Though we're distant relatives, somehow we feel much, much closer

How can one explain the special bond that people often feel when they find out they’re related? Yesterday I had dinner with five cousins with the surname Seghieri that I’ve come to know in the past 15 years. I’m part of the Seghieri bloodline through my grandmother, Anita Seghieri. Our common heritage has come to light through my genealogical research (with a huge assist from eminent Montecarlo historian Dr. Sergio Nelli).

Emilio Seghieri, Pietro Seghieri, Paul Spadoni,
Davide Seghieri, Jean-Paul Seghieri.
Front: Flavia Seghieri.

Four of the cousins live in Montecarlo. The fifth, Jean-Paul Seghieri lives in France, as his great grandfather immigrated from Montecarlo to Marseille in the late 1800s. My grandmother Anita immigrated to America in 1909.

We enjoyed a long and sumptuous meal at Il Poggio, one of Montecarlo’s premiere restaurants. Conversations were in Italian, English and French, and our skills in communicating in other languages were put to the test. Fortunately, we had the help of the amazing and indefatigable Elena Benvenuti, who is fluent in all three languages.

We enjoyed the gourmet food and fine wines of Il Poggio, but I can say we derived even more pleasure in the shared camaraderie and warm fellowship. And this is not a once-off occurrence. The Seghieri families of Italy, France and the United States have experienced numerous reunions here in Montecarlo since we discovered our common heritage about 10 years ago.

Jean-Paul dips his cantuccio
in vinsanto, the traditional
Tuscan way to enjoy biscotti.

But it’s a strange and fascinating phenomenon. Jean-Paul is actually my 12th cousin, our common ancestor dating back to the 1400s. Pietro Seghieri is my 8th cousin, our family lines having branched off in the early 1600s. The same is true for Emilio, Davide and Flavia Seghieri, who are close relatives of Pietro. Why then, do we feel a strong sense of connectedness and commonality? Genetic research tells me that “a 12th cousin likely shares 0% of your DNA (statistically, the common segments usually wash out after the 8th or 9th generation).”

I put the question of connectedness to Gemini, Google’s artificial intelligence assistant, and I have to admit the answers were insightful and enlightening.

“Because you put in the effort to find each other through genealogy, you entered the dinner with a pre-existing intent to connect. This shared passion creates an immediate foundation of trust and common interest that most strangers don’t have. You weren't just meeting a person; you were meeting ‘family.’ Even if the nature (DNA) is weak or gone, the way your ancestors raised their children often persists as a ‘family style’ of communication or humor. In historical rural communities, people often married others with similar backgrounds, temperaments, or social standings. Over centuries, this can lead to a ‘population similarity’ where people from the same area share a general vibe or physical look, even if they aren't closely related on a specific family tree branch.

“This could also be a result of Psychological Mimicry.  When we find something we’ve been searching for (like a lost branch of a family tree), our brains often engage in confirmation bias. You might have subconsciously focused on traits that matched yours—like a specific laugh or a way of holding a fork—while ignoring the ways you are different. There is a powerful psychological bond in shared history. Knowing you all descend from the same person in the 1400s or 1600s creates a ‘tribal’ bond. You aren't just two individuals; you are two representatives of a single long-term survival story.”

Friends and spouses also joined us in celebrating our Seghieri family ties in a fine feast in Montecarlo.

I also believe that in the case of Jean-Paul and myself, we are drawn by our common interest in learning about our ancestral heritage. Gemini adds: “By researching your common ancestor and actually visiting or living in Montecarlo, you are both acting as ‘memory-makers.’ For many, especially those in the American or French diaspora, reclaiming ancestral stories provides a sense of grounding and personal narrative.”

As for our Italian cousins, the fact is, I have many other relatives in and around Montecarlo. Only a small percentage have shown a strong interest in establishing close family bonds with relatives from abroad. They have grown up knowing their roots, knowing that their ancestors have lived here for hundreds, even thousands, of years. They also know that they are already surrounded by relatives, both close and distant, and they realize that it’s not practical or possible to maintain close relationships with all of them. We are just fortunate that these particular Italian relatives have welcomed us with such warm and open arms.

It's interesting to explore the reasons behind our feelings, but it's also important not to over-analyze, and to just own our reactions as they are. I’m proud to be part of the Seghieri family!

 

The Crown of Lucca: A guide to the world’s most beautiful city walls

If you ask any visitor—or any proud Lucchese resident—to name the heart of Lucca, the answer is almost always the same: Le Mura.

The city walls of Lucca are a global rarity. Unlike the jagged, crumbling ruins found elsewhere in Europe, these walls have evolved from a fierce defensive machine into the city’s most beloved public park. They aren't just stone boundaries; they are a wide, tree-lined boulevard suspended above the terracotta rooftops, a four-kilometer ribbon of green that encircles the “Città d'Arte” in a perfect embrace.

