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Date: November 27
Location: Castelmuzio, Montalcino, Bagno Vignoni
Weather: Low to mid-40s, mostly cloudy, mild precipitation

I woke up dreaming about adding EVOO and salt to an orange for breakfast, just as Alessandro had suggested the night before. Would that really taste good? Then I remembered – it was Thanksgiving morning, and we had a wine tasting and charcuterie-board-type lunch scheduled around noon in Montalcino with Bruce, Brenda, Stan, and Ali. Ugh. Could I really do this again? A full day of drinking and eating all manner of meat, cheese, and pasta? I decided I needed nothing more than coffee that morning.

Then I got a text from Bruce:
“Good morning, I would love to cancel today’s wine tasting… just want to visit Montalcino… can we do that? Drinking at noon, etc., is tough.”

What a relief. I silently prayed we could get out of it without a cancellation fee. We should be doing a turkey trot this morning – not pre-gaming Thanksgiving with wine and a charcuterie board. Nothing here is ever “lite.” It’s abundance, always, and you can’t help but indulge because everything is so good.

I texted the concierge to see if we could cancel. At that point, I was ready to pay whatever it took to not go. I refreshed my phone – message not read. Hmm. That wasn’t typical. Then I started scrolling… is the Wi-Fi out? I had a data plan, but it’s spotty in this medieval hilltop village.

Another text from Bruce:
“I think the internet is down… fyi.”

I offered a few troubleshooting steps – reset your Wi-Fi on your phone; that had worked for me earlier. Then I told him I’d see if I could locate the modem so we could reboot the house. I flashed back to every morning I’d seen everyone sitting on the couch scrolling on their phones – myself included upstairs. The modern version of reading the morning paper. I told him, “It’ll be a tough morning if we all can’t be on our devices.” Then added, “Or maybe it’s the beginning of a device detox for all of us.”

I even offered to bring an orange down so we could try the olive oil experiment for breakfast. I was still thinking about it. Bruce, however, wasn’t nearly as intrigued by oiling everything as I had been the night before. Clearly, he hadn’t been as captivated by Alessandro as I was.

Bruce texted again: they had found the modem and were trying to reboot it – “several boxes,” he said. Hmm. That didn’t sound simple, but I appreciated the effort. I checked my concierge message again – still unread. Maybe their internet was down too.

When Carla woke up, I wished her a Happy Thanksgiving and filled her in on the morning situation. She doesn’t have a data plan, so no internet meant no connection to family for the moment. It was the middle of the night back home, so it likely didn’t matter.

Just as we were sitting down for breakfast, Alice – a sweet young woman from the concierge team – knocked on the door. She came over from La Moscadella to let us know she had seen the messages but couldn’t respond because the entire village of Castelmuzio and the surrounding area had lost internet service. A true modern-day crisis.

The best news? She was able to cancel our lunch tasting with no penalty. We were officially free from midday drinking. Victory.

We decided we’d all head to Montalcino at different times and maybe run into one another. Possibly hit a wine bar together. Then we laughed. Okay… maybe we wouldn’t.

The forecast called for crisp and sunny, but it was cold, cloudy, and windy – with rain threatening. Bruce and his family left about thirty minutes before we did.

The drive to Montalcino was still beautiful – this time of year, Tuscany glows no matter the weather. We found parking near the base that looked legitimate and free. As we started walking uphill, we kept saying different versions of “It’s cold.” Brrr. Wow. Yikes. I’m freezing. We made a half-hearted attempt to explore, but when the wind and rain started pelting our faces – and nothing looked open – we aborted the mission.

Back to the car.

On the way home, I suggested we stop in Bagno Vignoni – the tiny town with the thermal pools that looks like where Geppetto and Pinocchio might live. Cobblestone paths, storybook charm. Maybe something would be open. In summer, parking there is impossible. That day? Front row parking at its finest.

One tour bus had just pulled away, which essentially emptied the town. We found one charming little shop open, and I made a few small purchases – wrapped beautifully, of course. Italy does wrapping like it’s an art form. The care put into it feels as meaningful as what’s inside.

By then, we were hungry – not starving, just ready for something light so we wouldn’t ruin Thanksgiving dinner. We avoided the restaurants, especially the one with twenty Michelin stickers plastered on the door. That would have been fatal.

I remembered a little gelato/coffee/sandwich/wine/cookie shop on the corner. We went in, scoped the sandwiches, and immediately had a plan. Cozy inside, warm, perfect. Soon we were seated with focaccia, pecorino, and prosciutto sandwiches – a Brunello for me, a Coca-Cola for Carla, plus Italian BBQ chips. We were ridiculously pleased with ourselves.

A kind group of business travelers from Bulgaria sat next to us, and we chatted briefly. Afterward, we had coffee and one small cookie each. The perfect mid-day stop. Then it was back to the villa for a little rest – hoping the internet might return.

It hadn’t. So we rested, read, and pretended it was the 90s. At 6 p.m., we were due at La Moscadella for Thanksgiving dinner – starting with live music, aperitivos, and cocktails.

I had brought a dress. A real dress. And yes, I had to put it on. I loved it – but it was cold, dark, and all I really wanted was flannel pajamas. Still, I rallied and wore my Thanksgiving best.

We arrived just after 6 p.m. As soon as I walked in, I saw Isabella – elegant as always. We hugged and did that silent, giddy, teenage-girl squeal you do when you see someone you love dressed up. Like junior high dance energy… in grown-up clothes.

We were offered cocktails and appetizers before being escorted to the main dining room with live instrumental music. Bruce, Brenda, Stan, and Ali were already seated. Isabella joined us with her boyfriend, Gigi (jee-jee). We mingled over appetizers before being called into the enoteca for dinner – a cozy room off the main dining room that gave us separation from the louder families while still enjoying the music.

Bruce had brought the number-one ranked Brunello to share with the table. It had already been decanting, and once poured, it felt like a bottomless bottle. We toasted with a “salute” and a “ching ching” as the first course arrived. I was so grateful I’d paced myself earlier – I was truly ready for this meal.

About ten minutes in, the lights went out.

Huh?

Was whatever had killed the internet now affecting the electricity too? I sat next to Isabella and Gigi. She didn’t flinch, so neither did I. She told me they had backup generators upstairs for the kitchen – dinner would go on. We just needed light downstairs.

That’s what candles are for.

Soon the room glowed with candlelight as the courses arrived:

• Pumpkin Flan with Pecorino Cream and Crispy Pancetta
• Tagliatelle with Duck Ragù
• Guinea Fowl Stuffed with Sausage and Sautéed Spinach
• Panna Cotta with Mixed Berries

I will never forget the silkiness of that dessert – or the Vin Santo beside it. Nor will I forget the way we all simply adapted to no electricity, no internet, and leaned into the beauty of the moment.

