint Pasta, Sage Pasta, Puccia (round dough baked in a pizza oven, it inflates, and then you literally punch it to crack and deflate the top, then fill with grilled vegetables, tomatoes, cheese, etc…), and my favourite, the simple and traditional Friselle (homemade double baked bagels that you later soak in water, add tomato, salt, oregano and olive oil). And these were just a few! Every night, we would have at least two courses, sometimes three if dessert was involved. I ate… so much. It was heaven for those of us who love to cook and who love to eat. And I got to learn some secrets of the Italian kitchen! (Hint, it’s olive oil, olive oil, and yes, olive oil).
My time on the farm ended a little strangely and stressfully and I found myself leaving earlier than I had intended. It’s not all creamy pasta and rolling fields. It was a Sunday and there were no buses, so I went to the only open store within 5 km, a lovely little cafe. I asked the barista if it was safe to hitchhike. After asking where I wanted to go, he said to sit down, buy a coffee, and he would find a ride for me. So I guess that’s a no… But, 5 minutes later, I was in a car with an older Italian man and his grandson, on my way to Ostuni (don’t you love that name too?).
This was an interesting little clump of days. Some more plans had fallen through, and I was still walletless and alone. The realization that I had nowhere to go next and that I knew no one in this country overwhelmed me. Nothing like a mini crisis in a foreign country to keep us humble. I remember calling my dad and saying, “Well, I can definitely feel myself growing.” I wondered for a moment if I should just go home. But only for a moment. I got an email from my cousin telling me that a couple he had worked for last year in Sardinia would love to welcome me even though it was last minute.
And so I was off to the beautiful island of Sardinia! But first, of course, a day in Rome. I got on a bus with not enough cash, and since the next one was in 4 hours, I opted to get on anyway and pretend to look in my bag for money that wasn’t there. I could see the driver sneaking glances at me as I thought of what to do, and I was really starting to get a bit stressed that he would kick me out. I couldn’t pretend to look for the next hour could I? And then a voice calls over, “I can give you cash, and you just paypal me?” It was a lady sitting a couple of seats away. “Really?!” I responded excitedly. I asked her how she knew I didn’t have any. She laughed, “How long were you thinking of looking in your bag for?”
Well I made it! My night train arrived at 7 am. I put my stuff in a storage locker, and I was off to see the eternal city! Rome, Rome, Rome.
I felt giddy and light without a backpack, and I skipped the streets in the early morning light. The weather was sunny but not hot, a crisp fall edge was in the air. Apparently, when we came here when I was six, I got lost for about 10 minutes. My parents thought I was gone forever. But no, I was found, completely unaware that I was “lost”, just looking at all the pretty things. And I don’t blame little robin for wandering off, because Rome is a spectacle to behold. While Athens has this very ancient, philosophical, white tone, crumbling stone vibe, Rome has this palpable edge and deep vibrancy. It’s the epitome of what human craftsmanship can achieve. A living museum. The grandeur of a human empire. Around every corner is something that has you halting in your tracks, just gobsmacked. Metal horse monuments, chiselled marble statues, a church entrance decorated with the most insane details etched into every single inch. And this isn’t even mentioning the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the Pantheon, St. Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican Museums, and the Trevi Fountain. And Rome knows it’s magnificent. There’s also a slightly more subtle side. One of hidden bookshops and pizza joints and tones of yellow and red.
I walked for 8 hours (35,000 steps), a barista said I looked nice, I spent the last morsels of my cash on postcards and film over dinner (if you receive a postcard of mine, know that it took sacrifice). I wandered around just like little robin did 18 years ago, my eyes wide open, my legs sore, my heart happy. By the end of the day though, I felt like I was delusional with the lack of sleep (no sleep) I got on the train the previous night. I said bye to Rome (for now), I got on my night ferry, made a bed across some chairs, arranged my book pillow, and fell asleep.
Sardinia.
I arrived on the island feeling a little groundless and in need of a friendly, familiar face. And even though I had never been here, or met these people, upon entering Sardinia and arriving at the house, Farfalla Viola Tempio, I felt this breath of ease, this immediate sense of safety and familiarity. Maybe it was the island vibes, maybe it’s because I’m 1% Sardinian (lol), maybe it’s because the house I was staying at reminded me of my house back home. But I had arrived at something special.
Juliette picked me up at the bus stop in Tempo Pausania and immediately gave me a big bear hug. And once I got to the house, her partner, Lars, smiled at me and said, “There she is!” My heart was warm.
This place is also officially a workaway host. Lars and Juliette moved here 1.5 years ago from the Netherlands. It’s a wild 5-hectare property perched on the top of a mountain.