The walls offer a perspective of Lucca that is simultaneously elevated and intimate. Spanning roughly four kilometers, the path is roughly 30 meters wide and flanked by ancient plane trees, horse chestnuts, and stately oaks.

In autumn, the promenade becomes a tunnel of gold and burnt orange; in summer, the dense canopy provides a cool, breezy refuge from the fierce Tuscan sun. Whether you traverse them on foot or by bicycle, the experience is a masterclass in how a city can breathe.

The Rhythms of the Ramparts

Walking the wall is a slow-motion immersion into Lucca’s “living room.” At a pedestrian pace, you notice the fine-grain details: the weathered red brick of the baluardi (bastions), local nonnos playing cards on stone benches, and the secret, manicured gardens of private palazzos peeking out from behind wrought-iron gates.

Cycling, however, is the quintessential Lucchese experience. Because the path is flat and closed to motorized traffic, there is a sense of pure liberation. You’ll share the path with families on risciò (four-wheeled surreys), serious cyclists in Lycra, and toddlers wobbling on balance bikes.

As you ride, the sensory experience shifts. You’ll hear the rhythmic crunch of gravel and the distant, melodic tolling of Lucca’s “100 churches.” Depending on which segment you’re on, the scent changes from the damp, mossy earth of the northern ramparts to the aroma of fresh espresso and baking focaccia drifting up from the piazzas below.

Hidden History Beneath Your Feet

While most visitors look out at the mountains or in at the towers, the true secret of the walls lies inside them. Built in the 16th and 17th centuries to deter the expansionist Medici family of Florence, these walls were never actually breached. This is because they were a marvel of engineering—massive amounts of earth were packed behind the brick to absorb the impact of modern artillery.

Today, you can explore the massive underground tunnels used by soldiers and horses to move unseen beneath the ramparts. Many of these entrances, such as the one at the San Colombano bastion, are now open to the public. Walking through these cool, vaulted brick chambers feels like stepping back into the Renaissance.

Another hidden gem along the circuit is the Orto Botanico di Lucca. From your elevated position on the wall, you get a bird’s-eye view of this 200-year-old botanical garden, including its lily-strewn pond and exotic trees that have been protected by the walls for centuries.

Planning Your Circuit

You don’t need to bring your own gear. The areas near the main gates are packed with rental shops. Expect to pay about €5 per hour for a standard cruiser. If you’re a serious cyclist looking to head into the surrounding hillsides, I highly recommend visiting Amici Bici to speak with Laurie Warren. As a transplanted American with an extensive cycling background, she can provide high-end equipment and detailed itineraries for the winding country roads outside the city.

A single loop takes about 20 minutes at a brisk pedal, but most people rent for at least an hour to allow for photo stops at the Palazzo Pfanner gardens or views of the Guinigi Tower with its rooftop oak trees.

For the ultimate experience, head up one hour before sunset. The “golden hour” hits the red brick and white marble of the San Martino Cathedral perfectly. As the evening breeze picks up, the ride feels effortless, and you’ll truly understand why the people of Lucca have refused to let these walls be anything other than a place of beauty.

The Top 5 Stops on the Lucca Walls
To make the most of your 4-kilometer circuit, keep an eye out for these five unique landmarks. They perfectly capture the blend of military history and modern leisure that makes the walls so special. 

Baluardo San Martino
Located on the northern stretch near Porta Santa Maria, this bastion is a favorite for history buffs. It’s one of the best places to explore the cavernous underground tunnels and former barracks where soldiers lived. Today, you’ll often find art installations or “paper-statue” exhibits here, reflecting Lucca’s status as a world leader in paper production.

The overlook at Palazzo Pfanner
As you traverse the northwestern section of the wall, you’ll come to a spot directly overlooking the gardens of Palazzo Pfanner. It’s a “secret” view you can’t get from the ground. Look down at the ornate Baroque statues, the perfectly manicured hedges, and the rows of lemon trees. It’s a stunning photo op that looks like a scene straight out of a period drama.

Baluardo San Colombano
Located near the southern gate of Porta San Pietro, this bastion has been beautifully restored. You can walk through its massive brick vaults, which were originally designed to hide heavy bronze cannons. Today, it’s a much more peaceful spot, often used for cultural events or simply as a cool, shaded place to rest on a hot day.

Orto Botanico Comunale di Lucca
On the southeastern corner of the loop, the wall passes directly above Lucca’s Botanical Garden. From your elevated position, you can see the 200-year-old lily pond and the massive trees of the arboretum. If you have time, exit the wall at the nearby ramp to walk through the gardens and see the rare medicinal plants and tropical greenhouses up close.

