Today I’d like to take you back in time.

Long before Rome dominated the Italian peninsula.

Have you ever heard of the Etruscans?

Since moving to Tuscany, I keep coming across museums, books, and signs referring to this ancient civilization. But if someone asked me about the Etruscans, I'd probably say, "They came before the Romans." That was about the extent of my knowledge. So, on a partly cloudy Sunday morning, we set off to explore one of their most remarkable sites: Parco Archeologico Città del Tufo, in the Maremma of southern Tuscany, between the towns of Sovana, Sorano, and Pitigliano.

The park is famous for its vast Etruscan necropolises and for the mysterious vie cave—deep roads carved directly into towering walls of volcanic tuff.

Walking into them felt like stepping into another world.

In the caves, the air was cool, damp, and perfectly still. The walls, floor, and ceiling were carved from the same dark volcanic stone. The only noise was the echo of our footsteps.

Standing there, I realized how little I actually knew about the people who had created all this.

Before visiting, I hadn’t realized how sophisticated the Etruscans were. Reading about them afterwards, I discovered that they believed the gods communicated through nature and that death was seen less as an ending than a continuation of life. Suddenly the allure of those tombs made much more sense.

Many of the them remain remarkably well preserved. Standing there, it struck me that people living 2,500 years ago weren’t all that different from us, they built homes, buried loved ones, and left behind stories we still connect with.

Through my readings, one discovery particularly surprised me.

Compared with both the Greeks and the Romans, Etruscan women enjoyed remarkable freedom. They kept their own names, owned property, and participated openly in public life. Greek writers found this almost scandalous, with one remarking that Etruscan women dined openly with men who were not their husbands. I couldn’t help wondering whether, in some respects, the Etruscans were ahead of their time.

What happened to them?

After centuries of military conflict and political pressure, the Etruscan city-states were gradually absorbed into the expanding Roman Republic. Their language slowly disappeared, replaced by Latin, although some of their influence survived in Roman engineering, religion, and some aspects of daily life.

Since moving to Tuscany, I’ve noticed something else. People still speak about the Etruscans with a quiet sense of pride. More than once I’ve heard locals describe them as the true roots of this region, and occasionally there’s even a hint of regret when the conversation turns to Rome’s conquest.

After several hours exploring the site, we rewarded ourselves with a leisurely lunch in Sovana, one of those tiny Tuscan villages that quietly steals your heart. If you enjoy discovering the lesser-known chapters of Italy’s history, I highly recommend visiting Sovana, along with nearby Sorano and Pitigliano.

Fortezza Orsini

Later that afternoon we joined a guided tour of the Fortezza Orsini in Sorano.

It is one of the most impressive military fortresses I have ever visited.

Originally built in the 12th century and later expanded by the powerful Orsini family, it became one of Tuscany’s most formidable strongholds. Hidden beneath the fortress lies an astonishing network of tunnels carved by hand directly into the volcanic rock. Five underground levels, twirling around the castle but what got attention was the ventilation shafts to clear cannon smoke, and enormous water cisterns allowed the fortress to withstand even the longest sieges.

As we wandered through those underground passages, the temperature dropped by nearly twenty degrees. Hundreds of soldiers once waited here before launching attacks on their enemies. The endless corridors created an atmosphere that was both eerie and unforgettable.

Days like this remind me that history is not simply something we read about in books. I feel lucky to be in a country where I can actually experience it, as every ancient road, fortress wall, and forgotten civilization leaves behind pieces of itself, waiting to be rediscovered.

Till next week

Tino

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July is the month with the most predictable weather here in Tuscany. You can almost count on a steady 32–33°C during the day and a comfortable 20°C at night, beneath blue skies that seem endless.

This is the time of year when I retreat to my little beach hut in Castiglione della Pescaia. I love spending the early mornings and late afternoons by the sea. Most evenings I take my supper to the beach, where I linger until the sun slips below the horizon. The sea is calm, the water is warm, and life slows to a gentle rhythm.

I’ve brought along a small selection of books, I’ll be following the World Cup, and cheering on my favorite tennis player, Felix Auger-Aliassime. As for writing... I’ll be taking a little break. Well, sort of. Knowing me, a few stories will probably insist on being written.

I’ll be back in August with more intriguing and heartfelt stories from our beloved Italy, and I hope to find you here again on Substack.

Until then, enjoy the summer. Stay safe, stay well... and be good—most of the time.

A presto,

Tino

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Have you ever gone out of your way to visit a place that meant absolutely nothing to almost everyone else?

Not a famous monument.

Not a museum.

Not even a destination you would find in a travel guide.

Just a place that mattered to you because someone you admired had once lived there.

Once you’ve seen it, your curiosity is satisfied. You appreciate it, treasure the experience, and know you’ll probably never go back. Not because it disappointed you, but because the journey itself was the reward.

That was exactly my destination this week.

The thermometer has climbed above 40°C several times over the past two weeks. Living in Tuscany has its advantages. I’m only an hour from the Mediterranean, although these days the sea feels more like a giant warm bath than a refreshing escape. Fortunately, I’m also an hour from the Apennine Mountains.

This time, the mountains won.

For quite a while I had wanted to visit the tiny village of Orsigna.

“Where on earth is Orsigna?” you’re probably asking.

There is, quite honestly, very little to see there. This tiny mountain hamlet lies about thirty kilometres north of Pistoia, tucked away among chestnut and beech forests, clear streams, and peaceful mountain meadows. It isn’t the kind of place people accidentally discover or add to a bucket list.

So why was I drawn there?

Because of Tiziano Terzani.

Over the years I have read several of his books. I became fascinated not only by his extraordinary writing but also by his philosophy of life. After spending decades reporting from Asia, Terzani repeatedly returned to this secluded valley to reflect, to write, and eventually to spend the final months of his life. He called Orsigna “the place of my soul.”

That was reason enough for me.

Terzani himself once described Orsigna better than anyone could:

“Unlike other well-known towns in the Tuscan Apennines, Orsigna has never had any particular claim to fame. Nothing of historical importance has ever happened here, and no famous person ever stopped by.”

Exactly.

That is precisely its beauty.

I arrived in Pistoia in the early afternoon, and the car thermometer stubbornly refused to move from 39°C. The road narrowed, winding through dense forests until it felt more like a country lane than a proper road. Meeting another car became a small adventure in itself.

With every curve, however, the air grew cooler.

And somehow... quieter.

I parked beside Orsigna’s tiny piazza and asked for directions to the Terzani Path, a woodland trail leading to the place he loved most.

Towering beeches and chestnut trees arched overhead, forming a natural tunnel that filtered the sunlight into soft patches dancing across the forest floor. The only sounds were birds calling from somewhere above and the occasional whisper of wind through the leaves.

No traffic.

No voices.

No phones.

Just silence.

The kind of silence we have almost forgotten exists.

Eventually I reached the small clearing where Terzani often came to meditate.

A simple tree trunk serves as a bench.

I sat down.

What I expected to be a brief stop quietly stretched into nearly half an hour.

I wasn’t thinking.

I wasn’t trying to solve anything.

I simply sat.

Birds sang without interruption.

The scent of damp earth, moss and wildflowers drifted through the air. Butterflies floated lazily from one patch of sunlight to another, seemingly with nowhere in particular to go.

I noticed absolutely nothing happening.

And somehow, it felt like everything was happening.

It became easy to understand why Terzani kept returning here after travelling the world.