I was staying in a tipi tent under a big chestnut tree. It was very cozy. Even though I had at least 10 spiders in there with me at all times, just give me a comfortable mattress and a warm blanket, and I’ll always sleep better outside in a tent than inside in a bedroom. There were other workawayers there as well. Giovanna from Brazil, Angelica from Italy, Andrius from Lithuania, and Sara from Canada. Upon hours of my arrival, I was invited to a ‘closing circle’, a sort of ceremony they do every time someone leaves. We sit in a circle, candles in the middle, and we just go around saying something about/to the person leaving, and then the person leaving is invited to say something, and then we all hug to end it off. I loved it. It’s a chance for someone to say how this person influenced you or something special you noticed. It’s something we don’t do enough I don’t think. To stop moving, pause, look at a person, and tell them what they mean to you. Tell them how you feel. And it doesn’t have to be these perfect inspirational/emotional words. But the fact that you’re trying to say or write something, anything, even through stumbling and stutters and spelling errors, that’s what matters. Because I think we rely too much on the belief that people ‘know how we feel about them’. Shocker, most of the time, they don’t. So write a letter telling your sister what she means to you, or tell the barista that they make really good lattes, or have a difficult and honest conversation with a friend.
That went a bit off track. But these few weeks in Sardinia were like that. A bit off track. But, a track that led me through some important things. Important thoughts. Important conversations.
This workaway was very different from the one in Puglia. In Puglia, we had a step-by-step itinerary of what we would do each day, and with Milo’s close observations to make sure we were doing things right (we usually weren’t, according to him). But here, Lars and Juliette were quite the opposite. They would rather you not ask questions and just figure it out for yourself. Every day you could basically choose what you wanted to do. They had a list of tasks, but they almost preferred you to do something new, something you chose and actually liked doing. And so I spent most days clearing these fig trees of blackberries and ivy, as well as cooking. I made mainly Greek and Italian food. I was inspired! I hadn’t ever cooked for so many people before. I really loved it.
We had a really good group of people there. Some interesting characters, but what’s life without interesting characters? I don’t think I’ve been in an environment quite like this one before. One where there is so much space to be and say and do what you want. Every morning, we would do a check in where you would say how you were feeling and such. And guys, people would actually say how they were feeling. Haha. Not just, “Yeah, I’m good, tired.” Of course, some people would say that (me included), but a lot of people would talk for 5 minutes about something that was bothering them or a way they had been feeling lately. Sometimes someone would cry. We weren’t in a rush; I think that was the main thing. People had time and space to feel, and then to communicate how they felt. I know. This is a lot of feeling going on. And yes, it was an emotionally intense environment to be in sometimes. When people cry openly, and say how they really feel, and share their specific sadnesses, you find how stuff comes up in you, too. As Lars said, “you don’t heal alone, you heal together.”
I went on a solo adventure for a few days to see some more of the island in a town called Santa Maria Navaresse. On one of the days, I went for a 5-hour hike that a local had recommended. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Something about being on a windy trail, going in one direction, just one step after another, let my imagination run wild. I was both a little girl and an old woman and who I was right at that moment. Twirling along a path through the trees, my skirt kissing my ankles, mountains to my left, the sea to my right. I was thinking, “You could be anyone or do anything you want!” And the declaration wasn’t daunting and overwhelming. The possibility of life felt so exciting and beautiful, I felt it humming in my blood. The fact that I was here right now, on a mountain path in Sardinia, doing what I wanted, was reason enough to have all the trust in myself I needed. Just thinking about the infinite potential in every one of us. And I believe it’s possible to live in the moment and be grateful for your life, but still be buzzing with hope and desire.
I came home, got a pizza and made myself tiramisu. I lay in bed that night and thought, “damn, that was probably one of the best days of my life.”
The two weeks in Sardinia quickly came to an end. We did my closing circle on a rainy Wednesday morning before my bus to the airport. I said goodbye, and then that was that. So strange. Do you ever picture a space continuing to exist without you? Or people? There’s a strangeness to it. Like I can almost see the traces I leave and sense the flickering thoughts someone has about me from time to time. It’s true how important to have a solid sense of self, otherwise I can see how all this coming and going could begin to feel like you’re not really… real? And yet, I don’t think I ever feel more alive than in the goodbyes and hellos, more myself.
And so Italy comes to an end. I had this realization (yes another one). Although I’m technically solo travelling, I’m not alone. In fact, being solo like this has made me understand how not alone I really am. Whether it be a smile on a train, a barista finding you a ride, someone on a bus offering to help you, or two strangers who speak different languages looking up at the moon side by side. I’m not alone, because I have my mom sending me money to buy film (thanks mom). I have my cousin sending me an email in the nick of time. I have a friend send me a song they think I’d like or a picture of a tree that reminded them of me. I have you! Whoever is reading this. You’re a part of it too.
Being solo may be quieter, it may sometimes be overwhelming and lonely, but it forces you to look out and see what’s around you, to ask for help, to realize that people are, for the most part, kind and want to help, or simply want to connect.
Italy! The boot of Europe. Navy blue blazers. Strong perfume passing you on the street. Eyes traced in eyeliner. Lipstick the colour of aubergine. Black leather jackets. An edge. A boastfulness. The Italian stare. Heads turning as you walk. The bite of a lemon. Sorbetto di Limone. Women on scooters. Art that is loud. Masculinity. OLIVE OIL. Falling into the abyss of chaos. Falling into arms outstretched. Pastaaaaaa. A conversation on a couch. A trail on a mountain. Looking out another train window. Thinking. Feeling. Letting go.
“Well, I can definitely feel myself growing.”