I also truly enjoyed getting to know Gigi. In so many ways, he feels like a perfect match for Isabella in this chapter of her life. As sad as I was about the end of her story with Carlo, I am deeply happy to see she has found love again. Gigi is from Lombardy, like Isabella, so they share roots and rhythm. He is charming, intelligent, and a true gentleman.

And just like wine and food… with people, too – there is nothing more joyful than a perfect pairing.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Date: November 26
Location: Montepulciano and Trequanda
Weather: Quite chilly – about 45 degrees, partly sunny

Today was our first official off-site wine tasting of the trip. We were meeting Bruce, Brenda, Stan, and Ali at Tenuta Fontecornino around noon. I was especially happy for another slow morning so I could blog about the previous day. And even better news – Isabella’s calls from yesterday had worked. The morning was perfectly still and blissfully quiet. Ahhh… peace had officially returned to sweet little Castelmuzio.

Just as I was thinking I’d make coffee and scramble a few eggs, a text popped up from Bruce: “Good Morning, fresh quiche is awaiting you! Delivered at 8:30am.”

I checked the time – it was literally minutes earlier. By now, this had become our routine. Deliveries would appear downstairs, and Bruce would text: Fresh croissants, quiche, etc. are down here. Two little baskets every time. It felt like Christmas morning in pajamas. We were fully “family in a big house” mode now – no need to get presentable before heading downstairs.

I carried the quiche upstairs, beautifully wrapped in cloth. I didn’t think Carla would be into quiche, but knew she would appreciate the presentation of it all. I sliced off a generous piece and savored every bite with my morning coffee. I had officially mastered the latte on the DeLonghi machine too – rhythm achieved.

Soon enough, we were driving back to Montepulciano, heading to the De’ Ricci Cellars, which was our meeting point. When I reached one of the city gates, I hesitated. Am I really supposed to drive into Montepulciano? That felt like a risky move. I’ve made this mistake before on a previous trip… yet here I was again, inching forward. A few corners later, there we were – our tiny car wedged into a full-blown Renaissance village.

A little panic set in. I’m definitely not supposed to be here.

I glanced back at the instructions – sure enough, at the very bottom it read: Park outside the city. Oops. Now I had to get myself out of this situation.

Just as my heart started racing, like an angel sent from heaven, a man appeared at my window.
“Are you here for the tasting?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, let me move my car so you can park here. I’ll also text my dad – he’s a policeman – and give him your license plate so you don’t get a ticket for driving inside the walls.”

Problem solved. Bless this man.

Turns out, he was also our sommelier for the tasting. Once everyone arrived, he drove us out to Tenuta Fontecornino for a wine tasting paired with lunch. We sampled five or six varietals, focusing mostly on Brunello di Montepulciano – not to be confused with Brunello di Montalcino. I had always lumped them together in my mind. Today, I finally learned the difference.

Lunch was delicious and thoughtfully paired with each wine. A standout was the Pici with veal – so different from the ragu and cacio e pepe versions from the night before. We laughed because Bruce who also eaten Pici for lunch before the Pici class the day before, was officially on a full Pici streak. Dessert was a rich flourless torte that wrapped everything up perfectly.

After the tasting, they drove us back into town for a tour of the historic Cantina De’ Ricci. Our bellies were full and most of us had a nice little wine buzz going. Bruce and family opted out of the cellar tour, so only Carla and I stayed behind.

The tour was short and sweet – no long technical wine lecture, which was perfect post-lunch. What made it especially memorable was the descent deep into the caves beneath the city, carved by the Etruscans around 400 B.C. The Ricci family took over in the 12th century and began winemaking here in the 1300s.

We also learned a great story: back in the 12th century, a man in Montepulciano could predict the weather with uncanny precision and was accused of sorcery. To avoid the Inquisition, he revealed his “secret” – he watched how a hedgehog reacted to the sun. The man earned the nickname Riccio (hedgehog), becoming the ancestor of the Ricci family. History with personality – my favorite kind.

After the tour, we headed back to the villa to rest before dinner. That evening we had an extra virgin olive oil (EVOO) tasting at 6 p.m., followed by an EVOO-paired dinner. I’d done this tasting a few times before, but wanted to join for the shared experience.

Once back in our rooms, Carla and I both passed out in our rooms for about an hour without planning to. No discussion. No coordination. Just unconscious vacation naps. The best kind.

I woke around 6:10 p.m. and went to check on Carla. There she was, cocooned in blankets.
“Still want to go to the EVOO tasting?” I asked gently.
It’s hard to rally when it’s cold outside and you’ve sunk into a late-day nap…but we did. And we arrived right on time.

That night’s tasting was led by someone new – Alessandro. I hadn’t met him before and was looking forward to a fresh voice. And wow… he was cute and charming. All-over adorable. If someone were to ask me what my dream man looks like – this might be it. He had the kind of tummy that suggests he truly enjoys his food – like me – but not overly so. He was passionate about EVOO, animated, and completely captivating. I was so taken by his energy that I forgot to take even one photo.

And of course… married. With a son. There goes my dream of meeting my Italian soulmate over olive oil. Still, I learned so much – especially the myth about EVOO’s smoke point. Contrary to what we hear in the U.S., true extra virgin olive oil actually holds up beautifully at high temperatures and preserves its health benefits.

After the tasting, we moved upstairs for an EVOO-paired dinner. My favorite surprise? Olive oil gelato. Drizzled with – yes – more olive oil. Heavenly. He also suggested drizzling olive oil over orange slices with a pinch of salt for breakfast. I am here to say… I would drizzle EVOO on anything Alessandro suggests and was looking forward to trying that for breakfast.

At the end of the night, I walked up to him and said,
“I’ve done many EVOO tastings here, but none came close to yours. You are a wonderful teacher.”
He hugged me, took my hand, and kissed it lightly.

All right then… EVOO Prince Charming. Thank you for making me Cinderella for just one Tuscan night. I won’t soon forget you.

Date: November 25
Location: Pienza and Castelmuzio
Weather: 51 degrees, on and off showers

Who doesn’t love the whirring sound of a tunnel-boring machine right near their head at 8 a.m. on vacation?

“Oh geez,” I thought as I started to surface from a blissful sleep. “Are these the quiet tools?”

Once again, my peaceful villa stay was interrupted by the indoor jacuzzi drilling across the way.

