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A three-minute escape to Italy.

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July 27, 2025 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

The Most Beautiful Race in the World

Behind the scenes at the storied Mille Miglia race of historic cars.

Take a deep breath, forget your surroundings for a moment, and imagine yourself at the wheel of one of the rarest cars ever made, in one of the most famous races in the world. Don’t let the car that your mind pulls from the void be more recent than 1957. Preferably it is a convertible, so that you can better appreciate the sights and smells of the Italian countryside. You might want a hat, because the sun is hot, but you will need to secure it, as you will be going fast. And you might need to protect your hearing as your engine will be loud and deep, particularly as you downshift to ascend the long, curved, steeply uphill stretch right before you. A few minutes later you see another rare car racing at a fast clip on a flat stretch ahead, and you accelerate hard, managing to pass them. OK, enough imagination for you right now.

Mille miglia

Maybe this little thought experiment has caused you to think, “Gosh, I’d like to do that for real. Do I need to be a millionaire? How would I even begin?” Fortunately for you, life has once again proven that my village is at the center of the world, and I realized that I actually know people who raced in this year’s Mille Miglia. (The top photo is of them and their car, provided by Joyce.)

One year, we watched it outside a village with my car-obsessed nephew-in-law. We stood on the edge of the road watching these cars race by, then ascend a hill. My nephew-in-law could hardly speak fast enough: “Only one of those left in existence. That one has a special engine that they only made for one year. That one just sold for five million.” But more than the esoteric interest of how rare these cars are, what got me, viscerally, was the sound as they accelerated uphill. I’ve never heard anything like these deep, resonant growls that I could feel in my bones.

I’ve never been into cars—witness the Citroen Picasso I drove happily for five years—but the Mille Miglia stirs even my indifferent heart. These days it is more spectacle and less race, but it is still fantastically fun to have it come through our area, and this year it came right through the middle of our village. Here’s a random moment from us watching. They are slowing to stop at a checkpoint.

The route varies every year, and although it once came around the scenic perimeter of our village, this is the first time it has been routed down the steep, straight descent that is one of our defining features. How did that come to pass? I asked our geometra (a kind of mini-architect), whom I saw stamping the books of the participants to prove that they had reached this checkpoint. “Easy,” he said, “The head of the race is one of my best friends and when he was here having an aperitivo he saw our town’s straight descent, and knew it had to be part of the race.” This stretch of road is so steep that I witnessed many cars going back and forth to slow themselves, like I do on most ski slopes. When you think “failsafe brakes,” historic cars aren’t the first vehicles to come to mind. Listen to this one. Sound on!

he race was born in Brescia, a beautiful town not far from Milan (I wrote about it here), where some inhabitants like to claim they have gasoline in their veins instead of blood. In 1927, four men created an audacious race for the time, an all-out speed race over a course of roughly 1,000 miles of Italian roads, going from Brescia to Rome and back (mille miglia means a thousand miles in Italian). In 1927 there were 77 starters (51 finished), all of whom were Italian. Average speed was nearly 78 km/h (48 mph), and it took 21 hours and 5 minutes to complete.

The race quickly grew in popularity, attracting more participants from all over the world, testing their most technologically advanced cars. Except for a pause for WWII, the race continued until 1957, when it was stopped, deemed too dangerous to continue as a speed race. The race had gotten more than twice as fast— Stirling Moss set the record in 1955 with an average pace of 157.650 km/h (97.96 mph) in a Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR, and a time of 10 hours and 7 minutes, but still on the same tiny roads and through narrow village streets. Fifty-six people died in the Mille Miglia over its history—24 drivers/co-drivers and 32 spectators. An especially deadly year was 1957, when a Ferrari with a worn tire hit a cat’s eye reflector in the road and spun out of control into a crowd of onlookers, killing nine spectators as well as the driver and navigator. And that was only one of two fatal accidents. (This scene is a pivotal moment in the 2023 film Ferrari.)

In 1977, the Mille Miglia was reborn as a regulation rally. It’s famous for being the only time that many cars which are normally in museums are driven. Crews and large trucks full of gear follow the race to handle the likely breakdowns of these multi-million dollar wonders. The race attracts some car-obsessed celebrities with great collections—once I saw Jay Leno drive by.

But not all participants are millionaires, or famous. My friends, Jim and Joyce, caught the bug and acquired a 1953 Sunbeam Alpine, which now lives in the UK near a specialist mechanic. (This is the type of car that Cary Grant and Grace Kelly drove in the hills above Monaco in To Catch A Thief.) The Mille Miglia is hard to enter, but you can improve the odds. Only cars which were in the original races can participate. If a car had actually been in one of the original races it is easy to get in the modern rally, but it is also open to cars of the same makes and years of the participants. If you have a less common car for the Mille Miglia, like a Sunbeam Alpine, it’s easier to get a spot than if you have a car that more people have. Then you will be on a long waiting list. There’s even a helpful site that can tell you, if you are car shopping, which makes and models are more likely to get a place in the race. As my friend pointed out, at times around 600 cars had participated in the races from 1927 to 1957, so that’s a lot of cars to choose from—1503 eligible makes and models.

The objective of a regulation rally is to complete a series of segments of the course in exactly the amount of time specified—down to milliseconds. My friends described teams putting tape on their fenders and leaning out of the car to look under to make sure that the tape passes the mark exactly when it should. The team with the lowest score wins.

And it’s not all tame. According to Jim, on the open road the police will help to carve a path through traffic so that these cars can really let loose. Once we were on the way to lunch and found ourselves in the middle of the race. Full disclosure, we were, in fact, passed after we had a second to take this picture out of our back window.

The navigator is not just sitting there. Every race includes a book of route instructions, called “tulips”. At times, as Joyce and Jim discovered in the 2024 Rallye Monte-Carlo Historique that they participated in, the navigator can be yelling out split second directions as fast as they can “Hairpin turn L-R-L, tunnel, hairpin L”. When Stirling Moss did his record-setting pace in the Mille Miglia in 1955, he and his navigator did six reconnaissance runs and amassed 17 feet of race notes, which the navigator conveyed with rapid-fire hand motions. Here’s one page of the race book for our village.

According to Jim and Joyce, this race is a joy to participate in. The support and camaraderie of the participants and mechanics are unexpectedly enthusiastic and inclusive, even of the amateurs. My friends have been helped and befriended by one of the top drivers and support teams in the world, a couple of different times. But they said the best thing is to see the thousands of enthusiastic spectators lining the route, waving flags with the distinctive red arrow of the race, and cheering them on, delighted that these amazing vehicles are being driven.

And this year only five cars caught fire and had to stop the race.