A few steps farther stands what has become known as the Tree with Eyes.

Before his death, Terzani attached two glass eyes he had brought home from India to the trunk of an old beech tree. Today the tree has become a quiet place of pilgrimage. Visitors leave Tibetan prayer flags, handwritten notes, small mementos and messages of gratitude, each paying tribute in their own way to the man whose words brought them here.

Terzani believed that giving the tree eyes reminded us that nature is alive—that every living thing deserves respect.

He said:

“And if one day it truly must be cut down... then at least one should speak to it, ask its forgiveness.”

Before leaving, I looked back one last time at those silent eyes watching over the valley.

I had driven nearly two hours to visit a place that most people would never think of seeing.

Just a quiet forest, a tree with eyes, and the memory of a man who taught millions of readers to look at the world a little differently.

🌳

The Terzani book that left the deepest impression on me is Un altro giro di giostra (One More Ride on the Merry-Go-Round). In it, he recounts his journey after being diagnosed with cancer. Refusing to rely solely on conventional medicine, he travels across the world—from India to China and beyond—in search of healing, meeting doctors, monks, healers and spiritual teachers. More than a book about illness, it is a profound reflection on life, death, fear and what it truly means to live. Terzani ultimately discovers that the greatest cure is not necessarily for the body, but for the spirit.

I may never return to Orsigna. Once you’ve experienced a place like this, there is little reason to go back. The memory is enough. Some journeys are measured in kilometres. Others are measured by what they leave behind. Mine ended with a quiet walk through a forest in Orsigna. I suspect I’ll carry that silence with me for a wile.

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It is that familiar hour:
one o’clock here in Tuscany,
seven in the morning in Montreal.

Since the pandemic,
the five siblings have shared
a simple daily ritual.

A Buongiorno,
a small acknowledgment
that all is well.

That we are here,
that we are fine,
then we carry on with our day.

But on that morning,
June 27, two years ago,
something was different.

For reasons we cannot explain,
we lingered in the chat
longer than usual.

More than a greeting,
more than a passing hello,
we stayed and talked.

Yet one voice was missing.

“Pina must still be sleeping,”
said Gino with little concern.

The morning was still young.

We joked,
Tony and I teased one another,
as siblings always do.

I boasted, of course,
about my adventures in Tuscany,
trying to make them jealous.

Minutes passed.

Pina was not joining in.

It was unusual.

She was always the first
to make our phones beep
each morning.

Twenty minutes went by.

Pina was still not there.

And we wondered at your silence.

Geny knew you best.

The two of you
shared everything,
every detail
of your days.

Nothing unusual was planned.

No reason for concern.

Two days earlier,
her doctor had given her
a clean bill of health.

Geny left the chat
and dialed your number.

No answer.

And she wondered at your silence.

She had spoken with you
the evening before.

Everything was fine.

I climbed back onto my bicycle
and began the ride home.

The late June sun was warm,
the vineyards green,
the olive groves shimmering.

The Tuscan landscape,
beautiful as ever,
stretched before me.

Then the phone rang.

Geny’s voice was trembling,
her words difficult
to understand.

“Pina is gone.”

Gone where?

I asked.

Her lifeless body
had been found beside her bed
by a dear friend and neighbour.

No!

No!

No!

How could that be?

I must be dreaming.

Turn back the clock.

Rewind the morning.

Let us begin again.

As the landscape around me
slowly disappeared
beneath Geny’s cries.

Hardly a day goes by
without hearing your laughter
inside my mind,

without remembering
your honest voice
guiding me once again.

I miss you, sister.

And we still wonder at your silence.

Italian Version

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Will you be one of the billions of people catching some soccer action over the next month or so?

The World Cup is the biggest sporting spectacle on Earth. Nearly a quarter of the world’s population will be watching the final match on July 19 in New Jersey.

According to a joint study by FIFA and the World Trade Organization (WTO), the tournament is projected to generate up to $40.9 billion in global GDP. FIFA expects to take in roughly $13 billion. As a non-profit, most of that money is supposed to flow back into football: staging tournaments, funding member federations, and running the global game.

And while the tournament has expanded from 32 to 48 teams, our beloved Italians could not secure a spot for the third consecutive World Cup. Since lifting the prestigious trophy in 2006, they have been downright disappointing on the international stage.

But today, I will not write about how a nation that breathes, eats, and lives for its national sport will once again be sitting on the sidelines while we cheer for newcomers such as Curaçao, Cape Verde, and Uzbekistan. Nor will I write about headlines you can read anywhere else, including in dozens of newsletters here on Substack.

Instead, I will tell you a little story I found myself involved in a few years ago.

Although it revolves around the beautiful game, it is really a story about a tiny country, an unfinished documentary, a few stubborn dreamers, and a lesson I never expected to learn.

THE SAN MARINO PHENOMENON

Several years ago, while reading about unusual stories, I came across a national football team that immediately caught my attention.

Not because they were champions.

Not because they had famous players.

Quite the opposite.

The San Marino national football team was considered one of the weakest teams in international football. In fact, they were ranked 211th out of 211 teams. Year after year, they faced giants such as Germany, England, France, Spain, and yes, Italy too. Teams valued at hundreds of millions of euros.

And every time, they lost.

Sometimes badly. 10-0. 13-1.

Most people would read that and move on to the next article.

I couldn’t.

What fascinated me was not the losing.

It was the fact that they kept showing up.

Why would a group of players willingly walk onto a field knowing they were likely going to suffer humiliating defeats?

The more I read, the more intrigued I became.

San Marino is one of the world’s smallest countries, a republic of barely 30,000 people, completely surrounded by Italy. Perched atop Mount Titano, it claims to be the oldest republic in the world, founded in the year 301.

Its medieval towers rise above the clouds. Narrow stone streets wind through the historic centre. From its walls, you can see all the way to the Adriatic Sea.

Walking through San Marino feels like stepping into a place that somehow escaped the rush of modern life.

The football team reflected the country itself.

Most of the players were not professionals.

They were accountants, pharmacists, mechanics, office workers, and small business owners.

A few evenings each week, they trained.

Then they put on their country’s jersey and stepped onto the field against some of the greatest footballers on earth.

There was something deeply admirable about that.

The story stayed with me long enough that I eventually mentioned it to two friends in Montreal who had connections in the film industry.

Immediately, they saw what I saw.

This wasn’t really a football story.

It was a story about perseverance.

About pride.

About ordinary people doing something extraordinary.

Before long, we were discussing the possibility of producing a documentary.

Then, somewhat surprisingly, the impossible started happening.

Funding opportunities began to emerge. There was interest. Meetings were encouraging. Conversations moved forward.

What had started as an article I happened to read was beginning to look like a real project.

In my mind, the documentary was already taking shape.

I could see the opening scenes.

The pharmacist facing England.

The accountant marking a world-famous striker.

The proud butcher side by side against players who earned more in one single game than he would earn in a lifetime.

Netflix?

Disney?

Why think small?

Then came the perfect occasion to investigate further.

In the fall of 2018, while travelling to Italy, I discovered that San Marino would be playing a home match against Luxembourg.

I immediately booked four days in the tiny republic.

And this is where the story became almost too good to be true.

The Airbnb I booked happened to belong to the aunt of Mauro Valentini, the former captain of the national team.

Out of all the places I could have stayed, I somehow landed in the home of a woman who knew the football world of San Marino inside and out.