Baluardo Santa Croce (the sunset viewpoint)
For the perfect end to your ride, stop at the Baluardo Santa Croce on the western side. This wide, grassy area offers some of the best panoramic views of the city’s towers and the distant Apuan Alps. It’s arguably the best place on the entire wall to catch the “Golden Hour” as the sun dips behind the mountains.

For the more visually minded, I've also made a Podcast about the Lucca walls, which you can see here: Lucca's unique wall makes a great park!

Legs and a battery pushed to their limits: A ride though Swiss Pescia

Just one of a hundred
little side torrents.

One of my favorite rituals in Toscana is heading north of Pescia into the Valleriana—or as it’s known today, Svizzera Pesciatina. The name came from the Swiss historian Sismondi, who lived here centuries ago and found the rugged chestnut forests and rushing streams so reminiscent of his homeland that he dubbed it the “Switzerland of Pescia.” Personally, I think adding “Swiss” to any word makes it sound a bit more elegant.

While I usually take a car through these narrow mountain roads, I recently realized that experiencing the Svizzera Pesciatina on two wheels is incomparable.

Almost to the top!

I set out with my son-in-law, Dan, to tackle the main roads. On a bike, the ascent is a completely different sensory experience. Every few hundred meters, the roar of a hidden stream would tumble down the hillside, cooling the air before joining the river Pescia below. Without car windows to block the world, we were fully immersed in the climb.

Now, climbing from 200 feet in Pescia to 2,500 feet in the village of Pontito sounds daunting, but our strategies differed. Dan is an experienced cyclist who seems to enjoy a bit of physical torture; he was on a sleek Italian road bike rented from Amici Bici in Lucca. I, however, am not big on self-flagellation. I was on my Italwin e-bike. As long as I kept my feet moving, the motor did the heavy lifting.

By the time we reached the top, Dan was dripping with sweat, chasing what he describes as an “invigorating sense of accomplishment.” I, meanwhile, hadn’t broken a sweat and was free to simply observe the beauty of nature—and anticipate the lunch Dan was treating me to at La Pieve in Castelvecchio.

After lunch, we climbed a bit further to the borgo of Lanciole, where we parted ways. Dan, seeking more invigoration, headed higher toward Femminamorta. He was the lucky one—he spotted half a dozen cinghiali (wild boar) crossing the road, a sight I’ve only seen once in all my years here.

As I began my return, I noticed my power had dropped to two bars. Wanting to save juice for the final climb up to Montecarlo, I clicked off the handlebar power. It’s all downhill from Lanciole to Pescia, so I figured I was safe.

I figured wrong.

One of the many cities we saw on our ride.

There must have been a ghost drain on the battery, because by the time I reached Pescia, I was down to one bar—and then, silence. An e-bike is "hecka" heavy, and there was no way I was pushing that beast up the 25-minute incline to Montecarlo on foot. I managed to pedal to the Bianchi macellaria in San Salvatore, chained the bike behind the shop, and called for a rescue. Daughter Sandra and wife Lucy scooped me up on their way back from shopping, leaving my bike to spend the night at the butcher's.

As I type this, my legs are starting to cramp, and I’m reaching for a second electrolyte tablet. I may have bragged about the motor doing the work, but Google Maps reminded me that my 73-year-old body still covered 33 miles and 3,000 feet of elevation. I think my legs have earned the right to complain a little.

The battery is charging now, and tomorrow I’m going back for my bike—and perhaps looking into buying a second battery for the next “Swiss” adventure.

Now you can see inside my home and also Montecarlo, my city in Tuscany

Over the years, I’ve focused more on telling about my experiences in Italy than I have in showing. In a typical blog post, I usually include anywhere from one to four photos. The rest is either narration or description, with an emphasis on narration. As my life in Italy has become more routine, with few surprises, I’ve cut down on the number of posts. I wait until something new or interesting happens, because I don’t want to become (too) boring.

Well, I’ve found a new focus, one could even say a new hobby. Maybe some old dogs can still learn a new trick. I’ve been having a lot of fun in the last two months making video podcasts. And I can see some obvious advantages to this medium, because now I can take my readers and viewers right into my home, or directly to a festa or sagra, or into a historical site.

For two good examples of this, you can watch videos I just completed that show the inside of my home here in Tuscany, and you can also take a tour of my special hometown, Montecarlo. Viewing these places through the lens of a video camera is more informative than I could be with words alone.

I’ve made 13 podcasts since the first of February, and I hope to continue to post at least one new video a week for the coming year. That’s kind of a lofty goal, but it’s better to shoot for the stars. Even if you only end up on the moon, you’ll have accomplished something worthwhile. And frankly, it’s just not in my nature to sit back and do nothing all day. Maybe a good part of the day, fine, but not all of it.

