A House Full of People, A Trip Full of Memories

When I think back to the trips my family took in Italy, I remember the houses before I remember the places. We spent summers and holidays in farm stays with other families, the kind of places where each family had its own room but life happened in the spaces in between. Breakfast shared without planning, shoes left near the door, voices drifting from one part of the house to another.

After lunch, the rhythm changed. Parents tried to rest, fathers napped on couches, and we kids tried very hard to be quiet. We almost never succeeded. We found ways to keep ourselves busy, running outside, whispering too loudly, inventing games that always ended with someone getting scolded. It was the kind of chaos that only happens when a group feels comfortable, when everyone belongs to the same long afternoon.

Mornings had their own routine. Right after breakfast, the house came alive with plans. In winter, families got ready to ski and met at the first chairlift. In summer, we packed cars to explore nearby towns. The kids always tried to negotiate which adult they would ride with, hoping to sit with their friends. It was simple, familiar, and easy, even if a dozen people were doing different things at once.

What I didn’t realize then is that these trips worked because the house held us together. A villa, an agriturismo, a farmhouse. These places made everyone part of the same story. You could join the day’s plan or decide to stay back, read a book, walk through the fields, or sit by the pool. No pressure, no schedule to chase. Just the comfort of knowing you were never far from good company.

People became close without trying. Conversations started naturally. Children moved from group to group. Meals stretched longer than expected. Someone always poured more wine. Someone always brought out a plate of something to share. These moments created a kind of gentle community, the kind that stays with you long after the trip ends.

Living in California now, I think about that way of traveling. Not better, not worse, just different. A way where the place you stay becomes part of the experience. A way where logistics fade into the background and the focus stays on being together. A way where you can wake up, choose your own pace, and still end the day around the same table.

When I picture the kind of journeys I want to share with people, I always see a house. A villa in the countryside. A farm stay in Emilia Romagna where we taste Parmigiano Reggiano at its source. A farmhouse by the sea in Sardinia where a glass of Vermentino feels right at any hour of the day. Places where guests can feel at home even if they have never met before, where days unfold naturally and community forms without being forced.

Maybe that is the real beauty of staying under one roof. Not the building itself, but what happens inside it. The slow mornings, the shared meals, the small memories that grow quietly between people.

Maybe a house is not just where a trip happens.
Maybe it becomes part of the trip you remember.