I’ve been mulling, happily, all day.

After a rousing Roman weekend that came with some confusing feelings I’ve not yet pinned — or penned — down, I’m back to solo travel, wandering Bologna and its nearby towns. (More on that later.)

The more time I spend traveling alone, the more clearly I can picture an eventual full-on mental breakdown resulting in something like dashing to a convent to live as a nun: to sing, sleep, garden and draw in absolute peace. (Ok, *or*, I’m borrowing from the plot of “She Came To Me,” which I saw recently and loved).

When I first visited the Officina Profumo di Santa Maria Novella in Florence, I had immediate confidence in my ability to tuck my hair into a chignon, slip into a tailored gray uniform and become A Woman Who Sells Perfume To People And Then Eats Dinner. In Paris, I just know that I’m a perfumer, appointing scents to people like a sophisticated, modern fortune-teller. Oh! Also: I’m a dairy farmer in Iceland with a thriving Skyr business and 1-3 ice-blond babies with a man who looks like Thor.

I don’t know if I can trust these divine visions. But I do think I can interpret them to mean that I sense a radical shift; one that will surprise others (but maybe not me). One that will ignite a more fixed happiness.

Is that possible? Sometimes I think it’s an insult to my life (and therefore, myself) to even let the thought that I want something different gel, never mind solidify.

Would I want more? Or might I want…less?

In my constant search for free activities, I look to God. I mean it literally; toddling into churches is one of my favorite things to do when I travel. Cool, dark places full of art, gold, great acoustics and — frequently — bones?! For me, aside from meals, that’s the good stuff. The painted wooden sculptures with nailed palms and feet remind me to ask: did Jesus die for our sins so that I could make advertisements?

When my friends turn 33 (as I will in December), I remind them, “It’s your Jesus year!” I’m not sure what I mean by that, other than to suggest that it could be a good time to do something important. Or have a third-life crisis. (Or at least get your feet washed 🙃).

Perhaps it’s something about arriving at a time by which I am meant to have hit my stride professionally, gotten married and had at least one child that makes me want to pivot-turn and sashay into an alternate universe.

Or: I have an over-active imagination and under-active current income nudging me toward a simpler existence that, hey, doesn’t necessarily exist at all.

Maybe I’m just eating too much pork and I’ll feel silly about questioning my existence later, from my apartment and life in New York that I love.

When I find out, I’ll let you know…

Buonanotte from Parma — Rosalee