Before long, I was talking football with Mauro himself. We met at the Stadio Olimpico di Serravalle, a modest stadium holding just about 5,000 spectators.

Mauro had played professionally in Italy’s lower divisions and later for the San Marino national team, all while maintaining his day job as a bank director. He proudly told me he had scored one of the team’s very few international goals, a rare feat in San Marino’s football history.

At that point, I was convinced the documentary was destined to happen.

The stars seemed perfectly aligned.

I spent my days wandering the streets of San Marino, talking with locals, gathering information, imagining scenes for the film, and slowly falling in love with the country.

What struck me most was not the football.

It was the people.

They carried themselves without urgency.

Life moved at a gentler pace.

Coffee conversations seemed more important than schedules.

Relationships mattered more than efficiency.

As a North American accustomed to deadlines, follow-ups, and quick answers, I found it both charming and, at times, slightly frustrating.

Back in Canada, we continued our efforts.

Meetings were positive.

Phone calls were encouraging.

Funding appeared available.

Everyone seemed to like the idea.

Yet somehow, nothing moved forward within San Marino itself.

The more we pushed, the more elusive everything became.

Letters went unanswered.

Promises led nowhere.

Conversations remained conversations.

Even Mauro’s aunt warned me that I was dreaming in technicolor. What did she know that I did not?

Months passed.

There was a silence that became increasingly difficult to understand.

Was there a financial reason?

Did they simply prefer to keep their story to themselves?

Were we outsiders asking questions nobody wanted answered?

To this day, I honestly do not know.

Eventually, to end the uncertainty, we asked the president of the football federation for a definitive answer so we could move on one way or the other.

The response finally arrived.

The board had rejected the project.

No real explanation was provided.

Just a polite refusal.

The mystery remained.

The disappointment was real.

Not because of the work involved.

But because I genuinely believed the story deserved to be told.

What puzzled me most was that the world saw San Marino as the worst team in international football.

I saw them as one of the most inspiring.

A country of just 30,000 people continuing to show up year after year despite impossible odds.

Surely, that was worth celebrating.

Maybe winning was never the point.

Maybe they were perfectly content being exactly who they were.

A group of friends representing their country.

Playing football against giants.

Sharing stories afterward over coffee or a glass of wine.

Meeting football legends.

Then returning to work the next morning.

Perhaps they understood something many of us spend a lifetime chasing.

That fulfillment does not always come from reaching the destination.

Sometimes it comes from simply being part of the journey.

Without that failed documentary, I would never have discovered one of Europe’s most fascinating little countries.

I would never have walked its medieval streets, met its people, attended a national match, or collected memories that remain with me today.

The documentary failed.

The experience did not.

I learned something from San Marino.

Showing up matters.

Trying matters.

Belonging matters.

The players know the odds are stacked against them every time they step onto the field.

Yet they keep playing.

And perhaps that is why so many people quietly cheer for them.

Their famous local expression is, Mai una gioia.

“Never a joy.”

But I believe that only applies on the field.

Outside those white lines, it feels more like Sempre una gioia.

“Always a joy.”

Happy World Cup month ⚽️

Since Italy will once again be watching the tournament from the couch, I can wholeheartedly throw my support behind my other beloved country: Canada.

As I write these lines, Canada remains undefeated in its group.

Who would have thought?

For once, I won’t be shouting Forza Azzurri.

Forza Canada 🇨🇦

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Tomorrow’s newsletter will take you inside a very unusual and heartwarming story about this small country’s national team.

A story that is much bigger than soccer itself.

See you tomorrow on MAI UNA GIOIA.

Tino

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MAI UNA GIOIA

Without cheating and without Googling it, can you guess what the article will be about?

Click your answer

Remember, no Googling allowed! 😉

The winner gets… absolutely nothing. 😄

Well, maybe one thing: the satisfaction of understanding Italy just a little bit better.

And if you already know what Mai una gioia means… don’t spoil it for everyone else, in comments.

Newsletter coming this Saturday.

Arrivederci!

Tino

And then there are the quiet ones.

For years, while sitting at my favorite café in Piazza Arnolfo or wandering the narrow streets of Colle Val d’Elsa, I would often see an elderly couple.

He was always pushing her wheelchair.

She sat quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere far away, as if she were looking at a world invisible to everyone else.

I saw them in every season.

During the scorching heat of August, when the stones of the old town seemed to radiate warmth from every direction, I would often see him feeding her gelato.

During the cold winter months, bundled beneath layers of coats and scarves.

On rainy days, moving slowly over the wet cobblestones.

Always together.

Always the same routine.

I knew nothing about them, yet I found myself strangely attached.

I often wondered what invisible thread kept them moving through the years with such quiet determination.

Many times, I thought about stopping them and introducing myself.

But I didn’t. I felt I would be intruding on their peaceful time.

Instead, I simply watched from a distance and admired them.

I even secretly took a few pictures because one day I wanted to write about them.

But not without their permission.

If several days passed without seeing them, I would find myself wondering whether they were alright.

Then, a few weeks ago, I saw him.

Alone.

No wheelchair.

No companion beside him.

His usual cheerful expression seemed absent.

When I returned home, I mentioned it to Emi.

“I saw the gentleman today,” I said. “He was alone.”

My mind immediately went where minds often go.

But Emi, eternal optimist that she is, quickly interrupted.

“Just because she wasn’t there doesn’t mean something happened,” she said. “Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. Maybe she was in the hospital. Don’t assume the worst.”

I hoped she was right.

Today, on my way to the bakery, I saw him again.

Still alone.

This time I crossed the street.

I finally gathered the courage I had lacked before.

“Buongiorno, signore,” I said. “I’ve seen you and your lady walking through town for a long time. I’ve always admired you both, especially the undivided attention you gave her. But I haven’t seen her lately. Is everything alright?”

He looked at me quietly.

His eyes immediately filled with moisture.

“La signora non c’è più.”

My wife is gone.

The words landed heavily.

I asked if he minded if we walked together for a while.

We slowly made our way down Via Garibaldi.

At first, he seemed hesitant to talk to me, but once he warmed up, he was eager to tell me his story.

Loreano, was born in 1935 in Colle Val d’Elsa, he had worked as an electrician for most of his life. His wife, Fernanda, was seventy-eight when she passed away.

His stories about the war, when he was just a boy, were vivid and animated. He pointed to the doorway of the house where he had lived and explained how his family had been forced to abandon it and seek refuge in caves outside the town. When he and his family returned, the house had been completely destroyed by the bombardments.

I asked him how he managed to stay so fit.

“I walk every day,” he replied.

Rain or shine.

“It used to be ten kilometers,” he told me with a smile. “Now, much less.”

He met Fernanda in 1967.

They married the following year.

Nearly sixty years ago.

Then his voice softened.

She had developed Alzheimer’s disease years earlier.

“She never left my side,” he said.

And then he corrected himself.

“No. I never left hers.”

He dressed her every morning.

Prepared every meal.

Helped her eat.

Took her for walks through town.

Day after day.

Year after year.

“I did everything I could for her,” he said quietly. “I did my best. She was everything to me.”

For a moment neither of us spoke.

The sounds of the town continued around us. Conversations floated from nearby cafés. A scooter passed. Church bells rang somewhere in the distance.

“Now I’m alone,” he said.

There was no bitterness in his voice.

Only acceptance.

Then he said something that stayed with me long after our conversation ended.

“I know my time is approaching,” he told me. “But I would never want to know when it will come.”

He paused.

