A Love Letter. A Heist. And a Reckoning in Rome.

I wasn’t planning to be in Europe this early in the year.

This trip was supposed to be triumphant.

It was.

Then Rome turned on me.

Even though my motorcycle is waiting for me in Madrid—where I plan to reunite with it later this fall—I had another reason to return to Europe this spring. My brother, Jonathan, had been awarded the prestigious Urbino Award—an honor presented annually by the Italian Ambassador to the United States, in partnership with the town of Urbino, nestled in Italy’s Marche region. I couldn’t have been prouder.

Don’t be surprised if you haven’t heard of the Urbino Award before—both the town and the award. It’s off the typical tourist track; there’s no train and no major airport nearby, which makes it feel like a well-kept secret. It’s the birthplace of Raphael, the Renaissance master painter, and it boasts the grand Palazzo Ducale, a castle-like structure perched high above the tiled rooftops, with stunning views and sweeping staircases that wind through galleries, courtyards, and salons.

Unlike the city that bears its name, the Urbino Award is new—established in 2006—and honors American journalists for excellence in political reporting and global affairs—journalists who, through their integrity and storytelling, reflect the humanistic values rooted in the spirit of Italy’s Renaissance past. Journalists who have demonstrated a deep commitment to the principles of democracy, freedom of the press, and international understanding. Past recipients include some of the most recognizable names in American journalism—icons like Thomas Friedman, David Ignatius, Wolf Blitzer, Sanjay Gupta, and Gwen Ifill.

Back in September, I attended a special ceremony hosted at Villa Firenze, the Italian Ambassador’s residence in Washington, D.C. A sit-down dinner, a moving video tribute to Jonathan’s career—from his early days at the New York Post to CNN and now Chief Washington Correspondent for ABC News. Jon’s covered it all: every administration, every branch of our government, war zones, debates, conventions—you name it.

So of course, when it came time for the official award presentation in Urbino, the family rallied. I arranged my flight to layover in Newark where I met up with Jon, Mom, Maria, and my nieces Emily and Anna, and we all took the 9+ hour flight together to Rome.

Before we’d make the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Urbino, we took in the sights, food, wine, history, and culture of Rome. After all, it would be the first time Mom visited Italy, and for Anna and Emily—who’d been pretty much everywhere else in Italy but not Rome.

If you know me, you know this: I travel with my camera. Everywhere. I have for decades. From motorcycling through the Atacama to sipping wine in the Douro, and traversing the deserts of Sudan, my camera has always been by my side. It used to be a big ol’ DSLR. Now? I roll with my Canon R6 Mark II mirrorless, paired with my favorite lens: the RF 24-105mm f/4. It’s the perfect street docu-photo setup. And trust me, I use it. Constantly. And not just when I’m traveling. Everywhere. It’s my passion. Candids, sunsets, man on the street, documentary style always. Ask anyone who knows me—I’m relentless. But in a good way. People usually end up grateful I was there with it.

So yeah, it was with me in Rome. Of course it was.

Landing in Rome, Jonathan, Emily, and I hit the streets running while Mom rested and Anna and Maria scoped out a shopping excursion. We visited the major sites: the Colosseum, Spanish Steps, wandered Campo Marzio and other sights in Rome’s Centro Storico. We visited the Center for American Studies where Rome’s leading political journalists—both print and television—interviewed Jonathan for its streaming program. Of course, we wined and dined at incredible seafood restaurants.

Then there was the Vatican, St. Peter’s Basilica, the square—and we had a surprise. Jonathan’s friend, Italian-born entrepreneur, and restaurateur Franco Nuschese has amazing connections in Rome and arranged for us to have a private tour of the Vatican. We were ushered through back doors and roamed through corridors and rooms in the Apostolic Palace most visitors never see. Including the Sala Regia (Regal Room), where the Pope’s throne sits and where he hosts dignitaries from around the world. And we got to see the Pope’s personal chapel, Cappella Paolina (Pauline Chapel), where the walls are adorned with Michelangelo’s last frescoes, painted between 1542 and 1550.  The Conversion of Saul; on the left wall, On the right wall is The Crucifixion of Saint Peter, showing Peter being crucified upside down—Peter’s eyes follow you as you walk toward the altar.

