When people learn I am a travel advisor, one of the first questions they often ask is, "Of all the places you have traveled, which one is your favorite?”

It always trips me up a little. How do you choose one when every trip holds memories of its own, usually tied to the people you shared it with?

But if I had to choose one that I know I will carry with me forever, it would be Sicily.

​Last October, my grandmother, my mother and I traveled to Sicily to celebrate my grandmother's 90th birthday. Three generations of women exploring the island that shaped so much of our family history.

​We wandered through ancient cities, stepped inside centuries-old churches, admired Greek temples and lingered over meals that always seemed to run a little longer than planned, usually with a little more wine than planned, too.

We began in Taormina, explored Mount Etna and the vineyards at its base, continued to Siracusa for a beautiful sail along the Ionian Sea and visited the ancient Greek ruins in the Valley of the Temples. We spent time in Bisacquino, the town our ancestors called home, before ending in Palermo, a city that felt like a beautiful, intoxicating mix of cultures. Every stop gave us another glimpse into Sicily's history, while helping us understand a little more of our own.

​When we returned home, I wanted to know what my grandmother remembered most. Her answer surprised me.

​She remembered the ancient towns and beautiful churches, of course. She smiled as she remembered the people we met along the way, from our guide on Mount Etna, to the handsome sailors who steadied her arms as she boarded the boat, to the Fiat drivers who somehow managed to weave us through the narrow streets of Palermo and take us on a very special trip up the mountain to the Grotto of Santa Rosalia.

We laughed about getting around Sicily in her "Ferrari," the walker we secured on our very first day. But as she talked, I realized that the moments she returned to most were not necessarily the ones I would have expected.

​One of her favorite afternoons happened after we checked into our villa just outside Agrigento.​

That afternoon, we found ourselves gathered in the villa kitchen, learning to make fresh pasta alongside a group of Sicilian women. It was not a polished cooking demonstration. It was more like being welcomed into someone's home.

We watched, laughed, rolled dough and quickly realized there were very few measuring cups involved. Everything was done by instinct, experience and feel, just as it had always been done in my grandmother's kitchen. And standing there, thousands of miles from home, I realized how familiar it all felt.

The techniques were familiar. The rhythm was familiar. The way food brought everyone together was familiar.

For my grandmother, there was something even more meaningful about it. She was not simply learning how to make pasta in Sicily. She was recognizing something that had always been part of her, too.​

That is what I remember most about Sicily.

​Of course I remember the churches, the ancient ruins, the coastline and the beauty of the island. But the memories that have stayed with me are quieter. A kitchen full of women, hands covered in flour. A meal that lasted longer than expected, probably because of more wine than was expected. My grandmother smiling as she recognized something familiar on the other side of an ocean.

Travel has a way of giving us those moments when we leave a little room for them. The trips I remember most are not necessarily the ones with the longest itineraries or the most impressive list of sights. They are the ones where the right experience, the right place and the right people come together in a way that feels personal.

For my grandmother, Sicily had always existed in family stories. That trip gave those stories a place, a landscape and a table around which we could share them together.

That is the Sicily I will always remember.