“Because even if that date were far away, knowing it would give my life an ending.”

Another pause.

“I would rather live each day fully without thinking about the future.”

When we reached the point where our paths separated, I shook his hand and said:

“Until next time, Loreano.”

He smiled gently.

Then he replied:

“Please, make sure you say hello to me if we meet again.”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“Because,” he said, “I may not remember you next time.”

I stood there watching him walk away.

Alone.

Yet somehow not alone.

Because every step still seemed to carry Fernanda beside him.

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But what really caught my attention was that every few kilometers I passed a defibrillator mounted on a post.

Not in a hospital. Not outside a government building. Not in a busy city square, but in the middle of a forest.

At first, it seemed odd. Then I remembered seeing them in tiny borghi (villages) tucked away in the hills, in hamlets with only a few hundred residents, and even along isolated country roads. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. A defibrillator hanging in a remote forest where emergency services might take precious minutes to arrive could save a life far more effectively than one tucked inside a crowded building in a major city.

As I continued pedaling, I realized that little green box represented something much larger about Italy.

It reflected a way of thinking.

A culture that believes it is better to prevent a problem than to wait for one to appear.

This mindset seems woven into everyday life.

In medicine, for example, I have noticed a striking difference from what I was accustomed to in Montreal. Doctor visits rarely feel rushed. Conversations are longer. Questions extend beyond symptoms and prescriptions. Physicians want to know how you eat, how you sleep, how much you move, what stresses you carry, and what illnesses run through your family.

There is a curiosity about the whole person, not simply the problem.

A few weeks ago, I went for an ultrasound on my knee and leg, one of those ailments that a good friend of mine likes to describe by saying, “We’re so lucky to be getting old.” The radiologist performing the examination suggested checking my carotid arteries and my aorta while I was there. No one had requested it. There was no emergency. There was no alarming symptom.

The reasoning was simple: if something can be discovered early, why wait?

The same philosophy appears in the Italian preference for natural remedies. Before stronger medications are considered, many doctors and families explore diet, herbal preparations, rest, or changes in routine. Pharmaceuticals certainly have their place, but they are not always the first answer.

Perhaps nowhere is this preventative wisdom more visible than in the kitchens of Italian grandmothers.

Every family seems to have a nonna who possesses a small encyclopedia of remedies passed down through generations.

A sore throat is met with warm milk and honey.

A cough and fever may inspire the preparation of a chicken broth that sounds almost too simple until you discover how comforting it can be.

An upset stomach calls for a canarino, a simple infusion of lemon peel whose bright aroma alone seems capable of improving one’s spirits.

And for almost anything else, there is the inevitable camomilla, found in virtually every kitchen pantry in Italy.

For generations, these remedies were less about curing disease than about caring for the body before a minor discomfort became something more serious.

Then there is food itself.

In Italy, food is not merely fuel. It is part of a larger philosophy of well-being.

Visitors often marvel at how much pasta Italians eat while somehow avoiding many of the health problems associated with excess. The secret is not deprivation. It is moderation.

Meals are slower. Portions are balanced. Ingredients are respected, and recipes often rely on only a handful of carefully chosen ingredients.

A plate of pasta is often a first course, not the entire meal. Vegetables are abundant. Olive oil is treated almost as medicine. Fresh ingredients take center stage because quality matters more than quantity.

I’ve noticed another small detail. Have you ever seen Italians ask for ice water in a restaurant? It happens, but far less frequently than in North America. Many Italians believe very cold drinks are not good for digestion and prefer water at room temperature, especially during meals. Whether science fully supports that belief or not is almost beside the point. What interests me is the underlying mindset: the constant awareness that everyday habits can either support health or work against it.

The result is not a diet but a lifestyle.

Even the daily pause for lunch feels preventative. In a world obsessed with productivity, Italians continue to defend the importance of stopping, sitting down, sharing a meal, and reconnecting with people.

And perhaps that leads to the greatest preventative measure of all.

Community.

In many parts of Italy, people still know their neighbors. Shopkeepers notice when someone hasn’t appeared for several days. Families gather regularly. Elderly parents often remain closely connected to their children and grandchildren.

There is an invisible safety net woven from relationships.

Loneliness, which has become a growing epidemic in many countries, finds less room to flourish when human connections remain strong.

People look out for one another.

A neighbour checks in. A friend drops by unannounced for a coffee. A conversation in the piazza stretches a little longer than planned. Small acts of presence may not appear in medical journals, yet they contribute enormously to physical and emotional health.

As I finished my ride through the pine forest, I kept thinking about that defibrillator hanging quietly among the trees.

It was more than a piece of emergency equipment.

It was a symbol.

A reminder that some societies instinctively ask, “What can we do today to prevent tomorrow’s problem?”

Whether through healthcare, food, family traditions, community, or simply placing lifesaving equipment where it might be needed most, Italy often seems guided by that question.

And perhaps there is wisdom in that.

After all, the best crisis is the one that never happens.

Take care

Tino

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On this last week of May, it felt more like mid-July than spring. The thermometer showed 37 degrees Celsius. Yes, my summer clothes were still tucked away somewhere, but that was quickly fixed. Shorts and linen came out fast.

We were headed to Cortona, to deliver some art work from Emi’s gallery. Cortona is best known as the hilltop town where many scenes from Under the Tuscan Sun unfolded. It’s an easy drive through the scenic Val di Chiana. Being so close to the Umbrian border, it’s remarkable how much the landscape changes. Looking south from the hilltop, the terrain softens into flatter land, and in the distance, you can see Lake Trasimeno stretching toward Perugia. It feels very different from the rolling valleys of central Tuscany.

Under the Tuscan Sun was released in 2003 and gave audiences around the world a dreamy version of Italy. And people bought into it. Literally.

Following the movie, Tuscany saw a noticeable surge in foreign interest for villas, farmhouses, and country homes. Americans, Canadians, and northern Europeans arrived chasing the same fantasy Diane Lane stepped into on screen: a slower life, rustic beauty, long lunches under olive trees, and the promise that somewhere along a Tuscan road, life itself could begin again.

We headed straight toward the town center. Parking sits just outside the fortified walls, which still stand proudly after centuries. Cortona’s history is a rich tapestry woven from Etruscan foundations, medieval conflicts, and Renaissance sophistication. Its name derives from the Etruscan Curtun, and it was once one of the twelve powerful cities of the Etruscan League. In other words, this town is older than Rome.

By the early fifteenth century, Cortona became part of the Florentine Republic, transforming the old fortress town into a center of culture and refinement.

You still feel that history while walking through its gates. We passed beneath one of the old arched entrances where the heavy wooden doors that once sealed the town at night are still preserved.

Cortona seems to embody everything people imagine Tuscany to be. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised they chose this place for the film.

On our way toward the main piazza, we stopped at a small clothing shop selling linen garments. I’m always searching for a new cap. I’m fascinated by them, but mostly I need something to cover my shiny scalp.

At first the store seemed empty. Then suddenly a cheerful woman came storming in, full of life, apologizing in English for having stepped out for her coffee break.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

When we answered, “Colle Val d’Elsa,” in Italian, she immediately laughed and apologized again for mistaking us for tourists.

“You know,” she said, “since the movie, this town is packed in summertime.”

I asked a few times if I could see the caps, but she seemed far more interested in chatting than selling. Within minutes she was calling us by our names and phoning her favorite restaurant to reserve us a lunch table. And yes, I ended up getting another cap, a dark blue linen one. I think it must be the fifth one Emi has gifted me by now.