Joyce and Jim have an amazing story about their first foray into European racing, when they entered their Sunbeam in the 2024 Rallye Monte-Carlo Historique, as complete novices. Jim drove the car from England to the assigned start in Reims, France, then they had to make it to the actual race start in Monaco. (The Rallye has cars start all over Europe and they have a set time to make it to Monaco for the start of the race, just to add a little extra challenge.) Their adventure involved car breakdowns, staying with farmers, helpful railway electricians rewiring spark plugs, and a race back to the UK for a crucial part. They even ended up meeting Prince Albert of Monaco—at his request—because his parents loved this car.

July 8, 2025 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Will I Ever Really Be Italian?

I don’t know if I am crafty enough for this.

Siena gets a lot of attention for its annual horse-racing palio, but every June 29th the village of Anghiari hosts its own Palio della Vittoria, or Race of the Victory, to commemorate the Battle of Anghiari. It’s one of the oldest and most famous foot races in Italy, and according to the Corriere della Sera newspaper, the craziest.

The Battle of Anghiari, fought in 1440 between Florence and Milan, is known for three things: Florence’s victory cemented its dominance and set it up to be the powerhouse of the Renaissance; the battle is the subject of Leonardo da Vinci’s lost painting (believed to be his best work); and Machiavelli wrote about it, reporting with disdain that only one soldier died—and that’s because he fell off his horse.

Our palio is held every year on the anniversary of the battle, starting in 1441. It was originally a horse race, but was stopped in 1827 because it had become so violent that one of the jockeys was killed. The race was held periodically during the late 1800s through the early 1900s as a foot race, and is now an annual event.

The palio is its own sort of battle. Every year, around 20 teams of runners from towns across Italy—but only ones that had soldiers in the original battle—are invited to participate. Each team has five runners. The starting line is at the battlefield site in the valley, and the finish line is at the top of a perfectly straight road that goes uphill with an incline of 18%. The race covers 1440 meters (nearly a mile), and lasts just over five minutes.

The ascent is intimidating, particularly in the heat of late June, but what the race is most famous for is its physical contact. Runners wear tear-away jerseys that are shed the moment the starting gun goes off, so they are harder to grab. The street signs are padded before the race. An ambulance follows close behind.

One year, we watched from the starting line, and the amount of shoving, chasing, and seizing of runners was rather shocking. Each team has a “The Rock”-sized person whose job is clearly not sprinting. One infamous race moment happened a few years ago when a beefy Anghiarese runner positioned himself next to one of the lean, fast runners from another team, who was favored to win. Right before the starting gun went off, he said, “You will start when I say you can start.” The other runners took off, the favored runner and his “companion” walked a few hundred feet, and then the big guy said, “Now, you may start.”

This year our Anghiari team had a new strategy. They trained harder than they ever had, focusing their workouts on sprinting up hills. Cold plunges in the freezing headwaters of the Tiber River also played a big part, according to the team. One of the men who trained with the team, who recently ran a marathon, said that the uphill sprinting pace was so intense that he simply wasn’t fast enough to be in the final five.

Trained and ready, the team deployed their fitness in a devious way. They were fast enough to break away immediately from the melee at the start, and the five sprinted uphill at a blazing pace. But they weren’t alone—several runners from other towns were in close pursuit. About a hundred feet from the finish line, four of the five runners from our village turned around and blocked the competing runners. The last Anghiarese runner continued on, unhindered, to win.

Watching this from the sidelines was shocking. I asked some of the runners if our village was resented for this move, but they said apparently not. In fact, they’d just been invited to compete in a race in a nearby town. All is fair in the Palio, and one of the most esteemed personal traits in Tuscany is to be furbo—tricky, cunning, or sly. Oddly enough, when I was pouring over local coverage researching this post, there was no mention of this unusual strategy.

Being furbo extends beyond one’s own team. Sometimes teams that know they can’t win in a particular year due to the health of their runners will work together with other towns to help them, with the understanding that the favor will be returned in a future race. These alliances are kept secret at the time of the race. Danger could come from anywhere.

The race is followed by a seated, candlelit dinner for 1,000 and is famously boisterous. The celebratory feast takes place along the village walls, which along with the long, straight, steep street that the runners had just conquered, are the defining features of Anghiari.

Our village knows how to throw a party—so much that the local government has a party throwing office, called the pro loco—and for this event they put hundreds of candles along the top of the waist-high protective railing, and dozens of banquet tables.

One year, the race and banquet happened right after I had been sworn in as an Italian citizen—by our mayor, bearded and wearing his formal sash—in the ancient town hall, which includes a medieval dungeon. Holding a second passport was simply not something that happened to Nancy from Clearwater, Florida, and even though I’d been working toward this for years, I was dumbfounded. I decided to celebrate this milestone by volunteering to serve food at the event, something outside my comfort zone. I’d had many menial jobs in my youth, but none in food service; and I try to avoid mobs of sweaty, testosterone-fueled men consuming a lot of wine whenever possible. But this I wanted to do.

As had often happened during this adventure, one step forward is followed by a sharp jerk on the leash by reality. Serving food at this event was a real insider thing to be doing, but even though I was now officially Italian, I still felt like an outsider. I looked around and realized that no matter how long I live here I will never be able to know the subtle nuances of belonging—loyalty to your village, town, and neighborhood, and the deep rivalries that go back centuries. I will never be of this place.

But deep in my heart I am not sure that, even if it were possible, I would want to be a native. I like my identity as both a local and an outsider. I am finding pleasure in the discovery of these Italians, and ultimately, of myself. Being immersed in such a different way of life seems to help the mirror of self-reflection become even sharper, in addition to providing the daily delight of discovering more about my Italian home. Living in my native culture felt like the mirror was a little too close, when an eye or nose is large but the whole is out of focus. You know every pore only too well.

For someone who has always craved roots and safety, I find my comfort with my half-in state unexpected. Part of my connection to this place is physical. We have restored and take care of a house and I feel so lucky to share its history for what is, for the house, merely a brief moment. I once calculated that if we stay here another couple of decades, we will have only been its inhabitants for a tiny fraction of its existence.

An Etruscan road runs through our land. The house is ancient, the core was an early medieval defensive tower—we just discovered it is probably from the 1100s. Staring at the frescoes in our bedroom, which we painstakingly revealed over months with spatulas scraping away layers of modern paint, and thinking of all the others who have stared at the same designs before they were covered over for hundreds of years, gives me a deep sense of calm. Our love of this place, the hundred or so trees we have planted, the hundreds more we care for, the house we brought back to life from abandonment, the very soil we are allowing to recover, will hopefully last long after us. And that is a real sense of place.

Despite the self-reflective undercurrent of the evening, I had a great time serving these tables. The yelling back and forth between tables, sweaty mass of mostly men, and plates piled high in my arms were definitely intimidating, but everyone was smiling, friendly, and encouraging of my Italian. I kept the food, and wine, flowing.

June 22, 2025 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

My Italy Is Changing

The attempted taming of my slightly feral village.

The feral nature of life in our Italian village is changing. At least there are some attempts at getting it to tolerate chin scratches. Part of the reason I still love living here is that there’s a different texture and spirit from what I’ve encountered in any other place. I understand how most major U.S., Italian, and international cities function. I may not get the nuances right, but the basic unspoken rules are at least usually on a game board that I’ve seen before.

