Why Italy?
I’ve been asked the question more than once. In fact, I’ve asked the question more than once myself.
Why Italy?
Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, with a family tree firmly rooted in the frozen forests of Norway, I grew up in a hundred shades of grey, soaked in a sobering drizzle of moderation. How could I ever feel at home in the happy chaos of a beach club on the Adriatic, where the candy-striped umbrellas protect against the sun rather than the rain? Where the swimsuits are bright and the skin is dark, instead of the other way around
Having lived in the eternally restless heart of New York City for more than thirty years, how much is there to see in towns made of simple stone and terra-cotta, not glass and steel? And why is everything closed at 2 in the afternoon?
Sure—you can sip a Chianti on a cypress-shaded terrace and watch the sun settle into the nodding sunflowers. Nice for a vacation. But who could live like that?
Mmm.
It grows on you.
When my wife and I first purchased our dream house in the hills of Le Marche, a pleasantly undiscovered region on the Eastern coast of Central Italy, we thought it would be a “jumping off” point. We would explore Europe, from Vienna to Madrid, Prague to the Greek islands, like Easy Jet-setting students on a semester abroad.
At the same time, the house we bought was missing one of four walls and part of the roof. So there’s that.
.The next few years required almost bi-monthly visits to the Italian countryside. Of course we needed to meet with the geometra (a role that in Italy falls somewhere between a general contractor, architect and political fixer). Have a coffee with the real estate agent who got us into this mess. Share a spaghetti carbonara with the local inn keepers who sheltered deluded foreigners restoring properties. Go to dinner with the family of the farmer who sold us the house.
There were Italian lessons in Milan. A weekend in Naples to see the presepi, the classic Neapolitan nativity scenes. Beach days.
And that was before the dog showed up.
We’ve still not made it to Vienna. Prague either. My wife made it to Madrid on business, long enough to take a photo in El Retiro park. Instead of jumping off, we fell in… to a life we never knew we wanted. One in which serendipity, beauty, and a thousand excuses to eat and drink have sustained us for more than ten years now. A life lived Italian.
I’m hoping to share some of those experiences in this space, and highlight some of the people and places that catch my interest, or have left their mark on my memory. No “best of” lists, no itineraries for what to do with 5 hours in Pisa. Just some stories and reflections about beautiful moments and good people— what’s real, what matters and what endures.
As my personal goal for this newsletter is to move from a monologue to a dialogue, you won’t be hit up for a paid subscription, nor inundated with emails. I’m hoping to do two a month, except in August when all bets are off. Nothing’s happening in Italy then anyway. I hope you’ll consider subscribing, sharing and leaving a comment when you can, just so I’m not muttering away to myself like all the other people on the subway in New York.
Some of you may have read my recent piece in the Boston Globe.
"Beautiful Ruins: What about those 1 euro houses in Italy?
In preparing it, I spoke with a Globe editor who shared her experience on vacation in Puglia. Having always considered herself 100 percent Irish (like all the other people on the T in Boston), she was nevertheless struck by a strange sensation of familiarity and ease as she and her family explored the small Pugliese towns. She felt at home—so much so that she began to wonder if perhaps she had some deeper, psychic connection to this place. A previous life on the Adriatic? Her husband, who grew up in Italy, set her straight. “Everyone vacationing in Italy feels like that”, he explained.
In a funny twist, the editor wouldn’t let it go and eventually did the research. She found that she is more than 50 percent Southern Italian, with strong connections to Puglia. “Ultimately,” she concluded, “maybe we’re all a little bit Italian”.
Indeed. Or wish we were. Or can be, if we take another sip of Chianti and a deep breath, and learn to enjoy the sunset, sunflowers, and the infinite possibilities of simple stone and terra-cotta.
So appreciate you checking it out! Totally agree with you about adapting to a new country. Any time I have to call the gas company, the electric company, the government, I go into panic mode. We're at the house in Marche now, and yesterday the entire water supply disappeared. The company had turned off our service because we'd not paid the last three bills, which the postal service had never delivered (receiving mail in Italy is about as likely as finding Thai food). So I spent the afternoon on the phone and then trying to figure out how to pay the bill, as by now it was 4pm and the banks and offices were closed. It's an adventure-- but adventures by nature have their ups and plenty of downs. Thanks so much for following the newsletter!
Really glad to you liked it-- can't tell you how much I appreciate the support. Actually thought about the viability of making a little recording studio in the old building behind our house. Then I just pictured the first time I needed a piece of equipment repaired or turning on the power and watching all the lights brown out across the countryside. Maybe not the ideal location. But the guest room is ready!