But Nooooo! Why would I think Italian bureaucracy has improved?

This seems to be my official month of facing down Italian bureaucratic challenges. After our rousing success renewing our identity cards in Montecarlo, and a (hopefully) nearly complete victory securing our local parking permit, I decided to take on an unusual and far more difficult challenge. Now, on paper, it doesn’t seem like it should be complicated. But… well, Italy. What more really needs to be said?

One of the three offices I visited. Three times here
in a single day.
 

To give you some background: When I obtained my citizenship jure sanguinis back in 2011, all four of my children were included. Since then, they have successfully registered their own children for citizenship. However, one of my grandchildren, Ferhan, was registered with an incorrect birth certificate. Ferhan had been an orphan in Ethiopia, and when Dan and Sandra adopted him, officials had to guess at his age and assign a birthdate for the paperwork. Once he arrived in the United States, it became obvious that he was older than first estimated. With the help of an American lawyer and some meticulous paperwork filed in Washington state, his birth year was officially changed to make him one year older on his U.S. records.

Office 2: Protocollo.

Changing his Italian records, however, has been a saga. Sandra has been working on this off and on since at least 2022. Legal advice from lawyers and Italian consulates dictated a strict chain of command: His Ethiopian birth certificate had to be amended first. Then, it had to b
e translated into Italian by a certified translator, and the translation had to be officially notarized. This required the intervention of an Italian lawyer, who waded through a maze of legal obstacles before finally handing off the documents to a highly respected translator in Lucca.

Two weeks ago, I picked up the final package. The Ethiopian birth certificate was a masterpiece of red tape, boasting eight official stamps from both Ethiopian and Italian officials on the back. Attached to it was the Italian translation, sporting two more official stamps. Ten stamps in total. I was armed and ready.

The friendliest office!

I decided to start my strategy by writing a letter. It served two purposes: it helped me organize the highly complicated situation into a logical timeline, and it allowed me to take my time translating it into proper Italian. I used my AI assistant to polish the translation, and the final product looked incredibly formal and impressive. I emailed it to the anagrafe (registry) office on Sunday, confident that someone would read it first thing Monday morning.

My hope was simple. They would respond, invite me in for an appointment to drop off the documents, and tell me to come back in a few days to receive an officially stamped estratto (extract) of Ferhan’s new birth certificate. Then, I could pass it along to Sandra so she could take the next step of updating his Italian passport. I even half-expected to be greeted by a brass band celebrating the brilliance of my strategy, the logic of my writing, and my patriotic service to the fatherland.

Well, guess what? None of that happened.

Instead, I lived out the lines of that famous Simon & Garfunkel song: The Sounds of Silence.

Having received zero response by Friday morning, I went to the anagrafe office in person. Luckily, there was no line. I decided the easiest way to explain the situation was to ask the clerk to read the email, which I had loaded onto my phone. The employee must have been a world-class speed reader. He glanced at my 300-word masterpiece for about ten seconds, looked up, and said that I must first submit a written query to the protocollo (the official municipal logging office) at a different address. I asked for clarification, but he just repeated the instruction.

Fortunately, the protocollo office was only about a block away. Again, there was no line, but the man at the desk looked utterly bewildered when I showed him the letter on my phone. He retreated into a back office, consulted with a colleague, and returned with a new directive.

“You must return to anagrafe and ask for a modulo di richiesta—a request form,” he said.

That actually made perfect sense to me. Based on my recent experience at the Montecarlo police station, they had given me a physical form for my parking pass, which I then took to the protocollo to be officially recorded and stamped before carrying it back. I knew the drill.

So, it was back to the anagrafe office. I had to wait in line this time, but only for about five minutes.

“The man at the protocollo told me to come back here and ask for a request form,” I explained to the clerk.

“Hai ragione,” said the exact same man I had spoken to just ten minutes prior.

What the heck? Hai ragione means “you are right.” If he knew this was what I needed from the very beginning, why didn't he just give it to me during our first conversation? Stifling my frustration, I took the modulo di richiesta. He told me I could go home and fill it out “con calma”—at my own leisure.

But I was not exactly calm, and I certainly didn't want to go home yet. I walked back to the protocol office and showed the man the blank form, determined not to waste time filling it out if it was the wrong one. The official, who possessed infinitely more patience than the guy in the registry office, assured me that if that’s what they gave me, it must be the right one.