So please, watch some of my videos and comment on them. Subscribe to my channel if you like what you see. That gives me the encouragement to continue. And if it’s not what you’re looking for, that’s fine. I’m having fun anyway.

Come inside my home: https://youtu.be/3drVCifbEps

Or inside the beautiful borgo of Montecarlo: https://youtu.be/qB8RJLCfMBg

My unforgettable first visit to Italy! And a well-planned joke that failed

Even though I had dreamed of going to Italy starting when I was about 10 years old, it wasn’t until I was 43 years old when I made my first trip there. Wow, that was 30 years ago, because I just had my 73^rd birthday. Today I want to revisit that first visit.

I was a high school teacher of various subjects at Peninsula High School in Gig Harbor. I was teaching English, journalism, graphic design and photography. It was June of 1996. Our daughter, Sandy, was finishing a one-year stay in Bydgoszcz, Poland, as a Rotary Club exchange student for her junior year of high school. She called us long distance and said she wanted to end her stay in Poland by traveling to some other European countries, including Italy.

Whoa, whoa, wait just a minute! It had been hard enough to let our little girl spend a year abroad, but at least she was staying with Rotary Club families. Now she wanted to go to Italy with a friend, another 17-year-old girl. Isn’t Italy the place where men sometimes pinch girls in the butt? Isn’t there some famous photo of Italian men leering at an American woman as she walks along the sidewalk?

Inside the Colosseum in Roma

Sandy tried to reassure us that she and her friend were now experienced travelers and knew how to take care of themselves. She said it would be a shame for her to go all the way to Europe and not get to see at least one other country. Oh my gosh, what do we tell her? We said we’d think about it and get back to her.

As soon as we hung up the phone, Lucy said: “It’s obvious what we need to do.”

“Yep,” I said, “Of course we can’t let do that. She’ll be disappointed, but at least she’ll be safe.”

“No, no,” Lucy said. “That’s not what I mean. She should go. But you should go with her. You should meet her in Italy. You’ve always dreamed of going to Italy and meeting your relatives.”

I laughed. “That’s crazy. That’s only 20 days away. I don’t have a passport. My school won’t even be out when she gets to Italy. I’ll have to turn in my grades early. How am I going to find a substitute for the last three days of school? It’s a nice dream, but there’s no way it can happen.”

But Lucy is a determined woman, and she set out to make it happen. She got me an expedited passport. She booked my flight. She packed my suitcases. She made a reservation at a hostel in Venice.

Meanwhile, I worked feverishly to finish my grading and write instructions for my substitute. It was all a blur.

However, we did take the time to plan a devious practical joke. We told Sandy that we had contacted our relatives in Italy, and one of them, Pietro Spadoni, would meet her in Venice to be her escort. Meanwhile, I grew a mustache, or as much of one I could grow in two weeks. I never wore hats, but Lucy bought me a fedora. I practiced a fake Italian accent.

I was going to impersonate my cousin Pietro and meet Sandy at the hostel in Venice. In truth, I didn’t even know if we had a cousin named Pietro, but it seemed to be a likely name.

Somehow, it all came together. I basically went from my classroom to the airport, boarded a plane, fell asleep from exhaustion and landed in Venice. It was my first time in Europe, and I exited the airport gate in a daze, only to be greeted by a cacophony of aggressive men offering me hotel rooms, and transportation by water taxi and regular taxi. I took a deep breath, shook my head at every offer, and went to the information desk to ask how to get to the city. They recommended I take a blue bus and told me where to go to catch it. I wondered how a bus could take me to an island—that’s how little I knew about Venice—but it turns out there is a bridge. And the bus took me right to Venice.

Once again my senses were assailed, by sounds, smells and visual wonders. Vendors were selling purses, trinkets and these fascinating little dancing Mickey and Minnie mouse cardboard cutouts, which I have to confess, I eventually bought. But again, I sought out an information booth, and I was given directions to my hostel.

I arrived a couple of hours before my designated meeting time with Sandy, and after exploring the neighborhood, I put my plan into action. I donned my fedora and sat in the lobby, watching and waiting. And there she was.

“Buongiorno,” I said. “You must-a be Sandra Spadoni. I am-a you cugino, Pietro. Benvenuta in Italia!”

Her eyes grew wide. She blinked. She took a step back. “Wow!” she said. “I can’t believe it! This is amazing. You look so much like my dad.”

“He must-a be one helluva good looking uomo,” I answered.

That’s . . . how I imagined our conversation would go, but in reality, it went quite differently.

“Dad,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“No, no! Non sono tuo padre. Sono tuo cugino, your cousin.”

“No, you’re my dad. Where’d you get the silly hat? And what’s that fuzz on your upper lip?”

I had to give up. But the joy of being together with Sandy wiped away any disappointment about my gag not working.