Isabella had told me she had spoken with the workers and that they weren’t supposed to start until 10 a.m. Something definitely got lost in translation. I threw on a jacket and walked over to the ancient wooden door to use the jumbo metal door knocker, hoping to ask them to wait. But the machines were so loud, no one could hear me. So instead, I recorded the noise and sent the video to Isabella with a voice text updating her on the latest village happenings.

Back upstairs, I began making breakfast. Today felt like the day to finally tackle the complicated DeLonghi espresso/latte machine – though I kept the trusty Moka pot ready as my backup plan. At the same time, I decided I wanted toast and pulled the bread out of the bag from the night before. The crust was hard as a rock.

With the help of Google, I figured out the stove and used the old trick: sprinkle the bread with water, wrap it in foil, and bake it for 15 minutes to revive it. I needed to be able to slice it for toast, after all. Just then Carla shuffled in, hair wildly disheveled, muttering, “OMG, the drilling over there – it is nonstop.” I nodded sympathetically and offered her fresh coffee.

At this point, I had largely surrendered to the randomness of Italian mornings. I spent the morning writing and sipping on my first-ever attempt at a latte from that fancy machine. It wasn’t bad.

Eventually, the grinding noise became too much, so we decided to get ready and head out. As a final act of resistance, I turned on the speaker system and blasted AC/DC’s Back in Black to drown out the drilling. I’m not a metal girl – never have been – but suddenly I understood the appeal. Sometimes you need loud music to drown out louder chaos.

It had been raining all morning, but we spotted a break in the clouds and decided to drive to Pienza for one of our favorite simple pleasures: a salami and cheese sandwich from the tiny deli in the village.

As we walked into Pienza, the streets were wet, the air crisp, and we both wondered—would the little old lady still be there? Isabella had reminded us just the night before that things change and you can’t expect everything to be just as it was. Still, we hoped.

We turned the corner, stepped into the shop… and there she was. Just as always.

All I had to say was, “Salami, formaggio, and sandweech,” while pantomiming eating, and she understood immediately. Within five minutes we each had our perfectly wrapped sandwiches. Ironically, we already had all these ingredients back at the villa – but it wasn’t about that. We wanted her to make our sandwiches. And she did. And we were happy.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering into the shops that were still open. Many close midday, so we were lucky. One shopkeeper said, “Of course the last tourists of the season are here this week – but I’ll close early at 5.” We made a few fun purchases, walked the famous overlook of the valley, and then headed for the car.

We hadn’t visited San Quirico yet – a hilltop village about fifteen minutes away – so we pointed the car in that direction. We briefly debated stopping in on Luciano, but didn’t want to risk catching him mid-nap and answering the door half dressed, so we carried on.

Parking in San Quirico was confusing. We circled the walls a couple of times since every sign seemed to say no parking – even where I usually park. What the?? I finally texted La Moscadella, and they assured me I could still park there; it just meant no parking on street-cleaning days… though no one could tell me when those were. With several other cars already there, I went for it. The last thing you want when you return home is mail from Italy – with a citation inside.

San Quirico itself was very quiet. Only one home décor shop was open, full of charming things – but nothing that needed to be shipped across the Atlantic. Soon enough, it was time to head back for our Pici pasta-making class at La Moscadella – taught by Isabella herself.

On the way back, we stopped briefly at Cretaiole for old times’ sake. No one was there, and it looked like only two apartments were occupied this week. Such a contrast from 2018, 2019, and 2021, when every unit was full and the place was buzzing. Maybe they didn’t market “An American Thanksgiving in Tuscany” this year as much. Carla and I reflected again on what Isabella had said: you can’t really go back and have it be the same. You have to embrace the moment you’re in – and ours was leading us straight to fresh Pici pasta.

On the drive back, the sun was finally peeking through the clouds, casting a soft autumn glow across the countryside. We didn’t miss appreciating that moment.

We pulled into La Moscadella just as Niccolò arrived to teach the other Pici class with the families and children. We exchanged quick hugs and headed inside. Down in the main kitchen, everything was ready. Soon Isabella joined us, aprons went on, and the class began. I hadn’t taken this class since 2017, so I was very ready for a refresher.

For the next ninety minutes, Isabella taught us the history of Pici, the traditional roles in Italian cooking, and how to achieve the perfect thickness. She checked our work carefully and we all waited for that magical “Bravissimo!” moment where she approved our pasta. They served us a lovely rosé to sip while rolling. It was hard work, but everyone did great – and we quickly found our rhythm. Whether any of us could recreate this back home remained to be seen, but for that afternoon, we were accomplished.

Our class was followed by a traditional Tuscan dinner in the wine room. We enjoyed generous appetizers, followed by two versions of our handmade pasta – Cacio e Pepe and Ragù – served in smaller portions so we could enjoy both. Dessert was tiramisu and biscotti. The perfect amount of food. I felt deeply satisfied but not overstuffed.

After dinner, I checked in with Isabella about the construction situation. She told me she’d spent the day speaking not only with the workers but also with the owners in England. She used the video I sent as evidence of the noise levels and firmly insisted the drilling stop. With only a few days left in the season before they close for winter, she asked that they at least wait – and not start before 10:30 a.m.

When I left her that night, I had a very strong feeling her conversations had finally produced the negotiation needed to restore peace to our Tuscan mornings.

Date: November 24
Location: Castelmuzio
Weather: Rainy in the 50’s

My most powerful night of sleep yet was abruptly interrupted – not by birds, not by an espresso machine sputtering to life, but by the unmistakable roar of a jackhammer directly outside my bedroom window. Say what?! How is this even possible?

Then the puzzle pieces clicked. Carlotta and Marta had mentioned that two charming guys from England had purchased a 10,000-square-foot ancient palazzo and were renovating it. How lovely! Except… their palazzo is literally across the narrow walkway from my bedroom. I checked their Instagram to be sure. There they were, receiving endless applause: “Amazing!” “So exciting!” I wanted to comment, “Yes, unless you happen to be staying in the villa RIGHT ACROSS THE WAY during indoor Roman bath house demo week.”

I sent Isabella a voice message explaining the situation, then – still in my pajamas – wandered over to peer through any hole in the construction site to see what catastrophe was unfolding. Inside looked like a hot rock mess. And sure enough, they were jackhammering out space for a jacuzzi. This is not a project that will wrap up anytime soon. Certainly not this week.

The next phase involved hurling enormous boulders into the back of a tiny metal truck. Also conveniently located… directly under my window. I stepped onto my terrace overlooking the chaos. The workers looked up; we exchanged a series of gestures—no common language, but the universal language of “please stop.” They shrugged and essentially conveyed, “Only one hour.” Sure. One hour of jackhammering and boulder tossing – what a soothing addition to my morning routine.