I started filling it out at a desk next to the counter. It had two pens on it and seemed explicitly placed there for this exact purpose. However, the official quickly informed me that only one person was allowed inside the office at a time, and someone was already waiting outside the door.

Banished to the street, I sat on a public bench to finish the form, only to realize I had no pen. Luckily, the office right next door had a sign reading: Pescia per tutti: Sportello del Cittadino URP. I recognized this as the Citizen’s Relations Office—a place explicitly designed to help locals navigate government bureaucracy.

A very friendly lady greeted me with a warm smile, offered me a pen, and pointed me to a desk with a comfortable chair. After I filled out the form, I showed it to her and explained the situation. After complimenting my Italian, she confirmed it was filled out perfectly. She even proactively made a photocopy of my carta d’identità, knowing the protocol office would inevitably demand it.

Armed with my completed form and ID copy, it was back to the protocollo for the third time. This time, success! The official took my request, made his photocopies, exercised his rubber stamp, and filed the form away. He then stamped a sticky note, scribbled a five-digit case number on it, and handed it to me as my official receipt.

I foolishly assumed I could take this receipt straight back to the man at the anagrafe, show him the proof of filing, and finally hand over the Ethiopian birth certificate.

Instead, he made me think of the comedian Bobby Finn, who went viral for his skits about the English language. You know the line: “Nooooo! Why would you think…?” And when you question the logic, he shuts down the argument with absolute circular reasoning: “It’s because… that’s why!” paired with a bewildered, “You don’t see how?!”

Okay, maybe that’s a bit harsh, but I was completely shut down.

“You have to come back next week,” the clerk said. When I looked confused and asked him to explain the process, he grew impatient. Spotting my hesitation, he switched to English, assuming my issue was a language barrier rather than sheer disbelief. “Next week. Four, five days. Come back,” he said with obvious exasperation.

I checked back in with my new friend, the helpful lady at the Sportello del Cittadino, and she confirmed that this was, indeed, standard procedure. The internal mail system meant it would take a few days for my request to physically travel from the protocol office across the courtyard to the registry office. It made sense on a structural level, mostly because the protocol official had kept my form instead of stamping it and letting me hand-carry it back.

And so, I walked away, still holding the Ethiopian birth certificate and its translation, with those ten official stamps mocking me from inside my folder. It feels mind-boggling that I had to jump through so many hoops just to earn the right to get back in line a week from now.

I’ve heard the legendary horror stories about Italian bureaucracy for years, so I shouldn't be entirely surprised. Yet somehow, especially after my incredibly smooth experience with the municipality in Montecarlo, I truly thought things had modernized.

But nooooo! Why would I think…?

 

Diary of a Wimpy Expat: The Montecarlo parking saga continues

Will I ever actually hold a Montecarlo parking permit in my hands again?

Today marked my third consecutive Thursday pilgrimage to the local police station. As you may recall, this sanctuary of administration opens its doors to the public for a grand total of three hours a week—from 9 a.m. to noon. I marched into the Municipio feeling optimistic. In my hands, I held my beautifully filled-in, officially stamped application, and the hard-fought printout of our car’s carta di circolazione, courtesy of some heroes at the Florence airport.

I arrived to find the office entirely dark and firmly locked.

Please, just give me one of these!

But I wasn’t discouraged. This is Italy, after all; a locked door at opening time is practically part of the charm. I took a seat on a wooden chair in the hallway and pulled out a book I currently have on loan from the Montecarlo library: Diario di una Schiappa: Una Vacanza di Panico. For the uninitiated, it’s the Italian translation of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series—where absolutely everything that can go wrong for Greg Heffley and his family does exactly that. It is right at my Italian reading level, and a devastatingly fitting analogy for my epic quest to obtain a laminated piece of dashboard plastic.

About 10 minutes into the story of Greg’s holiday panic, the hallway lights flickered on, followed by the glorious, metallic rattle of a key turning in the office lock.

I entered and was greeted by a completely different poliziotto than the officer who had previously given me the solemn lecture on the legality of my glove box. Not wanting to get bogged down in the messy history of my previous struggles, I kept it simple: “I’ve come to get a parking permit.”