Watching guard over these rooms, and also the Pope’s residence, are the Swiss Guards, dressed in traditional uniforms. They kept a watchful eye on us—especially me—since photographing these holy spaces is frowned upon. We did, however, convince one of the guards to pose for us in the Regal Room looking toward the chapel, and he looked the other way as I snapped a handful of photos. I couldn’t resist.

Even more, we didn’t enter the Sistine Chapel where most visitors do. Instead, we entered from the side reserved for the Conclave—where the Cardinals gather to elect the next Pope. Perhaps you saw the film  Conclave? With Stanley Tucci? It dramatizes this secret process. We walked the same path they do, even stood in the “crying room,” where Cardinals have their last moments of solitude before casting their vote.

All along, I had my trusty camera by my side and in my hand.

After one last supper in Rome, I settled into the lobby bar at the St. Regis and downloaded all the photos I’d taken over the past few days.

The next morning, rainclouds hung low as we met the van bound for Urbino—and for the celebration that brought us here.

The hilltop town of Urbino, the birthplace of Raphael, is perched in the hills of Le Marche, just north of Umbria. It’s one of those towns that tourists don’t stumble upon by accident—there’s no airport or train line. You have to want to go. And I’m so glad we did. It’s about three-and-a-half hours north of Rome. We drove through wind and weather, but hey, it’s spring in the Apennines. What did we expect? Truffles, rain, Renaissance charm. Marche is like a lesser-known Umbria with a bit more grit and just as much soul.

As coincidences go, we met up with our friends Clayton and his girlfriend Tori in Urbino. They happened to be in Italy at the same time. This was no accident—Clayton, a curator and promoter of art in the US and Italy, was preparing for a show in Naples, but made the trip to Urbino to celebrate with us.

Our time in Urbino was rich with pomp and circumstance. The locals rolled out the red carpet. There was a costumed Renaissance parade, musicians in traditional garb, and school children waving. Inside the Duca Palace, Jonathan was honored in a talk-show style presentation complete with a moderator, local dignitaries, and Italian press. The questions were insightful, the conversation candid. What struck me most was the warm hospitality of the town—a community that takes this award seriously and genuinely cherishes journalism.

After Urbino, we returned to Rome for a couple more days before flying back to the States.

That’s when things went sideways.

Let me take you there.

Remember, I take my camera everywhere. It’s glued to my side. I don’t use a neck or shoulder strap; I carry it in my hand with a tight wrist strap. My bag, slung over my shoulder, carries an extra lens, action cameras, and spare batteries.

Rome still had more to offer—and with only a couple days left, we fanned out in different directions.

Jonathan and Maria, along with Clayton, were scheduled to check out potential venues for an upcoming Rome exhibition of Maria’s father’s work—Sal Catalano, a wickedly cool collection of art called Saints and Sinners—satirical, emotional, serious, and fun portraits with commentary on politics, power, and religion. While they explored the gallery space, I joined Mom, Emily, and Tori to see a few final sights we’d missed earlier in the trip.

We made our way toward the Pantheon. I shot photos there, of course—inside and out. Then Tori suggested we visit a Bernini sculpture she adored: the elephant balancing an obelisk in Piazza della Minerva. It’s quirky and historic, and there’s a story of how Bernini’s irritation with a skeptical cardinal led him to sculpt the elephant with its tail cocked to the side—a poop joke, essentially. We laughed, admired the detail. I shot some video. Snapped a few frames.

Meanwhile, Mom, Emily, and Tori ducked into Santa Maria sopra Minerva, a church built atop a temple to the goddess Minerva. Sightseeing fatigue had set in, and they needed a break. Inside, frescoes glowed in the dim light. Candles flickered. They checked out Michelangelo’s statue of Christ the Redeemer and found a pew to rest in.

I soon followed. Slid into the pew right behind them. Set my camera beside me. Leaned forward to chat.

Minutes passed. Laughter. Small talk. A moment of calm.

And then it was time to go.

I reached down.

The camera was gone.

Gone.

I bolted. Out the door. Scanning faces, hands, bags, anything that might be carrying a piece of my soul wrapped in a few thousand dollars of gear.

Nothing.

Inside a church. In Rome. In the shadow of the Vatican. My camera—my most constant companion—stolen.

