“Do you like Renaissance Art?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you like architecture?”

“Not really.”

“Then why are you going to Florence?”

It was a fair question. This was from the young student sitting next to me on my flight. We’d be arriving in about 45 minutes, and I had no compelling reason to visit. I wasn’t called to go. As in, when I thought of Florence, I felt nothing. Neutral. And I had no interest in seeing any museums.

That said, I did have a few things happening there. A friend I’d met in Bologna invited me to a concert near the city. My friend’s grandma lived in a tiny town about 90 minutes away. And there was a cooking school that I wanted to attend. So I did have reasons.

I also have a special connection with the city. My Aunt Fannie, whom I didn’t know particularly well but always felt a kinship with, adored Florence. She was diagnosed at 19 with a rare kidney disease and was ill most of her life. In her 40s, she grew discontent and packed up for Italy. She’d spend months at a time in Florence and was fulfilled. Drawing, cooking, wandering. She was happy there. It was also the final place she visited before her passing.

I was in a fine flow when I arrived. Actually, I was thriving. I’d just spent five days on a remote island, and had that magical time in Sicily right before. In these states though, when all is going well, I get nervous that it’s going to end — that the other shoe will drop. And sure enough in Florence, it did.

Day one, I walked out of my apartment and one clear thought came to mind: I hate this.

It was hot. It was loud. All I could hear was the sound of rolling suitcases. Tour buses careened down the streets. Tourists packed the sidewalks, slowly ambling along. The cafes served omelettes and breakfast sandwiches, a complete deviation from Italian culture. The place felt like I was in line for an amusement park. And walking around the city, I felt just that: Like I was at DisneyWorld.

Italy World.

Don’t get me wrong: Florence is stunning. The main cathedral, with its green and white checkered tiles, is unlike anything I’d ever seen. The walk along the river is gorgeous, especially at night. And the city houses some of the greatest works of art ever created. But it was hard for me to not feel kind of gross when walking around: People filming themselves strolling majestically through the streets for their next IG Reel, kitschy souvenir shops all around, English signs everywhere. I sensed I was the only one not on a study abroad trip. Walking the river, I found it so strange that the place which birthed some of the greatest minds in human civilization — Dante, Da Vinci, Medici, Michelangelo — is now overrun with smoothie bars and selfie sticks.

Later that day, I also found out my friend got Covid and wouldn’t be able to go to the concert. My friend’s grandma wasn’t feeling well, and she wasn’t sure we’d be able to meet. So that left me, the cooking school, and 1000-degree heat.

As my plans fell through, I hit a period of confusion.

Often what happens for me in these states is a mass exodus of energy — a leaking of financial and energetic resources. I scurry to get out, which means I buy things I don’t need or think desperately for how to get back in that flow again. I am running, flailing, hoping to create what I was feeling just before.

Eckhart Tolle, spiritual author, says the world fluctuates between order and chaos. It’s part of the duality of life. We are sure, then we are unsure. That’s why in one minute your life seems perfectly in place and you wonder why you ever questioned it. Then, everything falls apart and you wonder if there’s any hope for you at all. I can move through these stages rather quickly.

Either way, I knew I had to get out of Florence.

I had two options, as I saw it. I could fill my time with AirBnB excursions, or I could hop over to Lucca and force my hand in visiting my friend’s grandma. She lives about a 30-minute bus ride from Lucca, a small town about an hour from Florence. She wasn’t getting back to me about meeting, so I thought I could let her know I’d be staying nearby, and if she’s up to meet, great; if not, no problem. Plus I’d heard how beautiful Lucca is.

I wasn’t in a clear space. In these times, it’s almost impossible for me to make a decision. So I went into a church and I asked the Universe: Please, give me a sign about what you’d like me to do next.

That night, I booked a yoga class that included dinner after. I wanted something healthy and social. On the way over, my phone buzzed. It was a notification from AirBnB, asking me to leave a review from a wine tasting I’d done in Bologna. The name of the sommelier, unironically, was “Luca.”

The universe has spoken, and I booked the trip.

And fortunately, that night was truly special. The class was on a terrace with a 360-degree view of Florence. Behind the instructor was the main cathedral, lit up spectacularly. Five of us did yoga while the city sparked underneath.

It filled my cup, to say the least. I was talking to the instructor before and after. Her name is Jess, a young pretty Irish woman who’s lived in Florence for two years. As the event wrapped, I was thinking how to ask her to coffee — not in a romantic way, necessarily, just to get to know her better. I got downstairs and she was by herself on her phone. We started talking about our plans for the next day. “I’m going to the beach with a few friends tomorrow,” she said. “Want to come?”

So began one of my favorite days on the trip. It was me, her, an Italian woman and a German guy — a veritable international crew. We took the train about 90 minutes west to Castiglioncello, a small beach town in Tuscany. I felt immediately comfortable with all of them, like we’d known each other for years. We stopped at a supermarket and picked up fruit, prosciutto, and other snacks, then had a lovely day on the beach. We sunbathed and splashed around and shared our life stories. And around 6pm, we parted ways. They’d go back to Florence and I’d take the train to Lucca.