He looked over the papers, nodded sagely, and delivered the classic line: “Everything seems to be in order. But you need to take this to the protocol office.”

“Ah, but I already did!” I replied, pointing triumphantly to the page. “See the official stamp?”

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, entirely unbothered. “Then it is all okay.”

“Excellent,” I said, sensing victory. “So last week I didn’t have the carta di circolazione, but here it is. Can I give you that, along with the application form?”

“You can keep the application form,” he replied breezily. “That is your copy. The protocol office already kept one for their records.”

Fantastic. Except he didn’t seem to grasp that I had been turned away seven days prior precisely because of the missing registration. I wasn’t about to let a rogue piece of paper break this fragile chain of custody. I gently but firmly urged him to take it, insisting he keep the application too, so there would be no cosmic doubt that the two documents belonged together.

“Va bene,” he sighed, finally accepting them both.

I took a breath. “Great! So... can I get my parking pass now?”

“Oh, torna giovedì prossimo. It should be ready by then.”

Mamma mia.

Next Thursday. If my math is correct, that will mark exactly three weeks since I first crossed this threshold—plus a few extra days, considering we arrived on a Tuesday. But what choice did I have? You do not argue with the people in charge of the laminator. I smiled, accepted my fate, and prepared to make my exit.

But then, a lingering anxiety stopped me. “And where am I supposed to park in the meantime? Only outside the city walls?”

He shrugged, offering a casual, quintessentially Italian wave of dismissal. “Oh, non ti preoccupare. Don’t worry about that. You won’t be fined.”

Well, admittedly, he’s probably on point there. In our time living in Montecarlo, a police parking ticket is about as uncommon as a bad meal. On the legendary handful of occasions where the police do go on a rare ticketing spree, they do a thorough job and ticket every single offender in sight. When that happens, about 25% of the cars wind up with tickets—meaning the other 75% are law-abiding citizens who actually have their passes. The remaining quarter of drivers are simply gambling on the fact that the officers almost never issue tickets. It’s a beautifully lax approach to enforcement that everyone understands.

So, armed with nothing but the verbal blessing of a shifting Thursday police guard, we are officially back to parking right outside our front door—provided there’s a space available, of course. The exile outside the walls is over, even if the paperwork isn’t.

And maybe, just maybe, next Thursday will be the charm. The tragic irony, of course, is that the car is due back to the rental agency the following Monday. If all goes to plan, we will have exactly four days to enjoy our hard-fought, hyper-exclusive parking privilege.

If that isn’t a chapter straight out of Greg Heffley’s life, I don’t know what is.

From bins to liquid gold: A day at the Frantoio Sociale del Compitese

The day after we finished a memorable and sensory experience of harvesting olives on the steep hillsides of Vorno, we experienced another thrill: a high-tech grand finale of seeing our olives transformed into savory, spicy liquid gold.

We share a special moment with Shandra

We loaded up the crates and drove along winding roads to the Frantoio Sociale del Compitese in Pieve di Compito. Founded in 1976 by a small group of 45 local growers, this cooperative has grown over the last 50 years to include more than 1,300 members across the Lucchesia region. Walking into the facility—a beautiful piece of modern architecture that respects Tuscan tradition with its exposed brick and massive wooden ceiling beams—you immediately feel the buzz of a community deeply connected to the land.

This is where the olives are placed first, leaves
and twigs included. Then a shaker removes the
residue and sends the olives on their way to 
another bin, where they wait to be pressed.

We arrived at our 12:30 PM appointment to find an orderly, lively line of cars and trucks waiting to unload their precious cargo. Being third in line, our group leader, Shandra, found out it would be a short 30-to-60-minute wait before our olives hit the machinery. We happily passed the time inside the frantoio’s spaccio aziendale (company store), enjoying fantastic, locally sourced panini at a great price while surrounded by shelves of regional wines, honey, and cured meats.

Then, it was showtime.

When the workers gave us the word, we were allowed into the heart of the pressing area. Thanks to a recent €500,000 technological upgrade, the facility features a state-of-the-art, temperature-controlled continuous system that processes up to three tons of olives an hour. Bins stood lined up in a strict queue, each clearly marked with a specific number and digital tracking label. Because our final harvest weight hit roughly 280 kilograms, we comfortably cleared the mill’s strict 250 kg minimum requirement for an individual pressing (frangitura singola). This meant our olives wouldn’t be mixed with anyone else’s; we were getting 100% of our own oil.