If only there were an Italian Nonna nearby who could lean out her ancient window and shout them into submission. But alas, none appeared.

Isabella responded quickly, saying she had no idea this work would be happening and had already called the builders. They promised to use “small tools” for the rest of the day. I asked if they could at least wait until 10 a.m. to begin – just enough time to salvage a sliver of peace.

Ah, Italy. Forever unpredictable. Forever tilting you.

Just then, Bruce texted from downstairs: “Good morning. We have fresh pastries delivered.” I walked down to find two baskets of stunning lemon croissants – golden, fragrant, and instantly restorative. My peace returned the moment I carried a basket upstairs to Carla to enjoy with our coffee.

Ah, Italy. Forever restoring you, too.

It was forecasted to rain all day. Bruce and his family to Montepulciano to see the Christmas Markets. Carla and I chose the opposite kind of day: staying at the villa, listening to rain – and jackhammering – and catching up on life. I needed to update my blog, and she needed to tackle tasks back home: ordering ladders for her new house, planning Christmas dinners, tackling her daughter’s December birthday. This season is chaotic enough; staying slightly caught up keeps the reentry from being overwhelming.

Isabella invited me for a coffee and catch-up at La Moscadella, so Carla and I walked down around 3 p.m. We waited in the grand room while one of the staff brought coffee and water on a tray. We laughed – it felt like waiting for an audience with the Queen of Tuscany.

But when Isabella came down the stairs, we greeted each other like old friends. Every time I return to this part of Italy, I realize I’m drawn back just as much for the people I’ve grown to love as for the places themselves. I can be perfectly content writing all day and then spending 90 minutes with Isabella, soaking in her wisdom.

She talked about life, change, and the evolution of her business. How everything shifts, and the only way to move through it gracefully is to accept what comes. I’ve often thought one could write a book of Isabella’isms – she distills complex emotions into simple, beautiful truths. I always leave her company feeling like my spirit has been watered and is ready to bloom.

We’re the same age, in the same season of life – thinking not about building careers but about how to use the next decade meaningfully. What we offer now is different from what we offered in our youth.

Then she suggested I consider buying a small place in Castelmuzio.

I laughed, “Didn’t you once tell me not to do that?”

She smiled. “The world has changed. And you could rent it when you’re not here. It could be a good little investment.”

I told her to keep an eye out. It feels far-fetched, but if my financial advisor said, “Yes, it’s a tax break,” I’d be all in.

Our visit flew by. She let us know she would personally be teaching our pici-making class on Tuesday night. Her son, Niccolò, would handle the big family group with all the children, and we’d have a private lesson with her. Such a treat – she rarely teaches these days, choosing instead to focus on supporting her staff so they can offer the best guest experience. She participates only when she feels it truly matters.

Carla and I left briefly to catch the Coop Market in its small window of reopening – 10 to 1 and then 5:30 to 7:30. We needed eggs, and Carla wanted snacks and bottled water. I assured her the tap water here is pure, but I remember my first visits – it takes time to trust. We searched for refrigerated eggs until I finally asked… and discovered them sitting on an unrefrigerated shelf. Eggs are simply fresher here.

After the market we headed back for the wine tasting and wine pairing dinner. The room was set beautifully. Soon we were learning about the region’s wine history dating back to the Etruscans, and about how Italians never drink wine without food. Even the shape of the bottle is meant to suggest community. We compared four reds before and after food pairing – the transformation was remarkable. A wine that felt too acidic on its own became cleansing and balanced with the right dish.

Dinner followed upstairs in our private room, with three robust Brunello blends paired perfectly to each course. Everything was delicious. Dessert arrived with a little glass of Vin Santo – a sweet, gift-like finale. I sat next to Lacrissa and loved having time with her outside of work. Honestly, all work retreats should be in Tuscany; the world would run smoother.

Back at the villa, I checked my messages. My cousin had sent a photo of little Ariana Sedona Della Fino (Ari). My eyes welled instantly. Was this my first twinge of homesickness? I FaceTimed them, watching Ari’s tail wag and her go get me a gift when she heard my voice. My heart ached to hold her, but I was grateful she was happy and well cared for.

Next, I FaceTimed my parents. They recently moved to Paso Robles, and I’ve been checking on them daily. At 89 and 91, the roles have reversed – I now worry more about them than they do about me.

Finally, Amy and Adela had sent a voice message, so I called back. They were at a restaurant, and Adela was eating pizza, grinning ear to ear – trying to ask me about Italy and say ‘Ciao Bella.’

Was it the Brunello buzz fueling my call-everyone spree? Perhaps. But seeing all those familiar faces reminded me of the sweetness waiting for me at home in less than a week.

For now, though, it was time to drift to sleep… unsure whether the workers across the way truly understood what “small tools” meant come morning.

Date: November 23
Location: Montepulciano
Weather: Sunny and 40 degrees

I woke up to soft morning light filtering through the window, convinced I was hearing the dribble of rain running down an ancient gutter. When I opened the shutters, it was the complete opposite – a panoramic blue-sky day, and the water I heard was a bubbling fountain in the garden. I stepped out onto our upstairs terrace and spotted Bruce below, already taking photos of the spectacular vista.

We’re sharing the villa with Bruce and Brenda – dear friends from Orange County – and their daughter and son-in-law, Ally and Stan, who flew in from Colorado.

“Buongiorno, Bruce! Will this do?” I said, sweeping my hand across the view.

He laughed, “Si, si, si!”

I went downstairs to greet everyone and joined Bruce outside to soak in the ridiculously blue sky. Church bells drifted up from our village, Castelmuzio. Any moment, I half-expected a chorus of nuns to start singing How do you solve a problem like Maria? The whole scene had that cinematic, Sound-of-Music energy.

The four of them were heading off to a four-hour cheesemaking class and lunch at Caseificio Piu in Sarteano. Carla and I had our own plan: Montepulciano. The Christmas markets were opening today – an annual highlight for me. Montepulciano is one of my favorite towns in all of Tuscany: the views, the shops, the charm. It checks every box.

But first, breakfast. We had our inaugural bumbling morning in our little upstairs kitchen, opening hidden drawers, learning which cupboards hid what. It always takes time to understand a new kitchen’s logic. Still, we managed a delicious meal of eggs, toast, fruit, and rich coffee from the jumbo Bialetti Moka pot. That iconic pot has defined Italian coffee culture for nearly a century – espresso so strong and flavorful you wonder how such an old school pot can pull this off.

Soon we were off, winding through the countryside toward Montepulciano. The first hurdle: parking. The medieval village sits high on a hill, surrounded by vineyards, which means most parking is at the bottom – and the trek up is a workout.

