Italy calls me home

Two different friends reached out to me while I was in Italy to tell me they had a dream that I had moved there. One a close friend, the other someone I had not heard from in years. She didn’t even know I was in Italy when she messaged me.

We’ve been home a month. There is too much to say, too much to remember (even though it is all indelible in my mind and my heart), too many favorite moments. But I am going to try. So much happiness, joy, food, friends and laughter. Memories made. Mission accomplished. We needed it so badly. I did it. I conquered my fears, my trauma of flying, of not being healthy (enough), of getting overwhelmed and incapacitated by worry.

I don’t want to make readers gag with too many photos of how beautiful it was –all of it. I would gag. If you know me and follow me you know. I posted (too much?), three reels for each city with music that matched my mood (I can make a reel now!) and a million stories. Friends got bored I’m sure, and perhaps it WAS too much. But this trip –after 15 years of not going back to Italy–was too important and JOYful not to share.

Tuscany. In between Rome and Florence we went to the Tuscan countryside to meet and stay the night with our friends, Rossano and Lia, who own a famous, award-winning pastry shop in a small town called Piancastagnaio. They picked us up from the train station, two amazing croissants in hand, but I had to run to the bathroom so J and D ate them, mostly. I tasted a bite back in the hotel later. I had never had a cornetto quite like that one. Heavenly. As was everything else we put in our mouths in that brief put packed 24 hours with our friends. Italians are known for their hospitality but the Vinciarellis took it to another level. They wined and dined us with some of the best food we had on the trip (that is usually true in smaller, out of the way towns in Italy). They did not let us pay for our hotel (we tried), a beautiful newer and modern structure in Amiata, the tiny town between their home and the pastry shop (@pasticceria_marronglace). The shop is a family business. Their daughter and son-in-law are taking over the bakery, both self-taught, talented pastry chefs like their dad Rossano who has won all kinds of awards for pastry competitions. That’s how I met them –at the World Pastry Championships in Nashville in 2008. I volunteered to help the Italian team since I speak Italian and worked as a baker at the time. Rossano’s sister works in the shop too. They work really long hours, all of them, and took the day to host us, feed us, drive us around the countryside–the Val d’Orcia–some of the most beautiful areas of Tuscany and of Italy. I love them so much.

The Venice recap will have to wait, y’all. This got out of control (like me). Now I’m tired and hungry. Stay tuned for “Italy calls me home Part II.” Coming soon. A presto!

Rome. It was early March and weather was perfect. The tourists, while still there in great numbers, were nothing like they’ll be in summer. The first day in Rome, not even jet lagged–I was so worried, I need good sleep right now–we met my old pal Daniele. He’s been a tour guide in Rome for 25 years, my (really) old flame, flirtatious, kind, always exciting friend (maybe D would be jealous? He wasn’t). We met in Boulder when I was in my first year in grad school, we worked in the same restaurant, Caffe Antica Roma on the Pearl St. mall. Sparks flew, we dated, we became friends, we reconnected in 2003 when I lived in Rome. June and Daniel loved him. He gave us an incredible private four-hour tour of the Vatican. I had never done that. There were many things, Daniel said, surprised, that I had never done on this trip. When you live someplace you don’t do all the touristy things. You live like a local. This time, we did all the touristy things and it was wonderful. And we all got obsessed with Roman artichokes.

Florence: I fell in love. Again, like the very first time. I remembered where I lived, the streets I walked, the places and people that changed the course of my life. I lived in Florence for a year in my twenties. I lived with a family as their nanny for a few months, then I studied at Syracuse University, one of the oldest American programs in Florence. We stayed near Piazza Santo Spirito, the artsy neighborhood on the other side of the Arno where local artigiani (artisans) and their centuries-old workshops dot the little streets, tiny bars, shops and restaurants vie for attention, and where the tourists are fewer. Florence is small, the walk to the center is easy. We did it a hundred times. We walked along the Arno, walked up to Piazzale Michelangelo and recreated the photo Daniel and I took in 2008. Before June. She took the photo. It was imperfect but perfect. The view of Florence stupendous on that sunny, cool day.

We got there in the rain, the only morning it rained the whole trip, checked into our Airbnb (ugh it was weird but great, embarrassed me with the locals, too much to say on how Florence has become untenable for the them, overrun with tourists, unaffordable like the rest of the world, much of it due to short-term rentals and over-tourism since the pandemic). There was always a market on Sunday in the piazza, and there was one that day too. Just as we got there, the clouds parted, the sun came out, I couldn’t contain my excitement. June and I scampered around the vintage stalls looking at old leather jackets, cashmere sweaters of all brands, colors and sizes–we bought two for 40 euros each–and wore them the whole trip. There was jewelry and dishes, dried fruit and brightly colored candy. I bought some small gifts. I wanted to buy everything.