In my Tuscan valley, the combination of being rural, and mostly undiscovered by the outside world, results in a life that often reminds me of what I’d imagine the 1950s were like—with no girdles and daily Valium. But nowhere is immune to change. Beyond the new McDonald’s, and Pilates studio, both unimaginable here a decade ago, the local powers that be have decided that parking, as we knew it, needed to be drastically overhauled, attempting to crush an important part of the Italian spirit.

I park, therefore I am.

Parking is elevated to an art form here—expressing freedom, self-expression, and common sense, with a chance to demonstrate one’s mastery of geometry. After nearly 13 years here, seeing the new rules bump up against a core right of human existence—the freedom to park—is amusing, and a little sad.

The norm has always been that if there’s a large section of pavement across from your favorite bar, which happens to be a striped traffic island, it’s a perfectly good place to park. After all, no one is supposed to be driving there, anyway, and a traffic island is a waste of good real estate.

As a general rule, the lines painted on the pavement of parking lots are only vague suggestions of where cars should go, or how many cars fit in the lot. Many, many more can fit in as long as there are good manners and common sense used about never blocking someone in.

When we first moved here, there were a number of parking lots I noticed with no exit. The only way out was to back up the length of the lot, hoping no one was coming in at the same time. This system accommodated more cars in a lot, and everyone just worked around the inconvenience for this reason.

This is one of my favorite parking moments, for so many reasons. It’s a car from the driving school (the one John and I took driving lessons from, which is a whole other story…). This parking lot was full, so the driving school instructor decided to park illegally in front of the trash dumpsters. What isn’t in the photo is that there is a huge lot right next to this one that is nearly empty, but you have to pay 70 cents to park there. Clearly, it’s much better to ignore the no-parking zone and park in front of the dumpster.

But the real story is that all of this somehow works. The driving instructor knows when the trash truck comes by and will need access to the dumpster, and that it is fine to block it for now. The police wouldn’t ticket for the same reason—you can’t really expect someone whose office is across the street and who is constantly in and out of their car to park in the pay lot.

About a month after we’d moved to our village, I’d parked the car in the square overnight, as we often did. When I returned the next morning, I was surprised to find that it was now the only car there, and that the weekly market had sprung up surrounding it. Even more surprising, we hadn’t been ticketed. It turned out the police knew the car of the new Americans in town and cut us some slack because we weren’t yet up to speed on the fine points of village living, like what days the main square is emptied of cars for the market.

I love all of this, and it makes me frustrated when I come back to the U.S. and the rules of parking lots feel rigid. In any given parking lot, there is so much wasted space because people are parking only between the lines. I see parking opportunities everywhere, just ripe for seizing.

About a year ago, our mayor (the first one who isn’t a Communist since WWII) who has taken another civic job in a nearby town and seems to have little attention for us, did have the time to decree that parking needed to change. Our village accommodated a lot of cars pulled into nooks and crannies in the square and along the sharply descending, long, straight street that is a hallmark of the town. He had large planters put along the sidewalks of the steep street to block rogue parking, halving the places to park. As a result, several small businesses closed, including a newsstand/tabaccheria which had been in business since 1945, in the same family. When customers couldn’t pull in conveniently for two minutes to grab a paper or cigarettes, they went elsewhere.

The parking in the square, which had been an honor system, suddenly requires payment, and is enforced by two very grumpy men who seem to be omnipresent and never make eye contact.

In the next town over, the happy chaos of the parking lots I photographed above has now been removed and replaced by new lots that accommodate only a third of the number of cars that could have parked previously. This is in an economically challenged town where the number of vacant storefronts seems to grow by the day in the historic center, where the shops are accessible only by parking in these perimeter lots.

But parking dissent bubbles just under the surface. The minute the parking guard leaves the square, cars rush in to fill empty spaces like the tide. I was writing part of this post in a caffe, and when I left I had to pull in my mirrors to squeeze between two cars—the edge of a line of six abreast that were all parked illegally to take advantage of some shade. And just now, writing in my new favorite writing caffe in a small piazza, I am looking out at this illegal parking chaos in the middle of the square. All is well. Now about that McDonald’s… And sorry, I’m late for Pilates.

May 25, 2025 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Do You Really Want to Live in Italy?

Take The Onion Test to see if you would be the US couple living “a nightmare” in France.

I was looking at the onion I’d recently purchased with something close to despair. To be honest, my extreme disappointment was directed at slightly more than half of it, but it was hard to discern the exact border of what was triggering my emotion because the usable half was one end of a continuum of rot that ended in a brown, stinking, soft, disgusting part. My angst was not due to being overly tied to the state of the onion for my mental health, but that this was one of many, many onions that I had purchased like this recently, and I really needed a good amount of healthy onion for tonight’s dinner.

Then, I reached for a head of garlic. Every clove had that little green shoot seeking sun and soil for its evolutionary destiny of becoming its own garlic in the world. I know those shoots make the garlic less flavorful and a bit bitter, but I chose to overlook this for convenience, and dug them out.

Why can’t this country pull it together enough to have decent onions and garlic, given that those alliums are the bedrock of Italian cuisine? I could always count on a decent onion or head of garlic in California. Why can’t I here?

I went to the farm stand for my usual produce run. They grow a lot of what they sell. As well as kittens. There are currently five small, furry terrors underfoot. One was drenched from batting at the hose that hung from a hook. Another attacked my feet whenever I approached the artichokes. I looked at the onions and they were sorry little things with some mush visible from the outside. I turned to Michele, the farmer, and asked what’s up with the onions these days. He looked at me like I had just asked him the stupidest question on earth. Speaking slowing, clearly, and calmly, he said “Because onions and garlic are not in season.” Wait. Rewind. ONIONS AND GARLIC HAVE A SEASON? He said not to expect any decent onions until Ferragosto, a holiday on August 15th. Until then, I should plan to use spring onions and garlic shoots, he explained calmly, as to a child who had not realized something totally obvious.

I’m telling you this because I think it’s central to what makes or breaks many people’s experiences living abroad. You either find the story above funny, as I do, or you would be frustrated and a little angry that you can’t get what you want, when you want it. I think a lot of having success living abroad boils down to this difference—let’s call it The Onion Test™. (I’m so delighted with this term that I am going to throw that ™ around just so it gets adequate respect.)

I’ve thought about this a bit after reading the article about the American couple who retired from San Francisco to Nimes, France, and decided to return to the U.S., as life abroad was “a nightmare” for them. They found that living in another country gave them “too much grief, and no joy.” She hadn’t had time to learn any French, but felt isolated after not being able to make any good French friends, and didn’t want to hang out with expats. The bureaucracy frustrated them, like when they found it hard to ship their car over (instead of just buying one in France). But the thing that went viral was a photo of her standing in an aisle of a grocery store, holding some limp celery, and complaining that she couldn’t find any decent produce in France. Their conclusion was that living in a place was very different from taking a vacation there.