A few steps farther, we arrived at Piazza della Repubblica, the true heart of the town, where the thirteenth-century Palazzo Comunale rises above its iconic stone staircase. Many scenes inspired by Frances Mayes’ memoir were filmed here.

Watching the movie again before coming made me realize something important: the film doesn’t make people dream about Tuscany simply because of the medieval streets or rolling hills. It makes people dream because it wraps Tuscany inside a fairy tale. That’s the real magic of Hollywood.

And yet, despite all that, Cortona still feels authentic.

The piazza carries the quiet rhythm of medieval life. Wooden shutters hang above narrow streets. Small boutiques remain genuinely small. People still stop to talk. Nothing feels overly polished.

Then, on a nearby wall, I noticed something that always stops me in Italy: the manifesti funebri.

In Italy, the public death announcements pasted on street walls are known as manifesti funebri (funeral posters). I spotted a few of these in Cortona. This practice may seem like a relic of the past, it remains a vital tradition rooted in Italy’s deeply community-oriented culture. It reflects an open, shared approach to grief, viewing a passing not just as a private loss, but as a loss for the entire community.

By then it was almost one o’clock, and we were getting hungry. We followed Ross’s recommendation and found the tiny restaurant tucked into a side street: La Fett’Unta. The owner-chef serves a simple menu inspired by recipes learned from his mother. Rustic, unpretentious, and deeply Tuscan. My pici all’aglione, coated in its thick garlicky tomato sauce, felt perfect after a morning spent climbing Cortona’s steep streets.

We like having our espresso at a local bar rather than at the restaurant. Somehow it feels more authentic, more connected to everyday local life. A bar in Italy is where the rhythm of the town reveals itself. We chose the same spot in the piazza where the protagonist sat with her beau. The coffee was good, but where are the cameras?

We tried to locate the Bramasole villa on the outskirts of town, the iconic house she purchased in the film, though I’m not entirely sure we found the right one. But then again, that’s what places like Cortona do best.

They make you dream.

Later we visited Le Celle Hermitage, a Franciscan monastery hidden in a wooded ravine just outside the walls. Founded by Saint Francis of Assisi in 1211, the hermitage seems suspended between rock and forest. The narrow stone cells built into the mountain and the silence surrounding them make the place feel almost untouched by time.

In the lower part of Cortona, as we made our way back to the car, we visited the Chiesa di Sant’Agostino, which dates back to the 13th century. Its cloister is a place of profound stillness, where the simple rhythm of light and shadow on stone reminds us of the enduring beauty found in contemplative silence.

You may be disappointed if you come to Cortona searching for the exact fantasy promised by Diane Lane and Hollywood. But if you arrive willing to experience a real Tuscan town, with slower rhythms, genuine conversations, imperfect beauty, and the simple pleasure of wandering ancient streets, then Cortona gives you something better.

Not a fairy tale.

Something real.

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I live on the third floor in an older section of my Tuscan town. Three flights of worn travertine stairs curve upward beside an old stone wall, cool to the touch even in spring. Behind the building, a small forest leans gently toward the houses, carrying with it the scent of damp earth after the night air settles.

My next-door neighbour, Maria Teresa, spends part of every morning tending passionately to her flowers. It’s early May now, and bursts of violet and pink glicine (wisteria) spill over the balcony railings. She smiles at me as I go down the stairs.

“Buongiorno, Maria.”

It’s 11:30 on a warm, sunlit morning. My car is parked in the Fontibuona lot, a short walk away, but in Italy even the shortest walk can feel theatrical. Along Pieve in Piano, many shutters are flung wide open, letting in the morning breeze. Somewhere, a radio crackles from an upstairs room. A dog barks while repetitive pigeon coos echo from nests tucked into the walls.

As I make my way along the narrow street, the smell of soffritto, (carrots, onions, and celery simmering in olive oil) drifts through the air. Sweet, earthy, familiar. An invisible thread connecting one kitchen to another.

Further down the street, I hear someone loudly singing the latest Sanremo song. Her voice rises confidently out of an open window, slightly off-key. Beneath the music is something even stronger, the thick aroma of tomato sauce. I know that behind her house sits a garden crowded with basil, oregano, tomatoes, and other herbs.

As I turn the corner toward the parking lot, Signor Domenico appears, as he always does: polished shoes, pressed trousers, collared shirt neatly tucked in, dressed as though every day deserves respect. He pauses, smiles with the ease of someone who has nowhere urgent to be, and offers his daily greeting. Domenico must be well over ninety.

“Buongiorno… buon appetito,” he says in his usual gentle voice.

In Italy, saying Buon Appetito is more than simple politeness. It is a small daily ritual, exchanged not only at the table but even between strangers passing on the street close to noon. Around this hour, it is simply assumed that everyone will soon be gathering for lunch.

Unlike in English-speaking cultures, where meals often begin casually, Italians mark the moment with intention. Food is acknowledged, anticipated, and shared, even before the first bite is taken.

By now, the town has begun preparing itself for il pranzo. Soon the streets will empty completely. Doors will close softly. Plates will clatter behind shuttered windows. The town will surrender itself to lunch. Phones may ring unanswered. And if someone does answer, their voice will lower almost defensively:

“Richiama più tardi… stiamo pranzando.”
Call back later… we’re having lunch.

This pause is not accidental. It is not laziness or inefficiency. It is ritual. A daily act of surrender to pleasure, family, conversation, and food. In a culture devoted to living well, lunch is not something squeezed between obligations.

It is the obligation.

Buon appetito.

Tino

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Another milestone. Grazie mille.

It is a pure pleasure to write and an even greater pleasure to be read.

What does this number represent to me?

I see it as an invitation to people gathering each week in a hall to listen, reflect, smile, and share a moment together. Some weeks there are fewer, other weeks three times as many.

What a joy it is to share stories, thoughts, and pieces of Italy with people who genuinely want to hear them.

Thank you for being part of this journey.

Tino

And then one day, as you blow out your seven candles, each expressing ten years, you realize that we are, indeed, mortal.

At seventy, for some reason, a few things have become clear to me. Let me share some with you:

🎩 A human life is much shorter than I imagined when I was twenty, or even forty.

🎩 Peace is acquired internally, not externally.

🎩 I prefer harmony over disputes.

🎩 I let go more easily of insignificant things that once would have spoiled hours, even days, of my life.

🎩 I love more easily now, everyone, everything.

🎩 Life is truly the most beautiful thing I am experiencing right now.

🎩 I do not want to leave this world more than ever, yet I am more ready than ever if I must.

🎩 I am still working on my faults, but I stress less if I do not completely succeed.

🎩 Age has taught me that friendship is among the rarest and most valuable gifts we are given.

🎩 Boy, that hour sitting under a half-shaded pergola in the middle of a sunny afternoon, with a good book, feels damn good.

🎩 I look back at all the mistakes I made in my life and recognize they were not all mistakes. Many were simply part of growing up.

🎩 I no longer complain about my aching knees, because they remind me of the marathon in Milan, the sixteen-day walk to Rome, the thousands of kilometers I peddled all over the place, and the hours I spent on my knees planting flowers.

🎩 When I am undecided about something, I ask myself, why not? And then I choose.

🎩 I only drink good wine now. I cook with the others.

🎩 Growing older is inevitable. Growing old is optional.