As our number came up, we watched the computers shift the production lines. Shandra slid a shiny, pristine metal lattina (oil canister) right under the output spout. She opened the valve, and out poured a vibrant stream of freshly pressed “liquid gold.” We all stood around, grinning broadly, snapping photos to capture the culmination of our hard work.

The first canister filled all the way up to its 30 kg mark. Shandra quickly closed the valve, swapped it out for a second container, and opened it again to catch the final, rich streams as the spout eventually slowed to a steady drip, yielding another 10 kg.

All told, our 294 kg of olives produced nearly 40 liters of fresh extra virgin olive oil (about 36.6 kg). In the olive world, mill output is everything. Our harvest resulted in a 12.46% extraction yield, meaning our novice crew landed squarely in the middle of the classic Tuscan average of 12% to 13%. It was the absolute sweet spot of quality and quantity!

“It’s one of the best ten experiences of my life,” Shandra said. “I never dreamed that I would have my own oil from olives we picked by hand. The satisfaction of working together, of thinking of the spiritual implications of the harvest . . . of the work we’re putting into it and how it relates to the villa—all this made it a great and joyful experience.”

While Lucy and I haven’t had the chance to taste the oil just yet, its destination makes it taste sweet anyway. Every single drop of this premium oil is being dedicated to Villa La Fonte—the historic former convent in Vorno that Agape Italia is beautifully restoring into a pilgrim hostel along the Via Francigena. The oil will be proudly served at communal tables to weary travelers next spring and shared as a thank-you to the project’s dedicated supporters.

Knowing that our sore muscles and the laughter we shared across the branches resulted in literal fuel and hospitality for future pilgrims is the ultimate reward. We fully intend to keep donating our labor to Villa La Fonte in the years to come, and we can’t wait for the day we finally dip a piece of toasted Tuscan bread into the fruits of our very first harvest.

 

Raining olives and a shared table: we savor our first Tuscan olive harvest

Agape staff member Michea Giuni knocks olives
onto the net with the mechanical shaker.

For more than a decade, autumn in Tuscany has meant a familiar, beautiful view for Lucy and me. Every fall since we bought our Montecarlo home in 2015, we have driven past rolling hills covered with hundreds of silver-green olive trees, watching from a distance as groups of people knocked down the autumn fruit into bright green nets spread wide across the grass. We always wondered what it felt like to be part of that timeless Italian tradition. Last week, we finally found out.

For two beautiful half days, we traded the view from the car window for a spot right in the middle of the grove, participating in our very first Italian olive harvest.

Shandra prays as we thank God before lunch.

Our workspace was a stunning, steep hillside just above a historic former convent in Vorno, located about a half hour from Montecarlo. The property is currently being converted into a hostel for travelers walking the ancient Via Francigena pilgrimage route—a wonderful project by Agape Italia (an affiliate of the Ame
rican Christian organization Cru) that is set to open next spring. As friends of the Agape staff, we were invited to join a crew of nine other workers and volunteers to tackle the property's 150 olive trees.

The work was an absolute sensory experience. We began by dragging and spreading the heavy green nets across the sloped earth under the branches. Then, the harvest began in earnest. Armed with long rakes and a rented mechanical shaker, we set to work.

It truly rained olives. A steady shower of fruit, silver leaves, and the occasional surprised insect rained down right on our heads. For the lower, heavy branches, we used a traditional technique called “milking”—gently pulling our hands along the branch to strip off the olives.

Midway through, the battery-powered shaker stopped working. While the sudden breakdown slowed our progress, it turned out to be a hidden blessing. Without the mechanical noise, the grove grew quiet, opening up the space for easy, laughing conversations across the branches.

The work wasn't grueling, but it certainly made us use muscles we forgot we had. After hours of beating and raking the branches, my hands and arms definitely felt the cramp of honest labor, and we had to carefully watch our step on the steep slopes. Lucy, who took on the vital job of sitting on the ground to sort out stray twigs and broken branches from the piles, caught a bit of an autumn chill from the damp earth, but the camaraderie kept our spirits incredibly warm.