There has been a flurry of analysis online about this couple and their choices, the vast majority scathing, and almost universally coming back to the overused quote “Wherever you go, there you are”. Certainly true, especially as Buckaroo Bonzai said it, but I think The Onion Test™ is a bit more specific and revealing.

Our Americans in the produce section are not alone. I used to belong to a few Italian expat forums on Facebook, hoping for some good advice, but the five or six big ones I belonged to turned out to be mainly places for people to complain. A lot. And the bottom line about what people were bothered about is that life in Italy is different from life in America or Britain. Examples large and small abounded, but sometimes the little things, like not having fresh onions year-round or limp celery, seemed to cause the most anger and disappointment. I’ve also seen this play out in my personal experience. What seems to be common about those expats who flourish is a sense of curiosity and openness about the alien place they’ve landed.

Before anyone picks up their lives and moves abroad, like we did twelve years ago, it’s important to do your research, of course, but I think it’s even more important to look in the mirror. Can you find delight in simple moments that turn your expectations upside down, sometimes in disappointing ways? Because that can happen a couple times a day. Some days this is tough going. To me, life here is a bit of a puzzle, and I find that actually fun, most of the time. If you think it’s a good thing to have things be different from your expectations, I’d say go for it. But if you need things to go your way and to be in control, forget about it. Things aren’t always easy and sometimes don’t resolve as I’d hoped, but I am struggling to think of an instance when it didn’t work out, reveal something, or deepen my understanding of this place and its people. And many times gave me a good story or something to laugh about.

And no matter who you are, I think the best thing we did was to “prototype” our move. We made everything in our California lives reversible, if need be. We rented our house fully furnished, took a leave of absence from the kids’ school, etc. We could have stepped back in our old lives very easily. And this freed us to embrace every day without looking back.

But after thinking about this, my biggest question is why, living in France, the land of spectacular village markets, was she buying celery at the grocery store? I bet that France sighed with collective relief when their plane took off.

March 10, 2025 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Buying a Car in Italy

When we first arrived in Italy, one of the things I dreaded was buying a car. It’s so awful in the United States, with all the posturing, “deals”, and bluffing, and we couldn’t imagine doing this in a foreign language and culture. I’d seen the movies, and I imagined that many of the guys who wore bad suits, shiny shoes, and fedoras moonlighted as car salesmen when they weren’t doing other dastardly deeds. On the plus side, we were intrigued to buy something we couldn’t get in the US—like a Citroen, Peugeot, or Renault—which all seemed truly exotic, despite the fact that to the locals these brands are about as exciting as paint.

Our first purchase was a used Citroen Picasso, which earned a nickname, “The Tractor”. This nickname derived from the car’s silent, purring, powerful, tiny diesel engine, its lush interior of plastic and velour, and its snappy handling and luxury ride, tuned to feel every pothole. Despite all of this, it was fierce and took us on many an adventure. (I had AI generate the image of a Citroen Picasso above, which is fairly representative of the kinds of things we put “The Tractor” through.)

When we decided to buy a Picasso there was one being sold by its owner, about two hours away, for a good price. There was a local dealer who had a similar car, but for slightly more. That car sat in front of his shop, and we thought we could use the more distant car as leverage to do the deal locally.

We walked in to the local car dealer with a touch of a saunter, secure in the card we were holding. “We like the car in front, but we are also looking at this one in Livorno at a lower price.” The dealer looked carefully at our printout with the specs, and looked up with a sweet smile and said “This is a really good price. You should go to Livorno and get it!” Not what we were expecting.

When Donella was riding horses she was friends with a girl at the barn whose dad is a car dealer. So naturally, we went to him when we decided we needed to buy a second car, this time a new Renault. We learned a lot from this experience—like that the prices listed are pretty much what they are willing to accept. There’s a little wiggle room, but surprisingly less than what we were used to in the States. Any kind of walking away or delaying tactics simply didn’t work. (I had a brief flirtation with a Mini and went to the dealer three times, doing a test drive twice. They had all my contact info, which I was reluctant to give, as I was sure that I was going to be hounded. Quite the contrary—they never followed up, despite my obvious interest.)

We were gently schooled in the level of quasi-transparency and respect when buying a new car. This Renault remains a delight, as does our ongoing relationship with this dealer, who always shows me videos of his daughter riding.

He recently bought a restaurant as a side gig, and one day he came up to me while I was waiting to pay for a servicing at the dealership. He pulled out his phone, and I was expecting to see horses, but instead there was a close up of a bald man in a tuxedo with a disco-ball inspired bow tie, holding a truffle. “I’ve invited ‘The Lord of the Truffle’ to the restaurant to do an all-truffle dinner, and you must come!” How could I say no to our friend, and the promise of meeting The Lord of the Truffle? I agreed, against every instinct I have, except for curiosity and politeness. But that dinner deserves its own story, which will come.

The time has rolled around for us to be in the market for a car and we were pretty wide open about what were interested in. We were slightly loyal to the French brands, but our dealer friend only had Renaults, and there wasn’t one in their current range that we liked. Much to our surprise, he told us to hop into one of the cars from the dealership and he’d show us some other options from competing brands. If I’ve ever been driven around by a dealer before it was always in one of their shiny, top-of-the-line cars. The ones who they wanted you to fall in love with.

He backed out an older Renault Kangoo for us to hop into. For those unfamiliar with the Kangoo, it’s every bit as sleek and sophisticated as its name. Its daddy was a U-Haul wardrobe moving box, and mommy was a skateboard.

We got in and drove thirty minutes to some other dealerships, getting the latest in local gossip. To catch you up, the new factory with enormous vents, no signage, and bars over the windows is, as I’d guessed, a gold factory. We learned about that there are different truffles in different seasons—the summer ones you want to ignore. The shocking news was that someone stole a €400 bottle of wine from his restaurant.

We saw a Peugeot that was interesting, and before we knew what was happening we found ourselves in a glass booth with not one, but two, car dealers. John and I looked at each other in despair. The Peugeot dealer was an older man who had taken off his jacket in a protracted manner, slowly and carefully hanging it, before sitting down at his desk, straightening everything on top before we could begin. Our friend was fielding non stop calls from other clients, and every time he took a call our conversation would stop. Mr. Peugeot sighed about the frantic nature of modern life and how everyone expects an instant response. Finally, there was a moment of silence between calls, and the two men started discussing how much of a discount they could come up with between them. They printed out the offer, and we exchanged contact information so that I could return to test drive an electric model in the next couple of days. The events below took us in a different direction, and I never received a follow up call from Signore Peugeot.