Un abbraccio

Tino

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For my North American readers, you may be wondering who Gianni Morandi is.

The easiest explanation is this: imagine a kind of Italian Neil Diamond, though to many Italians of my generation he was more than that. He was a soundtrack. A presence. A voice that lived in the background of our youth.

For me, he was something even more personal.

When I emigrated from Italy to Canada in the 1960s, much was left behind, language, habits, familiar streets, the easy texture of belonging. But some things made the crossing with me. Morandi’s music was one of them.

I listened to him on the Italian programs on Montreal radio. I bought his latest records, later cassettes. His songs carried fragments of a world I had lost and was trying, in some way, to keep alive.

So, when I discovered he was performing at the Mandela Forum, in Florence, I felt almost obliged to go. Not out of nostalgia alone, but curiosity. What becomes of an idol sixty years later? He really still sings? Does anyone still listen?

Emi, who grew up more with Pink Floyd than Morandi, agreed to come, though mostly because she sensed it mattered to me.

The 8,000-seat forum was full.

And yes, the average age was exactly what you might imagine—mid-sixties and up. My people.

Then he came onstage.

For more than two hours, without pause, he sang with much energy of an 81 year old man. The voice, still unmistakably Morandi, was there, though not untouched by time.

And that, in a way, was the most beautiful part of the evening.

He did not try to chase the perfection of his younger voice. He did not pretend time had not passed. He sang as he is now, slightly worn in places, a note here and there softened by age—but carried by something deeper than precision.

There was a humility in it. A quiet acceptance.

At moments, he spoke of the people who had been part of his journey, naming them with gratitude, as if reminding us that no life, no career, is ever built alone. Friendship, loyalty, shared years, these, too, were part of the music.

And without ever saying it directly, the message came through clearly: life is not a collection of perfect notes, but of lived ones. Of mistakes, of chances taken, of years that leave their mark and, somehow, also give meaning.

He stood there, fully himself, not hiding his age but wearing it almost with pride.

And in doing so, he gave us permission to do the same.

At one point he launched into a medley of his sixties hits, and I felt time fold in on itself.

1965 was suddenly in the room.

I was no longer simply a man in Florence sitting among an animated sea of grey-haired fans. I was also the young immigrant boy in Canada, listening to those songs and trying to understand where he belonged.

And it struck me, almost physically, that an entire life had passed in between.

A lifetime.

Sixty years.

How can that be?

There I was, listening to the same voice that had accompanied my departure from Italy, now accompanying my return.

That was the real concert.

Not the songs, though they were wonderful.

It was the bridge they formed.

A bridge from one Italy to another. From the country I left to the country I came back to. From the boy I was to the man I have become.

And everything in between.

We often think memory lives in photographs or old letters. But sometimes it lives in a familiar voice singing a song you have carried across an ocean.

Last night, Gianni Morandi did not simply entertain me.

He reminded me that some threads never break.

They just keep connecting the years.

A presto

Tino

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Sometimes the things that trip us up in Italy are not the grand things, bureaucracy, taxes, trains that may or may not arrive but the small invisible codes no one explains.

A word, for instance.

Or in this case, one little pronoun.

If you are learning Italian, or planning to spend time here, you may think choosing between tu, Lei, or even voi is merely grammar. It is not. It can reveal where you come from, how you were raised… and, as I recently discovered, perhaps which century you belong to.

I was sitting in my dermatologist’s office in Colle di Val d’Elsa, where appointments often unfold less like medical consultations and more like conversations over coffee. We had drifted from sunscreen to her years studying in the United States when I asked, quite naturally:

“Dottoressa, ma voi avete preso la laurea negli Stati Uniti?”

Doctor, did you get your degree in the United States?

She stopped me mid-sentence, smiled, and said:

“Per piacere, dammi del tu.”

Please, use tu with me.

I felt instantly caught out.

I had been trying to be respectful by using voi, as I was taught way back when. Instead, I had apparently arrived sounding like someone’s elderly uncle from 1950.

Truth be told, using tu still feels wrong to me in many situations. Almost disrespectful. Too familiar. I grew up with voi as a sign of courtesy. It was how you addressed elders, professionals, people deserving deference. It was simply what good manners sounded like.

But here is where language carries its ghosts.

In English, we lost much of this. There was once thou and you—informal and formal, intimacy and distance carried inside a single pronoun. But somewhere along the way, everything became simply you. Clean. Simple. Flat.

Italian, on the other hand, still preserves these shades of relationship. Many Italians today use Lei as the formal standard, while tu has become almost instinctive in everyday life. And voi, the form I thought was impeccably polite has, in much of Italy, fallen out of fashion.

Partly because of history.

In 1938, Mussolini’s regime actually banned Lei, dismissing it as foreign and decadent, and imposed voi as the approved form of address, supposedly more Roman, more virile, more Italian. After the war, voi retained, for some, the scent of Fascism, and many abandoned it.

Which means that, without realizing it, I was not merely being formal with my dermatologist.

I was accidentally sounding like a 1930s radio announcer.

No wonder she told me to relax.

And yet, habits formed in childhood have long roots.

Then there’s Quebec.

As many of you know, living in the French-speaking province of Canada only reinforced my instinct for formality. In Quebec, respect in language still carries weight. In fact, as of this year, schools now require students to address teachers formally again—Monsieur, Madame, vous.

So, while Tuscany tells me, “Please, don’t be so formal,” Quebec seems to be saying, “Perhaps we were right all along.”

I am trying to get used to a simple tu, but I confess, it still feels like showing up to dinner without a jacket. But then again, who wears a jacket anymore at dinner?

The Italians around me are quick to insist I have it backwards, that using tu can be warmer, more natural, even more respectful in its own way.

Perhaps they’re right.

But if you happen to hear me address the baker, the pharmacist, or the older man fixing my shutters as though they were members of a royal court, know this:

I’m not trying to revive an old regime.

I’m simply trying to be polite while I work on my new manners.

Per lei,
Tino

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From our town in Tuscany to San Vittore del Lazio, it’s just under four hours—Autogrill stop included.

There’s always that quiet, internal smile—the kind only I notice—as I exit the autostrada and catch sight of my birthplace resting on its hill.

Easter Sunday — Home

It’s noon on Easter Sunday. The narrow streets and the piazza are already empty, as if the village has folded into itself for the day. The sky stretches endlessly blue, the sun warm but gentle.

My cousin Antonietta is waiting for us at the gate of her home, perched just above the village, with a view that opens onto the mountains.

We hug.

Not just a greeting—but something deeper. A warmth that never fades. A quiet reminder that no matter how far life takes us, the thread remains.

Then comes the second hug.

The real one. The one that lingers a second longer, that comes without thought, from somewhere deeper.

Inside, the house transforms quickly. The living room gives way to a dining room as more than twenty-five of us gather—cousins, nephews, children weaving between legs, voices overlapping, rising, filling every corner.

This is our tradition: Easter breakfast that slowly moves to lunch.

The table fills with dishes that appear only once a year—recipes that don’t belong to cookbooks, but to memory.

And today, words like calories or diet simply don’t exist.

We eat. We enjoy. That’s all.

Conversations move like waves—loud, effortless.
Massimo leans in, asking about family back in Montreal.
Across from me, Giuseppe drifts into stories of his days as a tenor, performing in grand opera houses—La Scala among them.

Now retired, he lives quietly in his grandfather’s home, right in the heart of the village.

A different stage. But no less meaningful.