Without a doubt, the heartbeat of the experience was the community. Getting to know the dedicated staff and fellow volunteers felt effortless while working side-by-side. That bond carried over perfectly into the afternoons, where we gathered around a long table outside the convent for lunch. We feasted on traditional Tuscan meals, savored rich pecorino cheese, and washed it all down with fresh spring water, local wines, and shots of hot espresso.

By the time we bundled up the final nets and scooped the last fruits into our cestini (baskets), our eleven-person crew had gathered nearly 300 kilograms of olives.

The next day, our Agape friends hauled the crates off to a local frantoio (mill) to be pressed into fresh, vibrant olive oil. We returned home with tired arms, full stomachs, and the immense satisfaction of knowing that the next time we drive past the Tuscan hills in autumn, we won't just be looking at a postcard—we will be remembering a tradition we finally call our own.

 

Part 2 of parking saga seems hopeful, but I'm not counting my polli yet

When I last left you, I was trapped in an Italian bureaucratic limbo. My rental car was missing its vital carta di circolazione (registration certificate), the local police had warned me I was technically driving illegally, and I was forced to park outside the city walls of Montecarlo. I had just spent twenty minutes on hold with a centralized customer service line, receiving a polite promise that a copy of the document would be emailed to me.

I told you not to hold your breath. I was right. Two days passed with nothing but radio silence.

The view from exile—parking outside the
walls while waiting for the polli to hatch.

With Thursday fast approaching—the one day a week the local police handle parking passes—I knew I’d need to get proactive. Since I am returning the car to the Florence Airport branch in November, it occurred to me that the destination desk had a vested interest in my contract. Plus, I’ve always had excellent service at that office. I ran the idea by my AI digital sidekick, who enthusiastically approved, and we collaborated on drafting a polished email to the Budget customer service office, sending a cc to the Florence office.

The contrast in responses was a masterclass in modern customer service.

First came the corporate response from Budget’s centralized system. It arrived almost immediately, proudly bearing a disclaimer at the bottom: “This response was generated with the support of AI to help address your inquiry efficiently.”

Efficiently? Not exactly. It was a spectacular display of automated blame-shifting. Instead of helping, the corporate AI loftily informed me:

“The vehicle should include the registration certificate and mandatory safety documents, and your rental agreement also states that you should ask for the vehicle condition report to be corrected if the vehicle registration or other mandatory documents are not present in the vehicle... Given the police instruction that the vehicle should not be driven without the document, the safest next step is to remain parked...”

Right. Because who doesn’t love conducting a multi-page legal document audit while trying to navigate traffic outside Milano Centrale? Their grand solution to their own missing paperwork was to tell me to just leave the car parked and call another premium-rate hotline.

But then came the human heroes.

Just 40 minutes after sending my email, a real person at the Firenze office responded. No automated delays, no “we will look into this” promises—just the finished job. Attached to the email was the exact, beautiful PDF of the carta di circolazione. They saw a loyal customer in a pinch, bypassed the corporate red tape, and solved the problem in record time. Highest praise to the team at FLR!

The story isn’t quite over yet. Having a PDF on a computer is one thing, but Italian bureaucracy thrives on physical paper. Next up on my itinerary is a trip to the local cartoleria to get the document printed out. Then, this Thursday, I will march back up to the police station, stamped paper and printed certificate in hand, to finally claim my dashboard prize.

However, this could be wishful thinking, because based on my previous experience with the police office, just receiving the application doesn’t mean they will immediately hand me a pass. It has to have the car’s info filled in, and then it has to be laminated. But I’m hoping that if I arrive when they open at 9 am, at the very least I can pick it up before they close at noon. I’ve learned not to count my polli before they’ve hatched.

Smooth sailing: Renewing the Italian Carta d'Identità in our Tuscan home

Yesterday, I promised you a triumph—a rare, refreshing encounter with Italian bureaucracy that actually went off without a hitch.

It all started when I noticed that my carta d’identità (Italian ID card) was set to expire in January, with Lucy’s following just a few months later. Recognizing that the clock was ticking, we decided now would be the perfect time not only to renew them but to finally upgrade to the sleek, electronic versions (CIE).

With a little help from my trusty friend Google, I discovered that the path to success led through the Comune di Montecarlo Servizi Demografici (the local municipal registry office). The checklist was specific but manageable: each of us needed a fresh passport photo, our codice fiscale (tax code card), our expiring physical IDs, and €21 in cash.

