On only the second day of our October visit to Italy we did something very un-us-like. We went on a daylong bike excursion from Florence to Fiesole, a hilltown seemingly located about 4,000 miles straight up a hill from Florence.
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It has been a whole two months since we’ve been in Italy we think to ourselves as we disembark from our airplane at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport, a little draggy from a day of travel that has begun nearly a full day before in the mountains of western North Carolina. The summer sun, searing through the morning haze, cooks the air conditioned jetway as we step off the plane. Like the summer heat we have left behind, you can tell that it is going to be a scorcher.
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You, dear reader, have suffered through too many dripping descriptions of fried this or grilled so and so, served by a charming man who would give up his life to defend your right to eat a particular dish so long as it was garnished with extra virgin olive oil from trees growing within view of his restaurant, which his family has run since the time of Pope Leo.
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I’m sitting here, writing this piece under a beautiful blue sky, the convertible roof open and the sun streaming in. It’s a glorious day as our trip winds down to its final two days and our plan for the day is simple. Do nothing.
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Today, as the Boston Red Sox stand on the verge of their second World Series title in four years, it’s get away day for us. After 13 days, our trip is coming to a close and we are bound today from Piemonte to Lombardia, a few hours to the north, where we will set up camp for two days before taking a short drive to Milan’s Malpensa airport and our long flight home. But just like the Sox, we do not plan to coast home. There is much work to be done before claiming the trophy.
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Whoever said that youth is wasted on the young never met these two guys.
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We awake to a cold, damp drizzle this morning, our first full day in the Piemonte region, having checked into our hotel near midnight the evening before. Our hotel, the Albergo dell’Agenzia, is located in Pollenzo, a small hamlet near the town of Bra and about a quarter hour from Alba
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Bologna. Most of us know it as an alternative spelling of baloney, the meat product, not the expression of disgust. But to Italians Bologna means cuisine, seriously good food that is not too serious.
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I’m falling, falling, falling, twisting through the darkness, not knowing which way is up, not knowing how long I will fall or how long I have been falling. I am falling, falling, falling, corkscrewing through the inky blackness, unsure whether it is night or day, unaware whether it is hot or cold. I can feel nothing, see nothing, understand nothing. I simply go on, falling, unsure how I even know this, knowing not when or if it will end. It is dark, oh so completely dark. I can see nothing until I close my eyes and then I can see them, the smiling creatures, friendly yet menacing, heffalumps and woozles, Sgt. Pepper and his Lonely Hearts Club Band. I open my eyes so I cannot see them when, with a tremendous crash I hit the ground.
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It is difficult to imagine that only 24 hours has elapsed since I last updated you as to our progress. When we were last together, Suzy and I were drifting off to a peaceful sleep at the beautiful Villa Tre Grazie near Todi in southern Umbria, having spent the day lurching from a wonderful cooking class, to a difficult real estate negotiation to a meeting with the villa’s caretaker to pick up the keys.
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Today is just fun. Really fun. Or at least most of it is.
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Sox win! Sox win! Sox win!

Those beautiful words are replayed in the hearts and minds of the millions of faithful that comprise Red Sox Nation last night as they tuck themselves into bed, bleary eyed but dreaming dreams of a second World Series victory in three years. The game has been late, as have each of the games in this nail biting series, but it has been worth staying up for and now sleep awaits.
But for the sole representative of the Nation residing in Ponte San Giovanni, the clock is not so kind.
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