We huffed and puffed our way up from the Sanctuary of San Biagio. Built in the 1500s, it’s considered a Renaissance masterpiece. But my more vivid memory of the area? The cheese shop on the corner that once swindled me out of over $200 for a few “basic” cheeses. I peeked inside – the same woman was still there, waiting for her next victim.

No wonder she gets business; her shop is the final stop before the insane ascent to the top. We paused many times to catch our breath, looking back, looking ahead, and noticing – of course – a giant parking lot with open spaces right by the city arch. I briefly considered hitchhiking. Cars zoomed up past us like it was nothing.

Once we climbed under the arch, the soundtrack shifted to Christmas music. Not Andrea Bocelli…but Mariah Carey. Then Michael Bublé. What is up with that? The festive American playlist guided us up to Piazza Grande, home to the largest Christmas village in central Italy. Wooden stalls filled the square, local craftsmen selling their creations. The air was crisp – low 40s – so we wandered in knit caps, rosy-cheeked, taking it all in. No wonder parking was impossible; it was opening day, and locals were out in full force to kick off the season.

We also popped into countless shops in the village, warming up between bursts of cold air as the sun set and temperatures dropped further. And then, the universal issue: the bladder tap-tap-tap. Public restrooms in Italy are few, usually paperless, unheated, and… potentially shocking conditions. How badly do you really need to go? We walked around for two hours in that state. A friend once told me you can “train your bladder” to wait longer. She’s eleven years younger, so we’ll see how that theory holds up in eleven years. But still I kept telling myself, I am in training.

Eventually, we were shopped out and needed to head back for dinner. But first, another climb – this time up through the village (again!) to reach the top before descending to the car. This long, brisk walk downhill with full bladders was perilous. Any laughter could trigger disaster. Naturally, because we couldn’t laugh… everything became funny. We bent over repeatedly, trying not to let the floodgates open. I half-considered just squatting behind a stone wall.

By some miracle, both bladder dams held. Sitting down in the car was a relief in more ways than one.

We arrived back at La Moscadella just in time for dinner. I’d told Isabella we didn’t want to be in the dining room with all the children, so she arranged a private upstairs space for our party of eight. It was perfect. This time Lacrissa (my work colleague) and her mom joined us. It was wonderful to add them to our party. Lacrissa was looking fabulous in her new outfit she had purchased in Rome. Her mom is a sweet southern lady from Georgia.

The meal was described as a “buffet,” but that only applied to the first course – an ample table of appetizers that truly would have been enough. But after we sat down? The courses kept coming: lasagna, gnocchi, lamb, pork. I’d forgotten how many dishes a formal Italian dinner includes. Then dessert – a tiny cheesecake with two sauces. Everything was delicious, and the conversation grew livelier as the night went on and the wine flowed. Isn’t that always the way?

After dinner we returned to the villa. I was certain – absolutely certain – that this would finally be the night of my long-awaited sleep marathon.

Date: November 22
Location: Taormina, Pisa, Castelmuzio
Weather: 65 and sunny (Taormina), 45 and partly cloudy (Pisa), 36 and cloudy (Castelmuzio)

“We have a flat tire.”

Not exactly the words you want to hear from the friends driving you to the airport.

The plan was simple: Carlotta and Marta would bring the car up from the parking garage – a bit of a walk – and we’d leave around 10am. But as soon as they reached the garage, they discovered the tire was flat. Carlotta called me at 9:30am.

“Hi, we have flat tire. But don’t worry – I will find you transportation, a taxi or something. We called the assistance line for the rental, but no answer.”

I hung up and Carla asked, “What’s up?”

“Well… they have a flat tire.”

We looked at each other and started laughing. We have a long history of laughing at the worst possible moments – and honestly, it’s all part of the adventure. Plus, we had complete faith that these two would figure it out.

We kept packing, and around 9:50am I said, “Let’s take our bags down now.” Either we’d be out in the street trying to flag down a taxi (which we hadn’t seen once in this ancient village), or Carlotta and Marta would appear like magic.

The moment we stepped outside, my phone rang.

“Hi Lisa, good news – the tire is fixed and we are five minutes away.”

I checked my watch: 9:55am. Of course. These two are a well-oiled machine. They always deliver.

The next challenge was fitting our luggage into their tiny car. But again – they found a Jenga-level solution and off we went to the airport.

I asked how on earth they fixed the tire. Carlotta explained:

First, they drove – on the flat – to a gas station, but it was closed. Then she thought, “Where can I find a bunch of men standing around doing nothing who can help?” Naturally, the bus terminal. Sure enough, it was full of men ready to jump in. She used the “I am old, I don’t know what to do” line… and they practically lined up to assist. They even had the equipment that fills the tire with sealing foam, so within minutes the car was road-ready again.

I again marveled at how seamlessly those two operate: tolls, phone calls, directions, navigating chaos – they’re like Olympic figure skaters executing a perfect routine. They glide through it all.

Check-in at Catania Airport was shockingly easy. No lines, no security wait. Carla’s bags were over 40 kilos, and Ryanair is notoriously strict, but they didn’t charge a thing – just waved everything onto the belt.

After finding our gate, we grabbed coffee and sandwiches – thank goodness, because it ended up being our only meal until 8pm. We had no idea a full travel marathon was ahead of us.

Ryanair is the Spirit Airlines of Italy… only more bare bones. Everything is an add-on. The seats look like they’re made of cardboard, and the safety instructions are decals stuck to the seatbacks – no pockets, no pamphlets. Honestly, though? Probably the most useful safety display I’ve ever seen. When the food and beverage cart rolled by without stopping, we figured you had to prepay for everything, even water.

It was only an hour and ten minutes – we would survive. Carla produced two peppermints she’d pilfered at LAX, and that was our in-flight dining experience.

The plane landed on time, and luggage came out immediately – only four bags total for the entire flight. It felt like a commuter hop.

We waited 20 minutes in the cold Pisa air for the shuttle to the rental car facility. I’d chosen a local rental company instead of Hertz, on the advice of Italian friends who “know people” and can help if something goes wrong. At the counter they offered an upgrade from a Fiat to a bigger SUV, but in Italy that’s the last thing I want. I prefer not to wedge myself between two medieval stone walls just trying to park.

They handed us a bright siren-red car – no one would miss us on the road.

It took seven minutes to drive to the parking lot for the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and another five minutes to walk to the site. No crowds whatsoever this time of year. The usual souvenir stands lined the walls, but once you step through them, the sight of the tower and surrounding buildings is still breathtaking.