I sent an email to the office on Wednesday, braced for a weeks-long wait. Instead? I was pleasantly shocked to receive an appointment for the very next morning.

We gathered our documents, marched up to the office, and the entire process—digital fingerprinting included—took a mere 40 minutes for the two of us. The clerk was efficient, the system worked, and our shiny new physical cards are already en route to our mailbox, complete with the security codes needed to activate our digital identities online.

Experiencing this firsthand makes you realize just how much credit Italy deserves for its massive modernization leap over the last 25 years. Gone are the days of cash-only mandates; credit cards are now accepted nearly everywhere. Our utility bills slip quietly and automatically out of our checking account each month. I can transfer funds from the United States to Italy instantly with minimal fees, and booking train, bus, or theater tickets is a simple matter of a few clicks on a smartphone.

While the ghost of old-school inefficiency still haunts the occasional police station or ufficio di protocollo, those agonizing bottlenecks are slowly becoming the exception rather than the rule. And because the system actually worked this time, this story is delightfully short and sweet. May we always be blessed with such smooth sailing!

The price of living in paradise (and it requires a stamp and certificate)

 The bureaucracy in Italy is famously slow and cumbersome, and today we had two distinct occasions to face the beast. One was a triumph; the other, a masterclass in administrative gridlock.

First, the failure.

The last line is important.
The restrictions don't apply
if one has a parking pass.

I set out to get a resident parking pass for our rental car so we could park inside the city walls, right next to our front door. We had a pass, but it was tied to our previous rental. Having danced this dance before, I really should have been better prepared. But I completely forgot that the police require the carta di circolazione (the official vehicle registration document, often part of the libretto) which is supposed to live in the car’s glove box.

The process is heavily complicated by the fact that the local police office only handles this paperwork one day a week, from 9:00 AM to noon. I waited patiently until Thursday and presented myself at the station. I surrendered our old pass and was handed a fresh form to fill out. Next step: climb up to the first floor and have an employee manually log the form into the ufficio di protocollo (the official registry office).

However, the office was a ghost town. Maybe the clerk was consulting with a colleague in another room. Maybe she was enjoying an extended espresso break. Chi lo sa? (Who knows?)

This is what I need to put on
my dashboard, with the targa
of my current rental car.

Running out of time that day, I admitted defeat and returned the next morning. Success! She entered my information into her computer and stamped my form with authority. But because it was now Friday, I was stuck in a bureaucratic limbo: I would have to wait an entire week until the following Thursday just to bring that stamped paper back to the police.

In the meantime, I made copies of the only documents I could find in the glove box. When Thursday finally rolled around, the police officer took one look at them and shook his head—wrong form. Sure enough, the header read certificato di assicurazione (insurance certificate), not circolazione. The officer explained that without the registration card, his hands were tied. In fact, he added with a solemn look, it was technically illegal for me to even be driving the car on public roads without that original carta di circolazione on board!

So, it was back home to dial the number for Budget. After enduring 20 minutes of elevator music on hold, I was connected to a wonderfully helpful agent who graciously let me explain my plight in English. She promised to contact the Budget branch in Milan where we originally picked up the car and ask them to email me a digital copy of the missing certificate.

Should I hold my breath while I wait? Absolutely not. I fully expect I will be calling them back in a few days, though I would love nothing more than to be pleasantly surprised. To be continued...

Meanwhile, I’ve been without a pass for about a week and a half, forcing me to park outside the city walls. But honestly? It’s not a major crisis. It is a very minor tax to pay for the absolute privilege of living in a paradise on earth.

And as for our big success story? You'll have to wait for my next post.

The perks of being a Nonno while a cross-cultural friendship blooms

Watching children who don’t speak the same language interact can be both inspiring and instructive. This week, Dan, Sandra, Clara, and Juniper joined us in our Montecarlo home for four days during their fall break. Our ten-year-old granddaughter, Juniper, spent hours playing happily with Diletta, the youngest daughter of our nearest neighbors, who will also turn ten in just a few weeks.

Juniper tells me how to play Among Us,
something it seems Diletta already knew.