After the sweet table—because there is always a sweet table—Emi suggests a walk.

A good idea, I say. Much better than surrendering to the pull of the sofa with an extra glass of wine.

Pasquetta — Between Sea and Stone

But our three-day escape had more in store.

The next morning, we set out early toward Sperlonga.

A town shaped by time—first by the Romans along the Tyrrhenian coast, then by necessity, as its people moved uphill to escape pirate raids. What remains is a whitewashed village that clings to the hill, its narrow alleys winding in quiet defiance of time.

Walking through it, you lose your bearings—not geographically, but emotionally. You’re no longer sure if you’re in Lazio, Puglia, or somewhere on a Greek island.

Emi is drawn to the tower by the sea.

Torre Truglia stands apart—smooth lines, bright white and ochre tones, a clean geometry that feels almost modern. Rebuilt many times, it has shed its medieval weight, leaving behind something lighter, almost sculptural.

Spring had decided to arrive all at once. It was warm. And being Pasquetta (Easter Monday), the beaches were already alive—people stretched across the sand, soaking in the first real sun of the year.

To end the day, we drove to Gaeta to see La Montagna Spaccata.

The Split Mountain—a jagged limestone cliff that, according to legend, cracked open at the moment of Christ’s death.

Walking down the narrow crevice toward the Grotta del Turco, you feel the cool breath of the sea rising to meet you. The rock walls close in around you, so near you can almost touch them—time, salt, and story pressed into stone.

Naples — Beauty and Chaos

The following morning: Naples.

A tighter schedule awaited us—Vesuvius, a walk through the city center in search of what else… pizza… and an evening at the San Carlo Theatre.

Naples is Naples.

It doesn’t ease you in—it hits you.

The noise, the movement, the chaos—it can make you dizzy if you’re not ready. Pause a second too long at a roundabout and a chorus of horns erupts behind you. Arms fly out of windows, gestures sharp and theatrical, as if you’ve committed something far more serious than hesitation.

You either adapt… or you take the bus.

By the time we began the climb toward Vesuvius, it was already lunchtime. I had spotted a few promising restaurants along the way—and this time, we chose well.

Sitting on a terrace overlooking the port from which I took the boat some 60 years ago to cross the ocean, with Vesuvius rising behind us, it felt almost surreal.

And the plate of tiny clams in front of me… unforgettable.

Vesuvius — The Missed Crater

The climb, however, told a different story.

We drove three-quarters of the way up, paid for parking, took the shuttle, and reached the final stretch—a short walk to the crater.

Only to find out we needed tickets.

No ticket booth. Just a sign reading: download the app to buy tickets

Reception? Nonexistent.

And when it finally came—tickets gone. Only ten allowed every thirty minutes, disappearing in seconds. Meanwhile, buses rolled in one after another, unloading groups already equipped with full access.

A system clearly not designed for the independent traveler.

We waited. Tried again. Nothing.

Eventually, we turned back.

E viva Napoli.

An Evening at the San Carlo

That evening, the San Carlo Theatre made up for everything.

An absolute marvel.

We sat in a curved palco, perfectly positioned—both visually and acoustically. One of those rare moments where everything aligns.

The performance—a two-hour recital of opera arias—filled the space effortlessly.

The kind of experience that stays with you long after the final note fades.

Coffee, History… and Reality

And of course, you can’t leave Naples without coffee and a sfogliatella.

We chose Caffè Gambrinus—an institution, a place where history lingers in the walls. Even the Pope is known to have had his breakfast here.

You go for that. Even though I was warned by my friend Brant to get the sfogliatella from a panificio

Because truthfully? The coffee and pastries were good… but not quite worth the 28 euros for two cappuccinos and two pastries.

Caserta — Grandeur and Questions

Our final stop: the Reggia di Caserta.

A three-kilometer walk through its monumental park, fed by the grand Carolino Aqueduct, leads you to the palace.

And what a palace.

Immense. Theatrical. Almost overwhelming in scale.

The Reggia di Caserta, a Bourbon masterpiece, is one of the world's largest royal residences. This Baroque marvel features 1,200 rooms, 34 staircases, and the sprawling 120-hectare park with majestic fountains. Designed by Vanvitelli to rival Versailles, its scale and opulent symmetry define Italian architectural grandeur. You walk through it with admiration—but also with a quiet question that lingers in the background.

Was all of this opulence… necessary?

But that’s a thought for another time.

For now, we simply take it in—for what it is.

A testament to ambition, power, and the human need to leave something behind.

Till next time,
somewhere,
some story,
some thought

A presto

Tino

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The sky hung low that afternoon, heavy with rain, and the farther I drove, the quieter everything became.

The Abbazia di Monte Oliveto Maggiore is one of the most important—and still active—Benedictine monasteries in Italy.

Entering the abbey feels like a “negotiation” with time itself. You cross a bridge and leave the 21st century behind.

At the hospitality office, a monk looked up, asked for my name, and nodded. No paperwork. No exchange of money. Just a key placed in my hand.

“Room two,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “The heating comes on at five.” It was 2:00 p.m.

The room held the cold the way old stone does—quietly, completely. Outside, rain tapped against the window. I stood there a moment, jacket still on.

I glanced at the schedule: Vespers at 6:30 p.m. Gregorian chants—I’ve always been drawn to them. Monophonic, purely vocal, dating back to Pope Gregory I.

I had four hours to fill. Sit in the cold and write, or explore the Great Cloister with its frescoes depicting the life of Saint Benedict.

I stayed. Pulled on my wool hat and decided to wait for better light the next day to visit the cloister.

I turned the desk toward the window, facing the church and the statue of Saint Benedict, and began working on my manuscript submission package.

By five, my fingers were numb. I escaped to the library—a masterpiece in itself. Built in the 15th century and shaped like a three-aisled church, it holds over 40,000 volumes.

From there, I drifted into the wine cellar, where a man spoke about the bottles the way others speak about family. I left with more than I needed—and no regret.

I find great inspiration in the story of Bernardo Tolomei. He was a powerful Sienese lawyer—a man of high status and intellect—who at the age of 40 decided to leave the “Executive” world behind. He withdrew to this isolated ridge to find a more essential truth. He traded the courtroom for the cloister, founding the Benedictine Olivetans in 1313.

The abbey church holds a remarkable wooden inlaid choir from the 1500s. I sat quietly as the monks filed in, their figures moving through the dim light. The chants began. Latin words I couldn’t understand, yet didn’t need to. Twenty or so voices, steady and repetitive, filled the space. Meditative. Grounding.

The monastery doesn’t serve meals, but a few hundred feet up the hill sits La Torre. I arrived at seven—early by Italian standards—earning a curious look from the owner, unsure whether I was there to eat or just for an aperitivo.

The menu offered a full array of Tuscan specialties, but the waiter quickly pointed out the day’s dishes. Artichoke season—fried or steamed. Homemade tortellini in chicken broth, perfect for a cold evening.

The place felt like a family living room. Near the door, the cook ate before the rush. A young boy hovered nearby. A cat paced slowly between the tables before settling onto a cushion behind my chair. An older woman sat quietly.

We started talking. Her name was Paola. She had taken over the restaurant in 1964 at twenty-three. Now her nephews and grandchildren all worked there. Everything felt in place—the warmth of the room, the simplicity of the food, the cold outside. It all came together in that bowl of tortellini.

The next morning, I woke early. Paola was already behind the counter. Her cappuccino—thick, creamy—was perfect.