We did our cheesy “holding up the tower” photos and wandered around in the gold light of sunset. Puffy pink clouds floated above – impossible to capture properly in photos.

As we headed back, I realized I needed a bathroom. This is always the Italian dilemma: bathrooms are scarce, usually require a café purchase, and toilet paper is optional. I found a café, but the line for the toilet was ten people deep. We had a 2.5-hour drive ahead to the villa in Tuscany, it was getting late, and stopping meant arriving late for dinner. But realistically… we were going to be late.

An hour in, I pulled off at a gas station – and hallelujah – clean, empty bathrooms. Carla didn’t have toilet paper, but I’d lucked out, so I “spared a square” (actually several), and off we went again.

We arrived at La Moscadella around 7:40pm. Pulling into the gravel parking lot felt like coming home. The setting is spectacular. Everyone had already arrived and was seated – it felt like a grand reunion.

I tried to ignore the table of 20 nearby, half of them children, plus another table with three more. I love kids – but some parents often don’t manage them well in fine-dining settings. You don’t want your elegant Tuscan dinner to sound like a night at Chuck E. Cheese. When all the kids left the dining room afterward, the difference was immediate. I made a mental note to strategize with Isabella about future meals.

Dinner was several courses – wonderful but abundant. I’m halfway through my trip, the richness is catching up to me, so I limited myself to half portions of everything. Everything was delicious, but I need to pace myself if I’m going to survive until Saturday.

After dinner, Carla and I tried to find the parking for our villa in Castelmuzio. Since it’s a hilltown, parking is below the village, but I had no idea where – and the concierge was gone. I think they assumed that because I’ve been here many times, I knew. I did not. Eventually I gave up and parked outside the village, and poor Carla (with a bursting bladder) walked the ten minutes with me in the crisp night air.

Thankfully, our visible bags had already been brought to the villa during dinner. Our upstairs rooms look like they were lifted straight from a “Live Your Tuscan Dream” catalog. We chatted, unpacked, and I finally went to our rooms at 1:30am… feeling wide awake.

What is with this time-zone adjustment? They say it takes one day per hour – and I am living that rule. At this point I’m so deep into a sleep deficit I doubt I’ll catch up on this trip. But somehow, it all works. Sleep-deprived but soul-thriving.

Date: November 21
Location: Messina and Forza d’Agrò
Weather: Partly Sunny, 64 degrees

After a long night of feeling like I was only skimming the surface of sleep – never quite sinking into the deep end – I finally pulled myself out of bed at 8:30am. There is nothing worse than tossing and turning when your body is begging for rest but your brain is wide awake. This has definitely been the longest it’s ever taken me to adjust to a time zone change. I’m sure it had absolutely nothing to do with the white-chocolate macadamia nut bar I devoured while watching Landman right before bed. It was as if I knew I was sabotaging my night of sleep on purpose, but the siren call of Swiss white chocolate had me in its grip.

We’d all agreed to be ready by 10am because we had a big day planned. Carlotta and Marta had been up early, preparing a beautiful breakfast of bacon and avocado toast with perfectly poached eggs. They’ve been spoiling us on every level; honestly, who needs fancy restaurant meals when you have two imaginative Italian cooks creating magic in the kitchen? It feels like we’re living the life of true locals.

After breakfast, we walked down to the parking garage and headed for Messina. Carlotta and Marta are a flawless front-seat duo – one handling tickets, one handling Google Maps, both ready with change, both anticipating every step before it comes. From the back seat, we feel utterly pampered, watching this smooth, almost choreographed teamwork.

The drive to Messina is about an hour. Carlotta pulled off the main highway early to take a more scenic coastal route. Only… there was no scenery. Just gridlocked traffic on the outskirts of an industrial port city. And the driving? Absolutely chaotic. I’ve driven in Florence, Rome, and other major Italian cities – Madonna, this one takes the cake. And weaving fearlessly through the madness were grannies on scooters, in sandals, with little shoulder purses and not a helmet in sight. One particular granny kept zipping ahead and beating us to intersections. We were half-convinced we’d eventually pull up and find her flattened. Thankfully, she survived the day unscathed – and probably faster than all of us.

Messina itself is a jumble of architecture – rebuilt after the war with no real city plan – and that means: no parking. We circled for 45 minutes to an hour before finally landing in a parking garage. Then Carlotta shot up four levels of the tightest, windiest ramp I’ve ever seen. We were sure the car would scrape the walls. Carla joked that we could have filed our nails – or scraped the callouses off our feet – just by sticking our hands or heels out the window. We laughed nonstop until the car miraculously landed in an open space.

We wandered the town, visited the main church (a replica of the one in Siena), and explored the underground crypt. By then we were ready for lunch, so we made our way to the most highly recommended arancini shop in Sicily – a true hole-in-the-wall spot bustling with locals. Four people could easily have a full meal for around 10 euros total. With our drinks, desserts, and coffee, the total came to about 36 euros, which Marta treated us to (again). Those two somehow always beat us to the bill. I’m going to have to get clever and pre-pay somewhere. But it’s our last full day – time is running out.

After lunch we headed toward Forza d’Agrò – the famous filming location used for several scenes in The Godfather trilogy. It’s high atop a mountain, and as we drove upward, we heard Carlotta jokingly muttering, “Why do I hate myself so much?” She hates driving steep mountain roads. Meanwhile, Carla and I were thinking it felt like a gentle cool-down compared to the boss-level chaos of Messina.

When we reached the top – Madonna! The town was a feast for the eyes. The views stretched across the entire Sicilian coastline. The sun was setting, and white and pink clouds floated above the landscape like brushstrokes. Carla and I were in awe – this little medieval town is one of the most charming villages I’ve ever visited in Italy. The location scouts for The Godfather must have taken one look and said, “We’re done. This is it.”

We ended our visit in the quiet main square, which was nearly empty now that the summer crowds had cleared out. We enjoyed Aperol Spritzes, Camparis, and aperitivo in the middle of the courtyard – a perfect, cinematic finale to an unforgettable last day with Marta and Carlotta.

Date: November 20
Location: Taormina, Sicily
Weather: Sunshine with a daytime high of 64 degrees, showers at night

Carlotta and Marta had big plans for the morning: an early dip in the Ionian Sea. Living in Tuscany – basically the middle of Italy – they never pass up a chance to be near the ocean. They wanted the exhilarating shock of a cold morning swim. Meanwhile, Carla and I wanted the exhilaration of sleeping in. Still adjusting to the time zone, these slower mornings have felt like a gift – especially knowing that next week in Tuscany will be very full.