Moments later, we were devouring triple scoop gelatos—gelati—together and laughing about my failed efforts.

“Weren’t you fooled for just a few seconds?” I asked.

“Come on, you’re my papa. I hope I can always recognize you, even with a fedora and a patchy mustache. But it still was a shock to see you, and it was a great joke.”

The magic of Venezia so overcame me that I quickly forgave her for calling my mustache patchy. In my memory, it was a full bush of pure manliness!

We spent a full day in Venice, and then went on to Florence, and then Montecatini, where we met our cousins, including the real Pietro Spadoni! He did look a bit like me, but without the amazing mustache and fedora. And it turns out that almost nobody in Italy actually wears a fedora.

We spent a wonderful week with second cousin Enrico Spadoni and his wife Enza and their family. They treated us to banquet after banquet of exquisite home-cooked meals—risotto, pasta asciutta, Bistecca Fiorentina, lasagna, always with wine and a mouth-watering dolce at the end. We met a ton of other cousins, and they showed us around the area where my grandparents had lived. We also traveled on our own to Pisa, Rome and Lake Como.

Sandra and the Obelisk of Axum
that Rome stole from Ethiopia
a couple of centuries ago (and
returned in 2005).

I could speak a little Italian, and Enrico and Enza’s daughter Alessandra spoke some English. I thought their son Simone did as well, as he initially asked me a series of questions about my family, my hobbies and my taste in music. I used my limited Italian words to ask him the same questions about himself. And then we grew quiet. We realized we had used up all of our knowledge about the other’s language in about two minutes. We wanted to ask many more questions, but the words just weren’t there.

We did have one cousin who spoke English well, and I used Gianfranco to help me translate a message I wanted to say to my relatives on the day we departed. It went like this:

“My family instilled pride in me at an early age in being Italian and in all things that are Italian. Because of this, I have always wanted to come here, not just to see the famous sites but to understand what it is like to live as an Italian. Someday I hope to return, not just for a visit, but to live here long enough to really understand the day-to-day lifestyle of the people. Thank you so much for your hospitality and for sharing your lives with us.”

In the fall of 2001, that hope become a reality. Sort of. I did spend a year in Italy, teaching at a British elementary school in Padova. That adventure is the topic of a memoir I wrote in 2017, An American Family in Italy: Living la Dolce Vita without Permission. That year wasn’t enough. When I retired from teaching in 2011, Lucy and I began coming to Italy every year, which culminated in our purchasing a home in the exquisite borgo of Montecarlo in 2015. And here we are today, dividing time annually between Gig Harbor and Montecarlo.

 

This old guy is going modern: Now I have my own YouTube channel

I’ve been writing blog entries focused on our Italian adventures and cultural observations for nearly 15 years. In fact, Feb. 6 will mark the 15-year anniversary of my first post. Today I am making post number 627. As of today, I’ve received 997,454 page views, and I should hit the 1 million mark in about a month. That may sound like a lot, but it is nothing compared to the views that YouTube videos receive.

For example, I just learned that the most viewed video has been seen more than 16 billion times. Furthermore, Adele’s “Hello” (whatever that is) reached 1 billion views in fewer than 90 days. So, even though I much more comfortable writing than speaking, I’m going to jump into the video-making business with my own YouTube channel, which I’ve named “Our Tuscan Home.”

I know there are already quite a few video blogs being made about English-speaking people buying and renovating homes in Italy. I’ve watched a few. But YouTube has a huge audience, with more than 71 billion monthly visits, so I think there’s room for one more channel. It’s undisputably true that more people watch videos than read blogs. I also feel that my 25 years of experience in being a foreigner in Italy have given me some insights that some of the newer stranieri are still lacking.

I will continue to write in my blog, although as the newness of living in Italy has worn off, I find fewer things to write about. Most of my days in Italy are uneventful, and I don’t want to bore readers with the minutia of our daily life. Maybe some of the regular readers of my blog will also want a change of pace and watch some of my videos. More likely, having my own video channel will open me up to an entirely new audience. Whatever happens, I will enjoy the challenge of communicating in a new way about one of my favorite topics: Italy and Italian life and culture.

While I’d been considering making videos for the past year or two, my lack of experience in this medium held me back. I actually had made a couple of videos when I was still working as a teacher, but they were incredibly time-consuming. However, I recently stumbled across a YouTube channel made by an old guy like me. After he retired, Larry started making short videos where he would just record himself talking about issues that retirees face. He does no editing, no special effects, no split screens or fancy backgrounds. There are no titles or opening or closing shots. He just stands on his porch or sits in his truck and talks for about 10 minutes. He makes about three videos per week. He started about a year ago, and now he’s made 125 videos of about 10 minutes in length. He admits he has no idea how the YouTube algorithms work, and he doesn’t care much about how they do. He does absolutely no advertising. And he has a shocking 95,000 subscribers and nearly 3.7 million views.