Then, I got a text from our friend that Nissan was having a special with €12,000 off their electric cars, but only for the next few days. We’d been slightly interested in seeing a Nissan, but it was located pretty far away. We were once again back on the road with our friend, this time to go to a Nissan dealer over an hour away. We test drove one, really liked it, and decided to take advantage of this rebate. The problem was that we had to take one of the cars in stock and we didn’t like any that this dealer had. I drove the hour back while our friend started calling dealers all over Italy to find what we wanted.

Now I am sure that he gets a cut, but we were so surprised at this guy’s willingness to physically go the extra mile to make sure that we got the right car for us, even though it was outside his dealership. We have yet to receive this car…so stay tuned. But the big lesson is, once again, we never know what to expect and have to learn to trust.

A couple of practical notes on purchasing a car, for anyone who may need to know. Oddly enough, foreigners are allowed to buy property, but you can’t buy a car unless you are a legal resident (you don’t have to be a citizen). A common way around this is to ask a friend who is a resident to buy a car for you, and hold title. I’ve discovered, after hearing the experiences of a few people, that this can backfire on the resident friend if anything seriously goes wrong, like a bad accident, while the foreign driver is behind the wheel. Because this arrangement is in a very grey area legally, the insurance company may not pay damages and can even go after the resident friend. There may be other legal repercussions.

There’s a couple ways around this. There are some agencies that will buy the car on your behalf and “rent” it back to you. Because they are businesses, and the car is insured through them, the liability is covered. There are also short-term leasing deals available in France from two weeks to six months, available to people from outside the EU. We did this our first six months and it worked like a dream—brand new car, comprehensive insurance, and unlimited mileage. Easy to hand back in at the end.

February 15, 2025 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

In an Italian Hospital

(Don’t worry, everything is fine. Explanation of the photo above is for those intrepid readers who make it to the end.)

Like so many aspects of our life in Italy, the medical system has been full of surprises.

The first few times I went to the local hospitals I was pretty stunned. Many of the facilities were built in the 1960s, with that certain ambiance that only hulking cement structures with interiors that have that special-shade-of-green walls, plastic chairs, and fluorescent lights can deliver. I’ve sometimes spent half of an hour finding where I am supposed to go in these large labyrinths. If you are admitted for a stay, the food is notoriously terrible, so family members often bring in home-cooked dishes.

A few years ago, one of my doctors determined that I needed to have a procedure, which required a trip to the hospital. On the day of surgery, we wandered around until we found the correct waiting room, which was next door to the well-marked morgue.

Soon, I was lying on the gurney, waiting for surgery. No one asked for my name, date of birth, or to confirm the procedure I was about to have. Instead, my doctor/surgeon greeted me by name and was telling me stories about his teenage son who wanted to become a videogame developer and asked if I have any leads in California. The nurses were touching me, a lot. They patted my head and used my body as a desk, resting their clipboards on my stomach to take notes. As they were petting me I was told that all would be fine.

I was wheeled into the operating room and moved onto the table. I said hello to the crew, but I didn’t meet an anesthesiologist. I joked that I was a little concerned by this, and they told me that she was finishing her coffee and would arrive shortly.

A man came in wheeling an instrument they needed, replacing one that wasn’t working. My doctor/surgeon said to the technician that he’d never used this piece of equipment before, and was told that they all worked pretty much the same. Before I had time to worry, I was out. Guess my anesthesiologist had finished her coffee.

Next think I knew, I was in post-op, struggling to regain consciousness while petting my dog, Lola. In the hospital bed. Cuddled next to me. In the recovery room. John said that he went outside to give Lola some water, as she was in the shade under a porch on a really hot day. The nurse said to bring her in—Lola would be cooler and it would do me good to recover with her next to me. And it did.

And I never saw a bill.

Italian healthcare is often ranked #2 in the world, after France, with Italians having one of the longest lifespans in the world (all delivered at one of the lowest cost per patient globally). The quality of care varies from region to region, and we are lucky to be in Tuscany, which is one of the best.

I got a call at night from a friend whose husband had become oddly lethargic and unresponsive to conversation. She needed help getting him to the hospital as they live up a rough dirt road, and the ambulance (which is free, BTW) couldn’t get to their house. We called on a friend with a four-wheel drive to get him down the driveway to our car, and we drove him to the emergency room.

The doctor was puzzled by what was going on. Our friend was very fatigued and running a slight fever. The doctor wanted to be cautious, so she kept him overnight for observation. And she kept him for two weeks while she figured out what was wrong. Turns out he had sepsis resulting from a previous infection that hadn’t fully resolved. A more pressured hospital environment, motivated to get people out quickly, might have missed this condition as it took a persistent and curious doctor, observation time, and many tests to diagnose. And sepsis is a very serious, sometimes fatal condition, especially in older adults.

And they will never see a bill.

Sebastian was about twelve when we went to his new pediatrician for a check-up. Mid-exam the doctor said that she wanted to introduce Sebastian to her daughter, who was about his age. She got out her phone and called her daughter to have her meet Sebastian. (We happened to catch the moment above.) She followed up with us after the visit, and arranged to take them both on a “date” for the afternoon to a local pool. After that, his doctor and her family invited him on vacation to Calabria, which he declined. Almost a decade later, Sebastian remembers this with great amusement and affection, and reminded me of it for this article.

All check-ups are free.

The photo at the top was taken by John years ago when Donella was in a horse show. Things unfolded in a split second, and what he assumed he was getting—Donella and her mount sailing over a jump—turned out to be an unexpected parting of ways between human and horse. She landed on her arm, hard, and was in a lot of pain afterwards. We went to the emergency room to make sure there wasn’t a fracture.

We were sent to orthopedics, and her exam and X-rays took longer than they should have because all the doctors were laughing so hard at the photo. They would ask her a question, start to diagnose, and then see someone walking by the door and have to call them in to see the photo. I think she made the day of dozens of doctors and nurses that day, and it turned out to be a bad sprain, but fortunately not a break.

And we never saw a bill.

I haven’t yet figured out when payment is required. For blood tests and scans that are follow-ups to regular doctor visits there is a co-pay, on a sliding income scale. It is usually less than €50. But emergencies and more serious treatments seems to be completely covered. I see certain doctors privately for exams, but if there are any treatments needed it gets put through the public system.

It’s not always warm and fuzzy. I get my mammograms by being sent a letter telling me to show up to a mobile mammogram truck at a certain time. I arrive and knock on the door of the RV. A male technician opens it, gestures towards the machine, tells me to take off my shirt and proceeds to prod and squish. All in plain view of the unlocked door. This is not the experience I was used to in California with background sounds of whale calls, soft lights, and cotton gowns.

But, I never see a bill.

What I love about these experiences is that the personal and the professional co-mingle. I am sure that this is partially because of a different litigation climate, but I think there is more to it. As we found in schools, there seem to be fewer people hiding behind their professional masks, bolstering an aura of authority. Most people here are completely normal in their professional roles—more like what you’d expect if you had a coffee with them—while delivering excellent results. There’s something so self-accepting and confident, so relaxed and competent about many of my interactions with Italians that I love to see this attitude extend into the high-stakes world of medicine.