The relationship between these two ragazzine started about a year ago and has grown progressively stronger with each of Juniper's visits to Italy—about a half-dozen times now. Early on, I was frequently recruited as an interpreter, but as the girls’ bond has grown, my services have become less essential. While I spent two or three hours playing with them last spring, this summer and fall they played seamlessly for hours without me. They bypassed verbal language entirely, relying instead on shared rules, universal symbols, and emotional intuition.

Sharing pizza together at La Favola Mia in Chiesina Uzzanese.

When we did play together, our lineup included Uno, Skip-Bo, Among Us, and hide-and-seek (nascondino). I even created a treasure hunt for them throughout our home, where they had to follow hidden written clues. By alternating the clues between English and Italian, they were forced to depend on each other to find the prize: two Hostess cupcakes.

Walking together after dinner.

Over time, the girls advanced well beyond the need for a translator, and now they rarely ask for my help. That suits me just fine, since I would have a hard time playing with "squishies" (their favorite stuffed animals), and I am admittedly clueless about how Roblox works. Yet, they happily managed to play it on their iPads for at least an hour. I learned that Roblox isn't just one game, but a platform where they can control their own customizable digital avatars and see each other moving around in real-time. Together, they can jump into an endless variety of virtual worlds—whether they are adopting digital pets, running a virtual pizza parlor, or navigating obstacle courses. Because the visual controls are so intuitive, the language barrier completely vanished on the screen.

Pretty much anytime "Junie" and "Dile" got together, they didn't want to stop. Last night, we had to interrupt their play to head out to dinner. As we were about to leave, Dan invited Diletta to accompany us, and her parents graciously gave permission. It gave us all a wonderful chance to get to know her better. Walking home after the meal, the two girls walked with their arms around each other, happily singing lines from popular songs.

I surmise that one of the reasons they play so well together is that Juniper has attended international schools for much of her life. She is entirely accustomed to meeting new kids, including those who don't speak English well or at all. Like her mom, she is also a take-charge sort of person who naturally takes the initiative in suggesting what to do next. Diletta, for her part, is remarkably cooperative and quick to learn. She does her absolute best to understand Juniper, and she isn't afraid to ask me to step in and interpret only when she truly needs the help.

It has been an absolute pleasure to have a front-row seat to this developing relationship. And truthfully, I also kind of enjoyed being included in some of the games. It’s easily one of the best perks of being a grandfather.

73 years and 1,176 meters: Finding my limits in the Tuscan mountains

Lucy asked me recently to name my favorite moment from our last two months here in Montecarlo. It’s a deceptively difficult question. How do you choose? Often, the “best” part is simply the quiet rhythm of Tuscan life—the  way the light hits the stones as I walk the streets, the ritual of a morning cappuccino in my own living room, or watching the sunset dissolve over the hills from my terrazza.

But if forced to pick a single highlight, yesterday’s trek would be a front-runner. I set out to summit the Penna di Lucchio with my friend and cousin, Davide Seghieri. There is a specific kind of magic found at that altitude—the deep, rhythmic clanging of cowbells, the scent of damp earth in the silent forest, and the bite of crisp mountain air that stays with you long after you descend.

From here, we could see at least seven of the ten castle cities of the Svizzera Pesciatina.

Here's where the trail divided. We 
chose to go up the direct route.

Davide picked me up at 8:30 a.m. for the 45-minute drive through the valley above Pescia. We wound our way past Pontito, the highest of the legendary “Ten Castles,” until we reached the Oratorio Madonna delle Grazie. Shortly after the landmark, the asphalt gave way to a rugged gravel track scarred with ruts and embedded stones. Not wanting to test the limits of Davide’s car, we decided to park and continue on foot. Though a few brave souls had managed to nudge their vehicles further toward Croce a Veglia, the walk was exactly what we needed to wake up our legs.

Here I am on the steep part.

Our path led us through lush, emerald meadows with grazing cows before diving into a dense canopy of beech, oak and chestnut trees. For the first hour, the trail was a gentle, rocky road—perfect for a mountain bike or a 4x4. However, the final thirty minutes transformed into a steep, narrow scramble. While it wasn’t a technical climb requiring climbing gear, it was a vertical challenge for my 73-year-old frame. Davide, fifteen years my junior and in much better shape, became my advance scout, pausing frequently to pick the best route and let me catch my breath as the trail tilted upward.

