It's a Healthy Obsession. Really!

Marla Brannan
Sep 15, 2020
5 min read

Updated: Oct 6, 2020

**Why do some places speak to our souls, while others are...*meh***?

This is a question I've considered often over the years: Why am I drawn to the tiny parish church with a cat in the doorway on a more passionate level than some awe-inspiring cathedrals? Why does the elderly Italian man guffawing after accidentally sitting in gum in an obscure village piazza stay with me more vividly than seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time?

The conclusions I've reached are incomplete, of course. I hope, after the world rights itself, my travels are far from behind me so new information could form new insights. For now though, my observation is this: I become obsessed with places because of how they make me feel not because there's so much to see or do, so many famous sites and works of art to check off a list.

Not to sound over-dramatic, but places that move me or teach me something about myself stick in my heart in a way busy or famous places that, though magnificent, may not. I guess you could say that, like most healthy obsessions, it's an art not a science.

Here's another way of stating it: In one of my favorite travel-related memoirs of all time, Under the Tuscan Sun, the brilliant Frances Mayes writes, “Never casual, the choice of place is the choice of something you crave.”

So perhaps what means the most to us while we travel reflects what we most crave at that particular time, whether that looks like exciting nightlife, kite surfing or simply adapting to the rhythm of morning in a new place.

Regardless, here are a few of my healthy obsessions...

Gardens & Parks. If it's raining, all the better.

It's a habit, I freely admit. London. Paris. Madrid. New York. Or the town I call home. I collect parks like some people collect t-shirts.

St. John’s and the Parish Church of St. Cuthbert on a moody solo evening in Edinburgh is one of my fondest memories of all time. For the entirety of that trip I walked through the Princes Street Gardens instead of up on the sidewalk because, rain or shine it was delightful while walking past an H&M, Starbucks and T-Mobile could be a white bread street anywhere in the world.

London is that place I'll never get over - certainly a city I'll continue to visit again and again. Part of the reason is the many parks and gardens that focus various areas. I love them all and have spent hours toodling through St. James' and Hyde Park. But my favorite memory is getting caught in a downpour in Regents - the kind of rain that acts like capillary action on your pant legs - and stopping in the middle of the park for an espresso to warm up.

The Boboli Gardens in Florence on a drippy afternoon in December took on a mysterious air. Strolling through the tall shrubbery it felt otherworldly, like a mythical creature might suddenly appear nonchalantly as if it called the place home.

And, Ritter Park in Huntington, WV, where I lived within a few blocks for many years. On the first warm spring Saturday or Sunday the mile-long path around the perimeter would be packed, but on a bitter day in January there wouldn't be another soul, and I'd sit on a park bench while my dog scampered in the fresh snow in that peculiar way dogs do. Once it was just me and 50-odd ducks interrupting each other's solitude.

Small Towns on Perfectly Average Days

Driving across the endless sea of corn that is Kansas (that lyric from Rodgers and Hammerstein's brilliant musical South Pacific springs to mind: "I'm as corny as Kansas in August...") I discovered tiny WaKeeny. It was suppertime on a late summer evening and people were out on their front porches grilling and chatting with neighbors. Totally romanticizing the place I thought Gee, I could live here in a heartbeat. Probably not true, and yet here, years after my senior year in college when that cross-country road trip took place, I still remember the way that felt.

And again, visiting tiny San Gimignano deep in the heart of Tuscany I happened upon an advertisement for a D-level Italian league soccer game and decided on the spot it was a must. The local fans were enthusiastic and bombastic, as if they were attending a match between Inter Milan and Roma. It's a priceless memory of small town pleasures.

Twice I've stayed in a family-run hotel on Lake Como in Varenna - a tiny town stacked steeply up the hill like an ocher and salmon-colored Lego version of itself that smelled of juniper, cedar, boxwood and espresso. It was a chilly fall day and a woman stopped and asked if I wanted a ride as I walked to find an ATM. Those things combined brewed up a sense of place that's vivid years later.

Anywhere at Christmas.

It's obviously a cliche, but the holidays add their special pixie dust to even the most mundane of places. Firecrackers are set off in Italy, the busy shopping districts of cities across the world are decorated with lavish window displays and LED light shows, little towns have drive-through nativity scenes and people jam-packed in coffee shops the world over fog up the windows attempting to get warm.

Toronto is my favorite place to visit during the holidays. Though often mind-numbingly cold, the vast underground PATH network can get you many places without even stepping outside. And passing through the Hudson Bay Company's flagship store and out into the sudden expanse of the incredible Eaton Centre Shopping Mall, decked out within an inch of its life - well, It's A Wonderful Life.

I grew up in the Northeastern area of the US, much of it in the only county in Pennsylvania without a traffic light. That's the deep sticks. Winter was long. Some years it started snowing in October, and late storms in March and April leaving snow on brave daffodils weren't that unusual.

Of course the sledding around Christmas and the outdoor tree lights covered over with snow might be ideal and perfect and what dreams are made of, but digging your car out of the ditch every other week kind of puts a damper on it.

So it was interesting to find myself in Key West for the famous annual Christmas parade. This one-of-a-kind outpost at the far end of the Florida Keys is vibrant, kooky, out and proud - and all of that was on full and delightful display for the parade. I expected it to feel weird to see Santa after a day of bike riding down from Duck Cay in the sun, avoiding coconuts and palm fronds on the road, cold beer waiting at the end, but it didn't. It felt just right.