February 2, 2025 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

The Moment I Knew I Had to Leave the US

(I often get asked “So, how did you decide to move to Italy?” This is an excerpt of something I’ve been working on that begins the answer to that question with a bit of backstory. If I lived in the States now, my answer might be different—this is a snapshot from twelve years ago. This piece is a bit longer than usual, and is only the beginning of a larger story. I hope you like it, please let me know!)

I would have imagined an Epiphany would be loud. A moment accompanied by a flash of bright light that might leave a permanent mark on an object close by. Something between Harry Potter’s lightning bolt scar, a slice of toast with the image of Christ on it, and the sword in the rock at Rocamadour. The type of word that should always capitalized. All this was if I’d ever considered having an Epiphany at all, which I’d never given much thought to, before it happened.

I was Epiphanied when I was in our kitchen in California on a totally ordinary night while making a simple salad, not even bothering to add a shallot and mustard to the olive oil and vinegar. I sometimes wonder what others are doing the exact moment when they realize that their life, from top to bottom, has to change because they are stuck, and not living the lives they really want to be living. It struck me, with force and complete clarity, between whisking the dressing and pouring it on, and I agreed it was right.

Something had to change. And nothing after was like it was before. And all roads finally led to Italy—but not Rome.

We moved a lot when I was a kid, Michigan to Florida to California, and back, seven different places by the time I was in fourth grade, but nowhere felt like it supported who I was at the core. My parents had me when they were older—Mom was 44, Dad 46—and they went from having a comfortable lifestyle in Lansing, Michigan, with my father owning a general contracting firm and running big interstate freeway projects, to declaring bankruptcy the year I was born.

We continued in our perilous financial state for most of my youth and moved a lot as they tried to rebuild, ultimately ending up in Clearwater, Florida, a place I never bonded with. I blamed this worry about money and our transience for the feeling that I was somehow missing out on the sense of belonging and home that everyone else seemed to have, not to mention some semblance of inner peace. A deep craving for safety is still something I feel almost daily, which mystifies me when I see the turn that my life has taken.

I was surprised that even after I started adulting, married my husband, John, had two kids, and bought and restored a house built in 1918 in a suburban, tree-filled neighborhood in Berkeley, California, surrounded by family and friends, that this yearning didn’t cease. John had moved a lot as a kid as well, and had the same scars that came from those constant new beginnings, and we swore that putting down these roots meant that our kids would grow up with a sense of stability, safety, and place.

Planning a trip to Italy, way back when, on our front steps in California.

California was almost right for me, and I almost felt like the person I knew I was, but something was still missing that I couldn’t define. And while having the suburban life I thought I should have I became a living stereotype—hands clenched on the steering wheel, sitting in traffic on the freeway trying to get to meetings on time and then back from meetings on time to pick up kids, while squeezing in figuring out what the hell I was going to cook for dinner. All the while worrying about how I was going to become spiritually fulfilled, unflappably calm, and fit.

I believed it was just the way life was and expecting more was ridiculous, not to mention unattainable and greedy. I was leading a wonderful and privileged life, by any standard. But parts of who I had become turned out to be someone I wouldn’t have wanted to have lunch with, let alone share a body with.

What was missing? I knew it had something to do with adventure, connection, challenges, and fun—and specifically with Europe and its different way of life, which had always been my siren call.

Years before, when I was in college, I went for a quarter abroad in Tours, France, and it took me apart and rebuilt me, atom by atom. When I first left home in Florida for university in California I was abnormally attached to my parents, and in the beginning found the distance to be almost more than I could take. I was the one crying in my room for the first few weeks while it seemed that everyone else was out having fun.

This extreme homesickness returned when I went to France for a term during my second year. But after a couple of weeks, I took a deep breath and looked up. And I liked what I saw. I wasn’t expecting that living far from my parents, surrounded by a language I barely spoke, food that was unfamiliar, architecture that I had no history with, and a culture that was totally foreign I would feel deeply at home for the first time. And beyond at home, fully alive. I couldn’t believe that the world could look, sound, or taste like this. The more I explored, the more I felt like I was coming into who Nancy really was. I was deeply challenged, and delighted, by everyday life in a way that felt like oxygen for my soul.

One day, between classes in Tours, I was in the beautiful town center and looking around a small bookstore when I saw a table of pop-up books for kids. I bought a little children’s book in French as a promise to my future self that I would remember and honor this period of my life, and if I was lucky enough to ever have kids, that I would make sure they had the gift of a second language and a chance to experience other cultures.

In a successful attempt to delay the start of the real world after college, I got into a work-study program at an auction house in London, and the European hook sunk even deeper. At the end of the year-long program I had no reason to stay in London, legally or practically, and my family was waiting for my return, so I went to California and started my life as an adult, with a little missing part of what I really wanted stuffed deep inside.

And then I started to have The Dream. After I’d moved back, every month or so, I’d have this dream that I was at an airport about to board a plane to head back to the U.S.—ending some European adventure—which doesn’t sound too awful when I write it but nearly always had me waking shaking and near tears. As the dream kept recurring over the years I spent loads of time analyzing it, drawing on my years of being in therapy, trying to get to the bottom of what it actually symbolized, which clearly couldn’t be what it was on the surface. But it kept happening. Until we moved to Italy. I haven’t had it once since. Turned out my heart was a communicating with my head quite clearly—“move your butt to Europe”.

John and I had discussed possibly moving to Europe, at some point, but it was always an undefined goal pushed off to the hazy future. We had a business, a house, kids in school, family, great friends and neighbors, and not a solitary reason to take off into the European yonder, except that we liked it. Not strong enough. John and I kept telling ourselves that someday, perhaps, a project would come along that would justify a move. But it hadn’t yet and was unlikely to do so.

So, back to that salad-making night. I was standing there, thinking about life, eyeing the tuition bills for the next year of school, which as much as we all loved the place would guarantee another year of the status quo, and another year of the kids’ childhood ticking by. And the moment hit me, hard.

Everything was fine but not at all as I’d hoped. And that wasn’t the way I wanted to live anymore. I’d been waiting for change to happen to us. And under that were deeper, scary questions that I hadn’t really wanted to look at. Can life be different? Is it too late for a change? Am I stuck? Is this life really the one I want for my kids?

In that moment I knew that we weren’t stuck at all. That the inertia that I was feeling wasn’t inevitable and that I could keep that long-ago promise embodied in a children’s pop-up book.

Maybe in trying so hard to create the perfect life for my family we’d missed living a better life. Maybe by doing things the way they should be done I’d missed the whole point. I needed to make my lifelong dream of living in Europe happen, no delays, no excuses.

I had an idea. And an unsuspecting family waiting at the dinner table.

January 6, 2025 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Witches and Wise Men

Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, there’s one more Italian holiday.

When American friends complain about the intensity of the holidays, I scoff. The Italian season continues in full swing until January 6th.