So, yes, Larry has inspired me. We have a lot in common. We’re the same age and have been married for the same amount of time. We both have faces made more for radio than for television. He’s not making videos for money, and my blog has never had advertisements. It’s more of a hobby for both of us. I figure if Larry can attract an audience by just talking on YouTube, maybe I can too. Larry talks about his life as a retiree, and I’ve had many experiences while living in Italy and reading about Italian culture, so I won’t be copying or competing with Larry.

You can watch my debut video here: We bought a house in Tuscany

 

A special shop, with unique cows that produce heavenly dairy products

One of the greatest joys of living in Italy is discovering the small, local shops that become a cherished part of one’s routine. Near our home in Montecarlo, we’ve found a real treasure: a retail outlet for a caseificio (cheese factory) called Fior di Latte. While that’s its official name, we affectionately call it “The Cow Store.” The nickname was inevitable—you’re greeted by a charming, life-sized cow statue on the sidewalk, and another smaller one waits inside. And no less charming, on another level, is Roberta, the friendly lady behind the counter who greets us with a warm “Buon Giorno.”

Roberta puts cheese
"sottovuoto" for preservation.

The store is an outpost for a dairy based in Gaggio Montana, in a special mountainous region of Emilia-Romagna, the legendary home of Parmigiano Reggiano. Naturally, their star product is that very cheese. We often buy a wedge, sometimes asking them to vacuum-pack it for trips back to the United States. They call this “sotto vuoto,” a wonderfully literal phrase meaning “under empty” or “under the void.”

Now, you can buy excellent Parmigiano Reggiano at any good shop in Italy. The product is so strictly regulated by its consortium that you’re guaranteed incredible quality no matter which producer you choose. But the Parmigiano, as fantastic as it is, isn't the main reason we keep going back to The Cow Store.

The real reason we fell in love with this place is their yogurt.

The real stars: Cows shown in photo
on the walls of the shop.

It’s clear they have some truly special cows on their farm. The quality of the milk, a result of the specific breed of cow and their regulated diet, is the foundation of world-class Parmigiano. But when that same milk is used to make yogurt, the result is magical. It is so indescribably creamy and rich, with a texture that store-bought brands simply can’t replicate. It comes mixed with a variety of fresh fruits, and we have a hard time choosing between our favorites: frutti di bosco (mixed berries), fragola (strawberry), lampone (raspberry), pesca (peach), and pera (pear).

For a long time, the yogurt was our secret treat. But then, just a couple of weeks ago, we noticed something new in the refrigerated case: panna cotta.

As one of my top-five favorite desserts, I had to try it. And now, I have to amend my list. The panna cotta from Fior di Latte has officially moved to my number one favorite dessert of all time—with the condition that it only deserves that high rating if it comes from this specific store.

Just like the yogurt, the secret is in the cream. It’s so pure and decadent that even a plain version would be astonishing. But they also offer it with different toppings, and so far I’ve tried the chocolate, caramel, and frutti di bosco. Each carton holds about two servings. I just finished a caramel one over the last two days, and I currently have three more packages waiting for me in the refrigerator. It is only with great self-control that I resist downing a whole carton in one sitting.

We know The Cow Store sells other things—butter, a variety of cheeses, cured meats, fruit preserves, dried pasta and even a special type of mountain potato that we hear is exceptionally good. For now, we haven’t ventured far past the dairy aisle. We came for the cheese, but we stay for the yogurt and the panna cotta. It’s our delicious reminder that sometimes, the most famous product isn’t the only treasure a place has to offer.

 

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire: An acquired taste of Tuscan history

There is a certain magic to an Italian sagra. It’s a concept that doesn’t translate perfectly, falling somewhere between a town fair and a culinary festival dedicated to a single, humble ingredient. To stumble upon one is to peel back the curtain of tourism and step into the authentic, beating heart of a community. On a crisp Sunday afternoon, winding our way up the forested hills of the Svizzera Pesciatina, Lucy and I found ourselves drawn by the promise of one such festival: the Sagra delle Frugiate in Vellano.

Families gather and wait in line for the chestnut treats in the Circolo of Vellano

 Frugiate, it turns out, is a regional term for caldarrosta, or roasted chestnut. Linguists are not sure of the etymology of the term, but some theorize that it is a combination of the words bruciare (to burn) and frugare (to rummage through or poke around).

Vellano, the largest of the ten medieval castle-towns in this rugged corner of Tuscany, feels like a world away from the manicured postcards of Florence or Siena. Its stone houses cling to a steep hillside and its narrow alleys echo with history. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. We followed that scent to its source, a scene of pure, unadulterated Italian life unfolding outside the local Circolo.