With hiking poles in hand, I set out for a six-kilometre walk through the surrounding hills and forest. From a distance, the monastery revealed itself fully—isolated, almost hidden. A place apart.

Back mid-morning, I visited the Great Cloister. More than thirty frescoes depicting the life of Saint Benedict, begun by Luca Signorelli in 1495 and later completed by Il Sodoma. It’s said Signorelli influenced Michelangelo—these paintings are alive with detail. Looking closely at the faces; they aren’t just religious icons—they are portraits of real people, full of humor, vanity, and grace.

What struck me most was their openness. No barriers. No glass. These works, centuries old, simply exist—within reach. A quiet masterpiece, left to be discovered.

After an afternoon nap, I wrote some more, then returned to the Vespers. This time I counted twenty-six monks.

The night before, I had been alone. Tonight, two young women sat nearby. As we stood to leave, I heard, “Buonasera, Tino.”

In that remote place, it felt impossible.

I turned. A familiar face, but I couldn’t place it.

“Rocca delle Macìe,” she said.

Madelina. One of the sommeliers where I bring my cycling groups for wine tastings. She and her husband were visiting with a friend. We ended up having dinner together at La Torre.

That evening, I read more of the book I had brought with me—one of the best I’ve read this year. A book that stayed with me long after I closed it: When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi.

It tells the story of a brilliant neurosurgeon who suddenly becomes the patient. At thirty-six, just as his life is taking shape, he is diagnosed with terminal cancer. What follows is less about illness than it is about meaning—how he tries to understand his life when time is no longer something he can count on.

He writes with a quiet clarity, moving between doctor and dying man, searching for what makes life worth living even as it begins to slip away.

I was supposed to leave at nine the next morning. But there was more I wanted—more walking, more writing, more meals in that family atmosphere restaurant, more chants echoing through those wooden stalls carved five centuries ago.

I called Emi and told her I was staying another day.

Meditation doesn’t always require stillness.

Buona Pasqua

Tino

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The only consolation was that I was not alone. Even well-informed Italians seemed unsure.

The country had been called to vote on a national referendum proposing reforms to the judicial system—changes that would reshape how judges and prosecutors operate, and how the judiciary is governed. Supporters claimed it would make the system more efficient and impartial. Critics warned it could weaken judicial independence.

On paper, it seemed like a question that should lead to clarity.

Instead, it led to doubt.

And the more I tried to form an opinion, the more I began to suspect that the confusion wasn’t just about the reform itself. It was something deeper. Something cultural.

Having lived on two continents, I can say that politics are discussed differently here. In Italy, they are everywhere—from the office to the café to the dinner table. Emi and I were no exception. Our conversations, like many others, circled the same questions without ever quite landing.

At one point, she said something that stayed with me: nothing is ever taken for granted here. Italians are used to having to work for everything—to question, to challenge, to push back. Even when something seems straightforward, the instinct is to examine it from every angle.

And suddenly, something clicked.

I remembered when I signed the lease for my apartment. What would have taken less than 24 hours in Canada turned into a three-month process here—filled with discussions, clarifications, revisions, and eventually the involvement of both a lawyer and an accountant.

Not because something was wrong.

But because everything had to be questioned, debated, and interpreted.

And in that moment, I realized: it wasn’t inefficiency.

It was a mindset.

The same mindset I was now seeing play out in the referendum.

In Italy, understanding is rarely handed to you clean and whole. It is something you wrestle with. And that struggle has a way of escalating.

At first, it feels like a conversation. Then, slowly, it turns into something else—a dialogue where everyone speaks, but no one really listens.

It doesn’t begin with tension. It begins with conviction.

Each person becomes a little more certain, a little more anchored in their position. What starts as an exchange of ideas hardens into something rigid. No one says, “I won’t change my mind,” but you can feel that they already won’t.

And then, inevitably, it happens.

The discussion becomes a scontro frontale—a head-on collision. Nuance disappears. Curiosity fades. What remains are two perspectives, facing each other, neither willing to move.

And this isn’t limited to politics.

It’s in the air—a constant state of agitation. From the public square to the neighborhood bar, conversations carry an intensity, as if every argument were, in some way, a question of identity.

So where does that leave things?

Not necessarily clearer. Not necessarily resolved.

But perhaps that’s not the point.

Because in Italy, the process often matters more than the conclusion. The debate itself—the friction, the tension, the refusal to accept things at face value—is part of how people engage with the world.

It can be exhausting.

But it can also be something else.

After all, this is the country of Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Ferrari, and Massimo Bottura. A place where beauty, innovation, and brilliance have often emerged from intensity, contradiction, and relentless questioning.

As they say, c’è solo un filo sottile tra il genio e la follia—There is only a thin line between genius and madness.

Perhaps that is the real secret of Italy.

That constant tension, that endless friction of ideas—it doesn’t just exhaust.

It creates.

After all, life is a stage.

And Italians don’t act.

They live it.

Tino

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I love analyzing things. In fact, in my previous life, my ex used to say, “You analyze the shit out of everything.”

The funny thing is, I never felt like I was analyzing. I’ve always thought of myself as simply curious—a person who likes to dig a little deeper into things.

Hmm… maybe that is analyzing.

Anyway…

Let’s look at the results of last week’s question about choosing between spaghetti by the ocean or sailing out into it.

I asked what I thought was a simple question:

Choose between two images:
a plate of spaghetti facing the ocean… or sailing out into it.

The answers came back like waves.

58% chose the spaghetti. (Sensory-driven)
29% chose the boat. (Captain my Captain)
13% said: both. (and why not)

Now, I could start breaking this down—compare men and women, analyze which countries people are from, maybe even build a fancy chart like a proper academic study.

But this is just between us, so let’s keep it simple, hmm? And not overanalyze it.

They’re both pleasures of life, right?

Right.

But let me ask you this: if it were just a plate of spaghetti at a kitchen table, without the ocean view, how many of that 58% would we have lost?

I’d say quite a few.

Because if you think about it, the question was never really about spaghetti or the boat.

It was about pleasure.

Both images have a dreamy quality. And the choice often depends on how the moment is presented.

You’re in Italy—by the ocean, and who makes spaghetti better than Italians? Then add something unexpected: tartufo.

It’s March. People are eager to be outside, close to the sea.

The boat lovers are probably thinking romance, adventure—the picture suggests being out there, with the wind between water and sky, maybe alone, maybe with someone you love.

Can spaghetti seduce you?

I mean, it’s predictable. You twirl, you eat, you win.

Well… not if it’s presented by the ocean, with a glass of Chianti beside it.

That can send you straight to la-la land.

The taste of seafood, the shaved tartufo, the perfectly al dente long pasta…

It definitely sent me to la-la land.

At some point, the boat disappeared completely, right in front of my eyes.

Thank you for participating. It’s all in good fun.

And let’s not stop dreaming.

Sometimes those little dreams… eventually happen.

They do!

A presto

Tino

And here is the other picture that was in competition.

And for anyone who did not have a chance to vote, or who wants to take another shot at it, you can do so below.

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Yesterday, I took my first stroll along the oceanfront—just an hour from home. It wasn’t quite a hot summer day yet, but it was warm enough to sit by the shore, savor a plate of spaghetti alla chitarra with truffles, and take in the beautiful view.

Now my question to you: which of these two pictures captivates you more?

a) sailing ⛵️

b) spaghetti 🍝

I’m looking forward to your answer.