The merry-go-round of festivities starts on December 8th, The Feast of the Immaculate Conception, a national holiday, and the unofficial marker of when it’s OK to put up Christmas lights. Those of you with a good sense of the human gestation period might have figured out that this feast is not to mark the conception of Jesus, but rather Mary. Church fathers, in the 8th century, decided that her purity couldn’t be contaminated by having been conceived in lust, hence they created this holiday. For those not church-bound, the highlight of this day is a huge family lunch.

We roll directly into December 10th, when the village celebrates our ancient wooden carving of Our Lady of Loreto—the Virgin again—and hosts a procession carrying the statue past a series of nativity scenes starring locals. Street lights are extinguished and the village streets are lit solely by candles.

Then the main events hit—Christmas and New Year’s Eve and Day. Marked by huge family lunches. Think the holidays are over? Nope. The march continues to January 6th, the Epiphany, another national holiday.

One of my favorite things about living here occurs on several nights between Christmas Day and Epiphany—the living nativity, or presepe vivente—in a nearby hamlet. I have been twelve times and the magic hasn’t faded. A cluster of nondescript, fairly modern houses, and the adjacent garden plots and fields, transform into ancient Jerusalem. It’s epic—200 volunteers, 50 scenes of ancient life lit by 1500 candles, spread over a route more than a kilometer long, with music from Ben Hur blasting over speakers.

It has it all—nasty Romans running a slave market, donkeys turning an oil press, women washing clothes in a stream—all culminating in a manger with Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus, along with a donkey and a cow. There’s even a field of lepers, of course.

We did a video one year answering some pressing questions—is it bad to be cast as a leper? Does the woman washing clothes have cold hands? What happens to the baby Jesus when he gets older?

The selection of the sacred family is managed carefully by the organizers to not hurt any feelings. Local couples who have recently given birth take turns, with girl newborns being as likely as boys. There have even been twins starring as the baby Jesus. Also, parents are parents—you don’t need to be married to be Mary and Joseph. This year, Jesus was a bit fussy near the end of his shift so he got a bottle, while a concerned and watchful cow looked on.

The sheer pageant of it sweeps me along—Italians have a special gift for spectacle—it is not a surprise that opera was created here. This year around 10,000 people will come. It’s all volunteer and raises money for charity. The event happens for five nights between December 26th and January 6th—it can’t start earlier because there wouldn’t be a baby Jesus. The three wise men don’t show up until the Epiphany on January 6th. They enter with great fanfare and head to the manger.

Epiphany Eve, on January 5th, is a big deal for children. A witch called La Befana flies on her broom to leave candy and toys for the good kids, and coal for the bad ones.

And, yes, Epiphany is celebrated by a having big lunch.

December 14, 2024 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

What a Decade in Italy Does to You

A few reasons why we are still here after twelve years.

Community is inescapable, in a way that is different from what I experienced in America. In a small example, when I go to a cafe to write, which is pretty often, I am the only person there who is alone. Literally. And I’m definitely the only ambiance-ruining sucker working on a computer. I have never seen a “to go” paper cup, except during Covid when the cafes were closed and everyone gathered outside to drink their espressos from tiny plastic cups, clustered with friends, chatting in the freezing cold. On my last trip to California, I was surprised by the change at Peet’s Coffee due to mobile to-go ordering. The long line of customers waiting for coffee and socializing was gone and I was the only customer physically in the store. The barista was swamped with orders coming in on his computer screen, and he never looked up, or made eye contact with me.

Here in Italy, trips to the cafe provide the cadence and spice for the day. People gather once or twice a day at the stand up bar, throw back very good shots of coffee, and laugh and joke with friends. They see the same group several times a day, yet there is always seems to be a sense of delight in getting together.

Self-acceptance and calm. We had a friend visit who runs a successful and demanding business, and is an author, and she was captivated by the co-owner of a local pizza place in the village square. This restaurant sells customized squares of pizza—one large sheet pan may contain a dozen different squares. The husband cooks and the wife takes orders, dispenses drinks, serves food, and works the register, all with unflappable calm. Even with twenty people jostling at the counter, all vying for her attention, she moves at the same pace, doesn’t seem frazzled or tense, and greets everyone with warmth and a look in the eye. She gets an enormous amount done, but without stress. My friend went back a second time to watch her in action.

My friend who works for a large, worldwide consulting firm in Milan has not found that this calm and self-acceptance scales to her workplace. She sees more of the dark side of Italy as there are so few good job opportunities that people who work at a company like hers will do anything to stay there, fueling long hours and a stifled culture. She feels like this hinders creativity and innovation.

After my mother died, several years ago, I shared the news with friends in the village and, without fail, got the same response. E’ la vita. “It’s life.” The first couple of times it happened, the response felt a little cold. But I’ve realized that it is part of this larger worldview of acceptance—certain things can be changed, but much cannot and it is better to embrace and accept.

Europe is small. I love to have adventures and the scale of this continent cries out for exploration. Within a two hour flight the options seem impossible to exhaust. Over the last decade we’ve traveled to Lebanon, Turkey, Sweden, Croatia, Corsica, Austria, the Netherlands, Switzerland, and Germany, and frequently get to the UK and France. All are inexpensive to reach—we’ve used a mix of trains (including a few memorable night trains), ferries, planes, and automobiles. I love that I can get to another world—architecture, language, food, attitudes—in less time than it would have taken me to drive from Northern to Southern California.

This sense of belonging to Europe has been profound for the kids. They have an expansiveness to their thinking and a range of future options that span countries and cultures. This excites and challenges them.

The historical scale feels as small as the geographical one. Millennia are crossed within in a few footsteps. It’s not infrequent that we are in places where Bronze Age discoveries merge into Etruscan, Roman, Visigoth, and Byzantine ones, and the march of time continues through medieval, the reconstruction after the bombings of WWII, and new construction. I am constantly brought face to face with my existence being a tiny blip in time, and I like that. Even now, as I type, I look over to the painting on the wall, and the terracotta on the floor, all of which date to the last time this house was remodeled— In 1777.

Raising kids has been easier. I discovered that our kids were a lot less fragile than I thought when we lived in Berkeley. They were twelve and eight when we left and I’d fallen into the trap of micromanaging—tried to influence which teachers they got, oversaw homework, searched for the “right” extracurricular activities, and encouraged certain friends over others. Turns out they needed none of that.

Here in Italy, they chose to go to the local village schools, not speaking any Italian at the start. They had enormous help from two lovely friends of ours during the first year, who supported them with language and homework, and then they picked up the reins themselves. My not meddling encouraged their growth as independent and self-managed learners (and people), which was already who they were at their core.

It’s a lot safer here than it was in our old neighborhood in California so they had more physical freedom from the start. When Sebastian was eight, I’d often have no idea where he was. But the village is small, the center car-free, and there was almost nothing that could go wrong. He reveled in this freedom—though he did discover that his every move was being watched by a network of grandmothers—an example of which I will share soon.