*Canteloupe wrapped in prosciutto — the snack of summer*

“Why are you eating alone?” he asked.

I was in Lucca at Osteria del Manzo, a delicious restaurant known for its steak.

“Well, I’m traveling alone and I don’t know anyone here,” I said.

“That’s crazy,” he said. “Come sit with me.”

This was Roberto. He had long black hair that he kept tied into a man-bun, a bushy beard and mustache, and a big wide smile. He was wearing black suspenders, a white t-shirt, and high socks with white Converses. His girlfriend worked at the restaurant and he’d just finished his bartending shift down the street, so he’d wait and drink while she finished her shift. In front of him was a glass of Prosecco, a glass of white wine, and a glass of whiskey.

“Don’t you drink water?” I asked.

He picked up the wine bottle and shook it to and fro. “Look,” he said as the liquid sloshed around. “Is this not water?”

We sat and talked for hours. Roberto had grown up in Lucca and planned on staying. He was another example of an Italian person from a small Italian town who was perfectly content to remain there. “We have the ocean, the mountains, the countryside, and we have the best food in the world,” he said. “Why would I leave?”

Not everyone felt this way. His girlfriend lived abroad before and seemed to yearn to get back into the world. But he was happy. And he had a dream. “Within the year, I will open a bar that serves cocktails from all over the world,” he said. “We’ll create the most interesting, themed menus that vary every three months, depending on what’s in season. It’ll be creative and challenging, and I’ll get to meet people from all over.”

Roberto was obsessed with basketball, specifically the Milwaukee Bucks. He’d tune into games almost every morning. Why the Bucks? I asked. “Because Giannis!” he said. “Giannis is from Greece, but for us, he represents all of Europe.”

We finished our drinks and said goodbye. We didn’t exchange numbers or follow each other on social media. I knew where to find him.

The next day I met Nonna Luisa.

Luisa is the grandmother of my good friend Francesca, who lives in Portland. Francesca’s father, Marco, is a chef and restauranteur in Portland and one of the most interesting people I know. So to visit his mother was a true point of interest.

Luisa lives in Pugnano, a commune outside Lucca that people even in Lucca hadn’t heard of. The bus dropped me off 1km away, and I walked the silent, shaded street to get there. I hit the button, Frattaroli, and there she was, standing at the top of the stairs.

Luisa lives alone. Her husband died over 30 years ago and I got the impression she hadn’t dated much since. Luisa was a linguistics professor before, so her English was nearly perfect — rare for the older Italian generation. And her home is a sanctuary — quiet, surrounded by nature and flowers and birds, nestled deeply in the countryside. As my friend said, who was Francesca’s ex-boyfriend: “If I got sent to prison there, and I was condemned to stay there the rest of my life, I’d be the happiest man.” Though Luisa lives alone, she hardly seems lonely. Her daughter lives nearby and she seems to have a healthy social life. We then sat down in her living room to speak.

“How old are you?” she asked me.

“I’m 33.”

“Well I’m 85. That’s my body’s age and I can feel it,” she said. “But my spirit sure doesn’t feel that way.”

In her free time, Luisa is a prolific painter and illustrator. She makes birthday cards by hand for all her family, and they are absolutely of professional quality. She flipped through a notebook and showed me all the hummingbirds and flowers and cats and animals that she’d been sketching since the pandemic started. Whenever she needs inspiration, she said, she just goes outside and is enchanted within moments. She can simply glance in a direction and find something that captures her, and then she starts painting. She stopped flipping through drawings and looked up at me. “I’m never bored,” she said, then smiled with big blue eyes as showed me more of her drawings.

Then it was time for lunch. “I didn’t make much,” she said. Sure enough, I walked in to see a table covered in food: mortadella, prosciutto, cantaloupe, bruschetta, grilled zucchini, two types of cheese, as well as plums, cherries, and a big bottle of white wine. I ate plate after plate of food and drank a ton of wine (it’s just so easy). I even stuffed in a few more bites than I felt capable, and told Luisa I was full.

“But you hardly ate anything!” she said.

Florence ended and I was not upset about it. I excitedly packed my bag and went to the train station, whistling along the way. The universe gave me a nice parting gift, being my day on the beach, my night in Lucca, and my lunch with Nonna Luisa. I was completely grateful and satisfied.

Now, I’d be going to Tuoro Sul Trasimeno, a tiny town on the border of Umbria and Tuscany. This had some manifestation going on. In Naples, I had this intense desire to interact with the Earth — to do something that’d let me get my hands dirty, that was quiet and secluded and physical. In Tuoro, my AirBnB host’s profile said she was a farmer and producer. I messaged and asked if there would be opportunities to volunteer. She wouldn’t be in town, she said, but she could possibly connect me with folks. Then, days later, she messaged again:

“I talked to my friend Arber, he’s an Albanian farmer with a small crew and would love your help,” she said. “He will come over tomorrow at 6pm. Be ready.”

My farming adventure would begin.

Florence: Land of 1,000 Selfies

Tuoro sul Trasimeno: Two Green Thumbs Up

Sicily: Brought to You by Elizabeth Gilbert