A circolo is a social club, the nerve center of any small Italian village, and on this day its modest plaza was the center of the universe. Two local men stoked a wood fire under a giant kettle covered with an iron grate. They dumped large bags of raw chestnuts onto the grate and then used a custom-made rake to rummage them around.

We eagerly bought a paper bag filled with the steaming hot chestnuts, our first time trying them fresh from the fire. Peeling back the brittle, scorched shells to reveal the pale, tender meat inside was a rustic joy. And the taste? It was…elemental. Not sweet, not particularly savory, but earthy and simple, with a dense, floury texture and a faint hint of smoke. It was the taste of the mountain itself, of the forest floor on a crisp autumn day. It was honest and unadorned.

A whole frugiate and a
half eaten castagnaccia

Emboldened, we decided to dive deeper into the world of the chestnut, a food that for centuries was the very symbol of survival in these mountains. We sampled two other traditional treats made from farina di castagne, or chestnut flour. The first was a neccio, a thin, crepe-like pancake served rolled up. We opted for the traditional filling: fresh, creamy ricotta rather than the more modern substitute of Nutella. The neccio was soft and pliable, but the flavor of the chestnut flour was dominant—a slightly chalky, dense taste that completely absorbed the mildness of the ricotta.

Next came the infamous castagnaccio, a flat, dense cake that looked like a rustic brownie, studded with pine nuts and seasoned with rosemary. This is perhaps the most archetypal “peasant” food of the region. As we took a bite, we understood why. The texture is heavy, almost leaden, and the flavor is a challenging combination of earthy, unsweetened chestnut flour and the sharp, piney notes of rosemary. There was no sugar, no butter, no lightness. It wasn’t a treat in any modern sense of the word.

And this is where the true pleasure of the Sagra delle Frugiate began to crystallize for me. The food itself, by the standards of a 21st-century palate accustomed to sugar and refined flavors, was not particularly tasty. The neccio was bland; the castagnaccio was a culinary oddity. But to judge them on taste alone would be to miss the point entirely. These were not recipes born of indulgence but of stark necessity.

Giacomo, center, and Betty, right, along
with an man whose name I didn't get,
package up the hot frugiate in paper bags.

For centuries, the people of the mountainous regions of Italy lived lives dictated by the unforgiving landscape. The steep, rocky soil was unsuitable for growing wheat, grapes and olive trees. The true provider, the symbol of sustenance, was the chestnut tree, known affectionately and accurately as l'albero del pane—the “tree of bread.” From its nuts, villagers ground the flour that would see them through the harsh winters. It was their source of carbohydrates, their daily bread. The unsweetened cakes and crepes we were eating weren’t desserts; they were survival. Sugar was a luxury for the wealthy city dwellers on the plains below, not for the mountain folk.

Eating that dense slice of castagnaccio, I wasn’t just tasting chestnut flour and rosemary. I was tasting history. I was tasting the resilience of people who carved a life out of these mountains, who relied on the forest for their very existence. The simple, smoky flavor of the roasted frugiate was the taste of a community gathering around a fire for warmth and sustenance. The blandness of the neccio was the taste of a filling meal that asked for nothing more than to quell hunger.

The true pleasure of the sagra was not in a gastronomic revelation, but in a profound human connection. It was in watching the men roast the chestnuts with practiced ease, in seeing families share a simple meal, in understanding that the food we were eating was a ghost, a culinary echo from a harder, simpler time. It was a delicious lesson in history, a reminder that not everything that feeds us has to be sweet. Sometimes, the most satisfying meals are the ones that nourish our understanding.

Finding my voice: From tourist to translator at a Tuscan paper museum

I so admire the people who can translate a rapid-fire speech on the fly, and I’ve always wished that I could do the same. One would think that after living in Italy for three months a year for 14 years, I’d be able to do this, but I haven’t been up to the task. Until this past Saturday. Well, sort of.

Lucy and I went to the Museo della Carta di Pescia, a museum dedicated to preserving the centuries-old craft of handmade paper. Our group leader, Gina Natucci, had arranged a special tour that included a paper-making demonstration led by a true “Master of Paper,” Alessio. Since the demonstration required a native Italian speaker, someone needed to translate for the group. I took a deep breath and stepped up.

This shows a portion of the giant hammers powered
by a water wheel that were used to pound on old
rags soaked in water. Eventually, this turned the
rags into a fibrous pulp used to make paper.

And I did it! As Alessio guided us through the historic building, explaining the function of each intricate machine, I found a rhythm, turning his Italian explanations into English. A couple of times I had to pause and ask him to clarify a term, but to the American group, I hope I appeared perfectly competent.