Here? The violation felt raw. I’ve never had anything stolen before. Not like this. Not from under me. And certainly not in a church.

It was a rookie mistake, sure. But it wasn’t some big lapse in judgment. I didn’t leave it unattended on a crowded street or on a table at a bustling café. I wasn’t buzzed and drinking at some bar. I set it beside me in a church pew, with my family inches away.

Turns out, this church had open-backed pews—no solid wood like most others—just enough space for someone bold and brazen to slip a hand through the slat, snatch my camera, and vanish. I let my guard down for one moment in what I thought was the safest of places.

The camera is worth thousands. But worse than that? I lost every photo and video from Urbino. The parade, the rain-slicked cobblestones, the welcoming faces of locals, the Renaissance street scenes. Gone are the shots I took in the Palazzo Ducale. The embraces. The laughter. The candlelit toasts. The sacred silence of that ancient hill town celebrating my brother. I lost all of it. No backups. No memory cards downloaded. Nothing.

It hit hard.

Rome fucked me.

This city I’ve loved—for its art, its history, its soul—suddenly felt dark. Heavy. Unforgiving.

That camera had crossed continents with me. I’ve wandered alleys in Morocco, bazaars in Tunisia, ports in Albania, festivals in Colombia. Lisbon, Porto, Shanghai, Naples, Athens, Istanbul, Cairo, São Paulo, Nairobi, and beyond. I carried it through all of them. No problem. No drama.

And here—in the cradle of Christianity, steps from the Vatican, in a church? Someone ripped it from my life.

Rome fucked me.

I know there’s no replacing what I lost. I’ve documented the world through my lens for over 20 years. And now, all I have from this leg of the journey are a few iPhone snaps, the images burned into memory, and this story.

Let me be clear—this post isn’t just a rant. It’s a love letter.

To my brother, Jonathan—who earned every bit of that honor. You’ve spent your life chasing truth, asking the hard questions, and telling the story straight. We’re all so damn proud.

It’s for my family, for showing up, for making the miles and the moments count.

And it’s for Italy—for honoring journalism, truth, and the spirit of the Renaissance.

It’s about the moments we shared, and the ones I captured—and lost.

It’s also about loss. About vulnerability. And about how, even in places steeped in grandeur and grace—shit still happens.

And if there’s a silver lining? It’s this:

I spent those days surrounded by people I love. I saw my brother celebrated. I stood in the town where Raphael was born. I soaked in Renaissance beauty, toasted with truffle pasta and crisp Verdicchio, and celebrated something meaningful.

Rome may have taken my camera. But not my memories.

Let me be clear about something: I’m neither naïve nor blind to the rough edges of this world. I see it as it is—shadows and all. But here’s the deal: I’ve always chosen to focus on the light—to what illuminates rather than what dims.

Over two decades of traveling this planet, kindness and generosity have consistently outweighed the darkness. Strangers have returned phones I left behind—like the one at a kiosk in Patagonia. My laptop sat untouched for hours beneath a table in a bustling French plaza—completely exposed yet safely waiting. And deep in the Alaskan bush, with every hotel booked solid, someone I’d never met opened their lobby and offered me a sofa for the night.

Every time I’ve found myself in trouble or facing a challenge, the universe—and its people—have stepped up and had my back. Every single time.

So even now, in this moment of loss, I lean on the memories—stories of kindness, openness, and trust rewarded. That’s what defines my travels. Not the rare moments when something goes wrong, but the countless times when everything goes beautifully, even astoundingly, right.

If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you know I’m a storyteller. A documentarian. A seeker.

So I’ll keep going. With or without a camera in my hand.

The journey continues. Stories still need telling. Maybe someone reading this right now feels that same hollow pit in their stomach—that sudden emptiness when something precious vanishes. Maybe they need to hear it’s okay to feel the sting, to name it, to call it what it is. But also, to keep moving. To stay open. To trust again.

Because that’s what we do, isn’t it? We fall. We curse. We get back up. And when we finally look around, we realize the world is still pretty damn astounding.

Or maybe, by some miracle, this story reaches the person who took my camera. Or someone who finds it.

Maybe, just maybe, it finds its way home.

Until then?

Rome owes me.