September 9th, 2025
I have been sitting, closing my eyes, and really feeling into how it feels to be back in Italy. When I mean back, I mean way back, like DNA back, like grandfather back, like great-grandmother back, like great, great-grandmother back. Like Scorza back. Like Tarantino back. Like Fiorentino back.
And it feels like wisdom.
It feels like the old way of doing things has rooted itself deep in the foundations of the farmhouse I am staying in and is just waiting for me to ask what it knows.
It sounds like the bees and the birds and the boar all speak Italian
It feels like the silver glistening olive orchard at dusk is waiting, like a 100-year-old grandfather for me to sit down and ask, “What do you think?”
It feels like the stone walls covered with ivy can tell you the best way to till the field or propagate a grape.
It sounds like a bell tower chiming the hour, so you know when to go home for lunch and sex, and siesta
It looks like cypress trees framing a vista, so you know just where to look.
It feels like warm stone under your feet as you find in the garden pots of rosemary, thyme, basil and mint to make fresh tea.
It tastes like wrapping a bruschetta around melon and deciding is a perfect breakfast
It tastes like drinking wine all day and eating pasta for lunch and dinner, and feeling it doesn’t come with consequences.
It feels like my great, great grandmother is calling me to sit by the tomato vines to show me how little to weed and how much to prune
It sounds like a small, quiet beach club where you can hear the soft surf and children begging for ice cream in Italian.
It feels like screwing up the times the restaurants are open in Castiglione Della Pescaia and settling for a quick bite in a café in a piazza, only to have one of the best carbonara of our lives.
It feels like standing at the foot of an ancient stone wall, your hand resting on a thousand-year-old door—once bolted shut, once marked by the blood of pirates and conquerors. Now it swings wide, inviting you across the arched threshold and into cobbled streets, where history whispers at every turn and, unexpectedly, the perfect gelato awaits.
It sounds like a woman who has thrown open the shutters to call down to her son and yell at him while flapping a towel in the air, promising a smack.
It feels like the joy of a server bringing the best olive oil to the table and pouring it in a spiral on your dish because it is from his family’s orchard. No, don’t add salt! Don’t add parmesan. Taste! Dip the bread, like you would wine.
It feels like Scott going around a traffic circle fast and sure, like he was born to drive us across Tuscany into the sunset, while his Italian kicks into gear.
It feels like a double-take as I look at three old men sitting on a bench, with one holding a cigar to his mouth while he rests his other arm over his full belly. Tilting back in his chair, he puffs with a loving stare at me in a way that makes him look just like my Grandfather Frank.
It feels like standing under the full eclipsing moon with two hotel staff and a Michelin-starred chef, who wears the high hat to prove it. We tilt our heads up, feeling the great mystery of celestial bodies moving in shadows, as we talk in broken English about which sign we are in the zodiac and laugh about how the chef and I are both cancers.
It feels like making out in a cabana on the Tyrrhenian Sea and wondering how far we can go before being caught.
With half our trip left, it feels like a really good time so far. It feels, tastes, smells, and looks like love…delicious, timeless, and very wise Amore.
Sent from my iPhone