When we finally crested the summit, every ounce of effort was repaid in full. At 1,176 meters (3,858 ft), the Penna acts as a panoramic balcony between two worlds. To the west, the jagged, marble-streaked teeth of the Apuan Alps tore at the sky; to the east, the sprawling spine of the Apennines stretched away, dominated by the high, sentinel-like peak of Monte Rondinaio. Looking south, the green, velvet hills of the Svizzera Pesciatina rippled toward the horizon, and to the north, we had a bird’s eye view of the borgo of Lucchio.

A view to the west, toward the Alpi Apuane.

There's Lucchio, down below.

We sat at the top for forty-five minutes, swapping stories and snacking while a gentle breeze drifted past the summit cross. For the descent, we chose a longer, more circuitous route that dropped down the opposite side. It was a kinder grade for the knees, sparing us from the possibility of bruising our shins on the steep route we had taken for the ascent.

By the time we returned to the car, we had been on the trail for three hours. Google Maps had estimated two, but Google doesn’t account for photo ops—or the reality of a septuagenarian’s pace. Today, my muscles are reminding me of every vertical meter we gained, but there’s a deep satisfaction in the ache. I’m just grateful I can still chase these views and experience the wilder side of Tuscany.

My wall-walking adventure inside Montecarlo's Porta Nuova tower

Montecarlo is a village defined by its stone borders. We have three historic gates, but unlike the famous, sprawling walls of nearby Lucca, our fortifications are a private affair. Two of the gates are topped by towers that remain strictly off-limits to the public—sanctuaries for their private owners, and a source of endless mystery for me.

In my ten years of living here, I’ve often played a game of tower watching. I see laundry fluttering high atop the Porta Fiorentina, the town’s grandest entrance. I look at the modest Porta a Lucca (the Porticciola), which is too small to even support a tower. But my real obsession has always been the Porta Nuova, the gate closest to my home.

For a decade, I’ve stared up at the barred window of the room above that gate. I wondered: Who owns the keys? What does the world look like from those heights? Is the room a pristine hidden study, or is it just a dusty kingdom for the local pigeons?

Porta Nuova. See those windows up there?
What would it be like to be the owner?

Living in Montecarlo comes with a particular kind of “first-world frustration.” My terrace overlooks a beautiful private field and a majestic stretch of the city wall. I can see the stairs leading up to the ramparts, but they are always just out of reach. In Montecarlo, every watchtower and every stone of the portal belongs to someone. I knew I was lucky just to have the view, but human nature is a restless thing; I didn’t just want to see the wall—I wanted to walk it.

Three years ago, a brief moment of luck landed me on those stones, but I was too self-conscious to truly explore. I took a few hurried photos and scurried down, worried I was overstaying my welcome with the workers who had let me in.

Last week, everything changed.

I was sitting on my terrazza, reading my Tex comic book and reflecting on a classic Italian proverb: “La fortuna aiuta gli audaci” (Fortune favors the bold). As if on cue, I spotted movement below. Workers had entered the field. The gate was open.

I didn’t hesitate. I was out the door and through that “forbidden” entrance in an instant. With the blessing of the workers, I climbed the stairs and didn’t look back.

I had a mission: Could I make it all the way from the corner watchtower to that mysterious room above the Porta Nuova?

I finally found out what lies behind those bars. I saw the view I’ve spent a decade imagining, and I felt the history of the stone beneath my feet. I’ve never been one for “bucket lists,” but if I were, I’d be crossing a big item off today.

Want to see exactly what I found up there? Come along with me on my latest YouTube video: Walking the wall of Montecarlo!

Perhaps one day I’ll meet the owners and return with a formal blessing—maybe even to show a few guests the way. But for now, I’m just happy to have finally turned a private mystery into a personal memory.

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The grand Porta Fiorentina

More about The Gates of the Village

• Porta Fiorentina: The "Grand Entrance." The largest of the three, facing East toward Florence. Look up to see the laundry of the residents who still live in the tower today!
• Porta Nuova: The "New Gate." Reconstructed in the 16th century, this southern entrance features a mysterious barred tower room—the focal point of my recent exploration.
• Porta a Lucca (The Porticciola): The "Little Gate." A modest 14th-century opening facing West toward Lucca. It is the only gate without a tower, earning it its affectionate nickname.
  
  
  

  

  The Porticciolo, the little Porta a Lucca.