Donella got her scooter license, and a Vespa, when she was 14. It’s the way it is done here—give kids a chance to learn on scooters before they get their license to drive a car at 18. I was terrified every time she left the driveway, but a sense of autonomy and freedom at that age seemed like too important a thing to say no to.

Stunning beauty is almost everywhere I look. It fills my very being.

I live slightly out of focus. I’ve always had bad vision and yearned for things around me to be crystal clear. This myopia has spread to most elements of my life in Italy. Due to language, culture, social networks, and village history I often don’t know exactly what is going on. This can be frustrating, like when I’m at a doctor or the vet. I get about three or four lines down from the big “E” on the eye chart of understanding, but nowhere near the fine print at the bottom. To offset this is the delight of the “Flaneur Effect”. One of the definitions of flaneur is “the connoisseur of the street.” Sometimes a bit of blur can make other things pop more clearly. That has been one of my great discoveries of this adventure, that my type A self doesn’t have to know everything in an attempt to control it all. And that there is great pleasure, and a different kind of understanding, in stepping back and attempting to observe new things through the fog.

Thanks to everyone reading and sharing, and especially to my paid subscribers on Substack, who are putting fuel in my writing tank.

November 25, 2024 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

How to Move to Italy

I would have imagined an Epiphany would be loud. A moment accompanied by a flash of bright light that might leave a permanent mark on an object close by. Something between Harry Potter’s lightning bolt scar, a slice of toast with the image of Christ on it, and the sword in the rock at Rocamadour. The type of word that should always capitalized. All this was if I’d ever considered having an Epiphany at all, which I’d never given much thought to, before it happened.

I was Epiphanied when I was in the kitchen on a totally ordinary night while making a simple salad, not even bothering to add a shallot and mustard to the olive oil and vinegar. Many years after it happened to me, I wonder what others are doing the exact moment when it hits, the moment when it’s clear that their life, from top to bottom, has to change because they are stuck, and not living the lives they really want to be living. It struck me, with force and complete clarity, between whisking the dressing and pouring it on and I agreed it was right.

Something had to change. And nothing after was like it was before. And all roads finally led to Italy—but not Rome.

The passage above is from a book I am writing about our 12 years of living here. I often share on Itch the things that capture my attention about living in Italy, but nothing about how we actually did this move, and why. The book (fingers crossed) goes into detail, but here are a few headlines about how we approached making this change, which have become clearer to me over time.

Change. As a family, we’d always loved to travel—Europe in particular. John and Donella were as avid to have adventures as I was. Sebastian was eight and up for whatever his older sister thought was a good idea. The routine of our California life, no matter how wonderful discrete elements were, started to feel a bit stifling and we were restless. As a friend recently told me, you gave yourselves a great gift—the permission to change.

One year only. The framing of the move was as a family year abroad—a kind of sabbatical from our “real” lives. We said we’d keep going with this idea until someone said “no”—and no one did. The kids’ school said it would a worthwhile thing to do and that they’d catch up easily; the real estate agent told us we could easily rent our house furnished; and our clients didn’t care where our base of operations was. This idea, before I had a fancy term for it of prototyping a life change, was the most critical thing we did. We could have stepped back into our old life in an instant, so we didn’t have anything to look back on and mourn. It allowed us to live in the moment and move forward without regrets.

The Golden Ticket. After George W was re-elected we decided to pursue dual citizenship. John’s grandparents came from a small town in Calabria and we painstakingly pieced together the voluminous paper trail needed to prove citizenship by blood in Italy. We were successful, and John and the kids held Italian passports. I was a citizen-in-waiting due to my marriage to an Italian. (Little did I know I was marrying an Italian when we said our vows.)

We listened to our hearts. Our Italian passports opened up the EU to us, including the UK at the time, and initially we weren’t even considering Italy. The criteria at the beginning were that our adventure needed to occur somewhere hip and happening, and close to an international airport. We ended up in a place that didn’t even remotely fulfill either requirement. We investigated Amsterdam, Berlin, and London, among other places, but nothing was really getting our hearts pounding. One night, we had dinner in a chaotic, exuberant, family-run Italian restaurant and the idea of moving to Italy hit us. All of us suddenly sat up straighter and started talking at once. We knew we were now on the right path. Plus, it would give us a chance to figure out what being Italian actually meant.

Research. After deciding on Italy, we talked to about a dozen families who’d done similar sabbaticals and learned a great deal. The family who’d had the most profound and interesting experience had lived in a tiny village where they bonded deeply with the locals—a different experience from friends who’d ended up in Florence or Rome with a complete infrastructure for expats—and hyper-local felt like the more interesting path.

Bravery. We investigated international schools and discovered that kids who attended often didn’t learn the language or culture of the country that they were in, beyond the basics. Students were from all over the world, often at the school for just a year or so before they moved on, and although the experience was certainly international, it wasn’t necessarily Italian. Donella (and by extension her little brother) decided that they wanted to go to local schools to become fluent. They started Italian schools not speaking a word of Italian. Now they speak like natives and have often delighted in having not entirely appropriate conversation with friends, in partial dialect, right in front of us and we can’t keep up. It’s handy to have a secret language your parents don’t know.

Off Roading. We were comfortable going “off road” because it was initially only for a year. We chose our village sight unseen, driven by finding an apartment or house where we wanted to live. After looking at about a thousand short-term vacation rentals online we found an apartment that was beautiful, mysterious, and as different from our California home as possible—four restored nuns’ cells in a convent from the 1600s. The owner was willing to rent it out for the year, with everything from sheets to spoons. We weren’t worried about the kids’ education as it didn’t need to track to any American standards. If we went back, they would get back on the path and in the meantime they’d learn far more interesting things than rote curriculum. Our work with clients continued and often involved international travel, so we had the freedom to be based anywhere.

Trusting the universe, and ourselves. I’ve always been a worrier and a planner, but for this move it was all up to chance—the village, the apartment, the school, living in Italy—no way to control anything. We just had to go with it, and I’ve become comfortable in this mode. The universe sent us two perfect mentors for the kids, which was the biggest gift possible. For the first year they’d pick them up from school, have them over for lunch, and help with homework and Italian. We couldn’t have been successful in making the move work for everyone without them.

The Conversation. In retrospect, one thing that amazes me is that at the end of the year we never had The Family Conversation, complete with columns of pros and cons, about whether to go back to California. None of us even thought of discussing a return to our old lives. We were having too much fun, had too much yet to figure out, and we wanted to see where the adventure led next.

Regrets? Almost none, except missing some family moments. People we love come to visit, and for more intense, intimate times than what we often had together back in our frenzied California lives. What we lost in frequency we’ve gained in depth. We’ve all changed in ways that we like. The kids have thanked us multiple times, saying that this was the best thing we could have done for them—and they wonder about who they would have become had they stayed in California, in what they view as the more narrow American path. But, I do miss readily available fresh cilantro and Indian food.