I must taper my celebration just a bit. The task was made infinitely easier by the visual aides. It was one thing to know that a martello is a hammer, a ruota a wheel, and a stampa a press; it was another to have Alessio pointing right at them as I spoke. The magnificent, hulking machines did much of the heavy lifting for me.

Alessio dipped a special screen into
a vat filled with pulp and skillfully
removed it, magically creating a
perfect piece of paper, complete with
a watermark from the screen.

I’m still keenly aware that I can’t translate a complex sermon on theology or a political speech. I know this because I often try to translate in my mind and find myself stumbling when the speaker expresses an idea I only partly grasp myself. In those moments, I’m secretly relieved nobody has put me on the spot. But for today, I’m going to pat myself on the back for a successful first flight.

The museum itself is a fascinating window into an industry that once defined this region. As Alessio explained, the Valleriana—the valley above Pescia—was once home to more than 25 paper factories. The area was perfectly suited for this industry, with a stream providing hydraulic power and warm valley breezes for drying the paper sheets. Today, many of the old mill buildings still stand, though only three are still in production. Others have been converted into homes and hotels, while some stand as silent, empty monuments to a bygone era.

After creating the pages, Alessio
squeezed out much of the water
in this press.

Our tour began in a multimedia room with a 3D model of the four-story building, where Alessio explained the function of each level: the ground floor for collection and conversion of the fibers to a pulp and creating a raw form of the paper, another for gluing, trimming and other refinements, one for the workers’ quarters and the upper floor for drying. From there, we walked through the historic rooms where Alessio gave us a hands-on demonstration. Using cotton fibers, he masterfully created four new sheets of paper, showing us how they were pressed to remove water and then hung to dry. The final stage, he explained, would be applying a special glue to give the paper strength before a final drying.

If You Go:

·      The Museo della Carta di Pescia is well worth the price of admission.

·      Location: Via Mammianese Nord nn. 229-231, Pietrabuona, Comune of Pescia, Province of Pistoia.

·      Hours: Open Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday from 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.

·      Cost: €12 for a tour with the director, €15 for a tour with a paper master (like Alessio). Reduced prices are available for students and seniors.

·      Here is a link to the website, which also has an English version: Museo della Carta di Pescia.

The paper mill included a number of skilled craftsmen besides paper makers, including a clever engineer/mechanic who created this unique machine to turn paper into envelopes. The vats to hold the water were hand carved out of large boulders of a local rock called pietra serena.

 

 

A perfect fall day hike, but it may be even better on a hot summer day

We’ve discovered a little-known trail along in the Valleriana—the verdant valley above Pescia—that makes me dream of being in Tuscany in the full unyielding heat of summer. The trail once was a mule route stitching together the villages of Sorana and Castelvecchio. The footpath, which occasionally yields to marshy, spring-fed patches, meanders under a dense, dappled cathedral of chestnut, beech, and oak trees. It faithfully follows the murmur of the Torrente di Pescia da Pontito, a lively creek whose course guides you to the skeletal remains of an ancient mill and its crumbling stone bridge.

Torrente di Pescia da Pontito

Lucy and I were the informal guides to a group of six American tourists staying in Montecatini with my cousin and friend Gina Natucci. We had been gifted a truly perfect autumn morning, bathed in the kind of crisp, golden light that seems to exist only in Italy. We had to hop across large stones to cross the torrente three times to reach the pools and lower turbine of the mill, a hike of about 20 minutes. We found small waterfalls emptying into several pools that measured a depth of about ten feet. Someone had moved some large flat stones, probably left over from the active days of the mill, to form two tables and several chairs that could be put into service for a picnic lunch.

Me with new friend Jaxson

We enjoyed watching the rushing water turn from blue to frothy white while it tumbled down the green valley. We explored the ruins of the mill and watched fingerlings skitter about in the calm pools. We were dressed for hiking and not swimming, but I couldn’t help but think what a terrific place this would be on a 90-degree summer day. While we usually avoid Tuscany during the sweltering summer months, even late spring and early fall can be uncomfortably hot. The valley, trees and rushing water would help cool the air, and if we were still too hot, that could easily be remedied by wading or even soaking in the pools. Very few tourists or even locals spend much time in this sparsely populated valley that is also known as Svizzera Pesciatina, so-called because of a well-known Swiss economist who said it reminded him of the environs of his family home.

From what I can determine, there was a water turbine inside the hollow area of this bridge.

I’ve read that there is another turbine, a small dam and one or two footbridges that we could have seen if we had continued upstream, but we had a schedule to keep; it also appeared that the trail became more difficult at this point. I’ll find them next time. Lucy and I will definitely be back, but hopefully with shorts, a picnic lunch, a blanket and good book—maybe even a pillow, so we can take a nice nap in the cool of the forest.

Stone tables and benches for our future picnic.

We can dip in this pool on a hot day.

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