By the time we emerged from our rooms, the girls were already off on their seaside adventure. Carla and I headed into town – literally footsteps from our door – back to the café she had visited on our first morning. We ordered our coffees, and somehow I heard myself saying, “Yes, I’ll take the giant chocolate croissant,” while Carla chose an equally enormous sugar donut.

What is happening to us? It’s only Day Three.

I swear tomorrow will be different. (Probably.)

It was wonderful to sit in the café and listen to a table of French tourists next to us chatting away – one of the best parts of Europe is the international chorus of voices. We people-watched happily, especially noting the woman behind the counter greeting every male customer with the customary kiss on each cheek. Then her boss -possibly boyfriend – came up behind her and blew in her ear. She caught my eye, and I just winked as if I’m in the know and this is all normal.

I quickly concluded she receives more affection in 10 minutes at work than I’ve seen in 30+ years at mine.

After our people-watching session, we wandered down the other end of the main shopping boulevard, where we browsed beautiful shops and picked out treasures small enough to make the journey home.

One stop was a chocolatier, staffed by enthusiastic young men carrying trays of treats like Sicilian Willy Wonkas. They ushered us from one sample station to the next, offering cookies, chocolates, and sweets faster than pre-COVID Costco free samples. It felt like a delightful, sugar-fueled route straight to diabetes.

(For the record, we only tried two tiny samples—but still.)

All that sweetness made me crave something savory. We considered a seaside lunch until I saw the price: 40 euros for a little plate of calamari. Even in vacation-euphoria mode, I could not justify that. Instead, we found a small salami shop just a few doors from our Airbnb.

In my extremely broken Italian, I asked for two sandwiches with salami and cheese. Another woman in the shop tried to help, gently offering “formaggio” in case I needed support. One thing I love about Italy: if you attempt even 1% of their language, the whole room rallies behind you. They are so kind and so patient.

We bought our sandwiches, some chips, and a Schweppes lemon soda – Carla has suddenly become obsessed with these, a throwback to her childhood – and all of it cost only 12 euros. We felt like savvy locals with our humble lunch sack. We returned to our private terrace to enjoy the sunshine.

After lunch, the sleepiness hit. It was around 2 p.m., and I suggested naps – something unheard of at home, but deeply necessary here. Carla immediately agreed: “Absolutely, I’m all in on naps. I’m boring like that.”

I told her it wasn’t boring – it was essential, given the stress of life leading up to this trip.

So we headed to our rooms. Carlotta and Marta were still somewhere on the island, exploring beaches and getting lost in the mountains. I loved the freedom of everyone getting to do what made them happy.

Two hours later, I forced myself upright (as I could have kept sleeping) and checked on Carla in the other room, who was also waking up. We sat and chatted about how liberating naps can be. She told me she has a friend who says, “I’m taking to my bed,” as if she were some Victorian invalid. That’s what we did today – took to our bed – except by choice, and with great enthusiasm.

Carlotta and Marta returned around 5 p.m., eager for a quick jacuzzi soak before dinner. After their showers, they mobilized with their signature speed and made us a wonderful meal of sausages in tomato sauce with a crisp salad. Over wine, they told us stories – hilarious, chaotic, unrepeatable stories – of the wildest situations they’ve handled over the years with guests. Everything from rescuing people from ditches to dealing with… things that belong in an underground Italy tell-all.

After dinner, we cleaned up and the girls headed upstairs for bed after their long day. Carla and I camped out in my room to watch a few episodes of Landman. We turned it off at 11 p.m., hoping for a decent night’s sleep.

Tomorrow we’re heading to Messina and Forza d’Agrò – the filming location for many of The Godfather’s Sicilian scenes.

Date: November 19
Location: Taormina and Naxos, Sicily
Weather: Mid-60s with off-and-on sprinkles in the morning and evening

Our second full day in Taormina started slowly, with strong coffee and leftover pizza bread toasted to perfection by Carlotta. Somehow, reheated Sicilian pizza for breakfast just works.

Marta asked what kind of day we wanted – an ambitious road-trip adventure to neighboring towns, or something simple, like a stroll by the beach, a coffee, maybe a garden. Running on three hours of sleep, I immediately chose the latter.

After breakfast, we made our way down to the car. Because our AirBNB is inside Taormina’s pedestrian-only city center, parking anywhere close is a fantasy. It’s a ten-minute walk to where the car lives. Carlotta had rented the cutest little red Ford – four doors, European-tiny, and ready to take on the world.

We piled in, and she drove us down the perilous winding cliff road as buses and cars barreled up the opposite direction. I found myself clenching my butt cheeks while simultaneously thanking God it was her driving and not me. Carla and I kept erupting into giggles in the backseat – maybe joy, maybe terror, maybe delirium. Probably all three.

We reached the seaside town of Giardini Naxos, where Carlotta slipped the car into the tightest parallel spot I’ve ever seen – on the left side, with traffic behind her. She parked that thing like it was the Olympic finals of parallel parking and she just scored a perfect 10.

We strolled along the waterfront under a cloudy but perfectly mild sky – ideal for a long walk. After two to three miles, we found a little café overlooking the Ionian Sea, with Taormina perched far above. I somehow found myself in front of yet another pistachio-stuffed pastry, this time a croissant coated in pistachio cream and nuts. I promised myself I’d eat only half. Naturally, I consumed the entire thing. It was like inhaling delicious, pistachio-flavored air. More steps would be needed.

After coffee, the ladies suggested we visit an ecological/archeological park nearby. Why not? What we found was wild: farmland sprinkled with orange and lemon trees, but also the uncovered remains of small villages dating back to 600 B.C. Just… sitting there. No ropes. No glass cases. You could literally pick up a piece of ancient pottery from the ground – 2,500 years old – like you were in Fred and Wilma Flintstone’s backyard. The Greeks first settled here; then others conquered; then people fled uphill and created Taormina. (Don’t quote me on any of this – I’m reciting the tiny plaques as best as I can remember.)

We wandered through ruins and citrus groves, sampling oranges that had fallen to the ground because the farmers couldn’t keep up with the bounty. By the end of the day, we had logged over seven miles – about 20,000 steps. Carla kept asking, “This is our short day?” Yep. LOL.

Back at the car, Carlotta drove us up the mountain with the same effortless precision she had shown all day. Then came the parking garage: a narrow spiral ramp that felt like an amusement park ride. She powered upward five levels in one dizzying swoop while Carla and I cackled uncontrollably, leaning into each other like we were on a spinning ride at a county fair.

We hopped on a free shuttle to the center of town and split off from the ladies, who went in search of more arancini. Carla and I grabbed water and paper towels at the grocery store – and a panini she had been dreaming about – and headed back to the Casa to rest.

I refused the siren call of an afternoon nap and instead lay in bed watching all three hours of The Godfather. Since we were near several filming locations, it felt fitting. Plus, no one falls asleep during The Godfather. Not with horse heads, vendettas, and “offers you can’t refuse” every five minutes. It felt luxurious to just lie there watching a movie after so little sleep and so much walking.

When I emerged, Carlotta and Marta were in their bathing suits, giggling in the jacuzzi like two college girls on spring break. They asked us to bring them wine. It made my heart happy to see them enjoying themselves so much.

Carla and I were ready for dinner and headed out to try a pizzeria a friend had recommended – Napolean-style pizza. We told the girls absolutely not when they offered to cook; it was their vacation too. The walk down the main shopping street was beautiful, with workers installing Christmas lights overhead. We hoped they would turn them on soon.

We got our wish: by the time we walked back after a blissful meal – pizzas, wine for me, classic Coca-Cola-in-a-bottle for Carla – the streets were glowing with Christmas lights and nearly empty. Pure magic.

Back at the Casa, the girls had finished their dinner and were glowing from their hot-tub session. We were all exhausted. At around 11 p.m., we each retired to our rooms.

I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Date: November 18
Location: Taormina, Sicily
Weather: Mid-60s with off-and-on sprinkles in the morning and evening

I woke up at 9 a.m. to a completely empty house. I assumed the ladies were out on a mission – specifically, a coffee-and-pastry procurement mission – so I got myself ready before their return. Sure enough, they came back armed with the most glorious pastries: pistachio cannoli and a flaky puff pastry overflowing with cream. Breakfast of champions.

Marta offered to make me an Americano. “Si, si, si!” I practically sang. We carried everything out to the private patio, where we had a distant view of the ocean and the kind of quiet morning air that makes you want to breathe deeper.

But there was one pressing issue: the cannoli staring me down. Was this the moment the trip’s inevitable calorie avalanche began? Would my pants still fit by Friday? Do calories even count in Italy? (Surely not. Their ingredients are pure. Holy, even.) Besides, I’d be walking plenty today, so really – why fight destiny?

I took a bite. Then another. I had planned to eat only half. That plan lasted approximately four seconds. Sicilian cannoli – especially pistachio ones – are far too good for restraint.

It was a very sweet beginning to the day.

Our Airbnb is absolutely perfect for the four of us – three spacious bedrooms, three bathrooms, a small living area, and a clean, modern kitchen with all the updated touches. Nothing fancy, nothing fussy, just exactly what we need for the week.

Carlotta had been to Taormina recently with her father, so she slipped naturally into the role of local guide. Her plan for the morning: Marta would walk us over to the famous Greek Theater ruins while she stayed behind to go to the market and prepare lunch. She insisted that cooking for us would be her happy place – and honestly, when someone says their joy in life is grocery shopping and feeding you in Sicily, you don’t argue.

With the promise of a home-cooked Sicilian lunch waiting for us, we set off with Marta to explore.

We strolled through the charming streets of Taormina on our way to the Greek Theater, and Carla and I were absolutely giddy to be back in Italy – especially in a place this picturesque. The streets were practically empty, the shops were open, and it felt like the entire town had been reserved just for us.

Carlotta had warned us that in the summer these same streets become a human tidal wave, shoulder-to-shoulder crowds shuffling along at a snail’s pace. But on this quiet November morning? Bliss. Pure, quiet, postcard-worthy bliss.

The town itself is stunning – full Amalfi Coast vibes, dramatic cliffs, pastel buildings, the sea shimmering in the distance. I was suddenly very happy I pushing myself to try something new and different at the start of this trip. It was exciting to be exploring a new place in Italy.

We arrived at the Greek Theater after an easy ten-minute walk from our Airbnb. You need a ticket to enter, and it was absolutely worth it for the views alone. We wandered through the ruins, taking in the sweeping scenery while Marta played the part of our unofficial guide. We stopped for a coffee at the top, lingering over the view and catching up on all her latest news.

At one point Marta asked when I planned to buy property in Italy. Ha! She’s not the first to ask, and she won’t be the last. And honestly… I can’t say the idea hasn’t crossed my mind more than once.

After a long, relaxed visit at the top, we made our way back down. Along the path I spotted a group of four American tourists – two older couples – and asked if one of them could take our picture. The chattiest woman in the group immediately launched into a whole backstory for us. She declared she just loved my “American accent” and proceeded to tell her friends that we were three beautiful sisters traveling around Italy together. We smiled, nodded, and didn’t correct a thing. Who were we to ruin her imaginative narrative? Personally, I was fine with the story – and delighted to star in it.

We stopped at the store for a few essentials (aka wine), then headed back to the Airbnb. Carlotta had the table beautifully set outside and lunch completely ready – a pasta with sausage and artichoke stems, a crisp salad, bread, and wine. It was all delicious, and Carla and I felt thoroughly spoiled. Eating outside in the perfect weather made it even better.

After lunch, Carla and I headed down to browse the shops. We didn’t buy anything, but the walk was nice and just what we needed. There were more people out in the afternoon, but still nothing like the summer crowds we’d heard about.

Eventually, Carla said she wanted a nap. I knew this was the “death curse” for a good night’s sleep – give in to the 3:30 p.m. nap on day one, and your circadian rhythm is toast. But when you’re tired, you’re tired. So back we went.

Having our own rooms was a blessing – Carla went into full hibernation mode, and I settled in to start writing my first blog post of the trip. The house was quiet, as Carlotta and Marta had gone out on their own adventure. I wanted to capture the saga of our journey while it was still fresh, and honestly, the quiet afternoon was perfect for it. I finished the blog just as the girls returned with dinner.

They brought us the famous local arancini – glorious rice balls stuffed with herbs, meat, peas, and melty mozzarella, then breaded and fried to golden perfection – as well as lasagna and more wine. We set another beautiful table outside. I went to wake Carla, who had been asleep for four hours! She didn’t want to get up but knew she had to, or she’d be awake until sunrise.

Right as we settled outside, it began to sprinkle, so we moved everything indoors and finished the meal around the kitchen table. Carla joined us, feeling much better after her marathon nap. We ate, cleaned up, and drifted off to our rooms for early bedtimes.

I felt so grateful for a peaceful, stress-free day and the joy of finally being here. Of course, true to jet lag form, I didn’t fall asleep until 12:30 a.m.… and then woke up at 3:30am. I lay there for hours before giving up and blogging again.

So here we go – the jet lag chapter begins. Good thing I’m in a country that happens to have the best coffee on the planet.