Daren’s Perspective – esterinaanderson.com

The Literature of Social Reflection, Revisited

Posted on 10/11/202610/14/2026 by Esterina Anderson

Nearly 40 years later, I am asking again what it means to live well

By Daren Anderson

I opened The Doctor Stories, by William Carlos Williams, with some trepidation. Would I read the words that had moved me so many years ago and still find them inspiring, or would I find them empty? When I first read this book, I was a confused youth trying to sort out the kind of life I wanted to lead. These stories inspired me to pursue a career in medicine and community health. Nearly forty years later, having just walked away from the life I had built, I found myself seeking answers to many of the same questions about life, purpose, and meaning, and wondering whether I had stayed true to my ideals.

When we first decided to pack up our lives and move to Italy, I had trouble explaining the reasons for doing so to others. It just felt like what I needed at this point in my life. Of course, there were many common clichés that I employed, like “If not now, when?” or “We found the courage to follow our dream.” But these sentiments, while containing shards of truth, didn’t do justice to the real motivations behind this major life change.

For me, far more than ticking clocks or following dreams, I was motivated by a subtle, gnawing sense of what I can only describe as unease. Something felt off, and things that I had considered certain no longer felt so. I found a quote by Linda Rose Cooper in her essay “The Teacher in Disguise” that expressed exactly what I was feeling:

What once felt solid no longer does. The roles we have lived inside begin to loosen. The explanations that once satisfied us no longer reach deeply enough. We find ourselves questioning things we accepted for years. Not because something has gone wrong, but because consciousness is asking more of us. It is asking us to look beneath the surface of our lives and see what has been there all along.

I was beginning to feel that the path I was on might no longer be the right one. Had I lost my way and failed to live the life I had intended, or was the life I intended no longer the life that I wanted? The whispered question question was hard to discern and was only audible in those rare moments when the noise and chaos of daily living briefly quieted and the chatter of my overactive mind slowed for a second, allowing the voice to be heard. Moving overseas allowed me to step away from the life I was living, drastically change the setting, and devote more time to contemplation.

Once we settled down into our new routine in Italy, I began to dedicate time each day to reading and reflection. I started with a variety of contemplative books about life, including The Second Mountain, by David Brooks, The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho, and Falling Upwards and Eager to Love, both by Richard Rohr. Each of these books deals with questions of identity, purpose, and meaning in life, the very questions with which I was wrestling.

My wife Esterina and I spent hours discussing them. She was wrestling with similar questions. Our combined experience, our reflections, and our deep conversations formed the foundation for my own inward exploration. We bounced ideas off each other, shared observations, discussed things that we were reading, and challenged each other along the way.

Several months into our journey, I decided to revisit a college literature class that had changed my life. While I was a junior, I had been wrestling with many of the same questions that were reappearing now: What is the meaning of a life “well-lived”? What do I owe to others? What is my life’s purpose? Does it even have a purpose? The course was entitled “The Literature of Social Reflection” (Gen Ed 105). Led by Robert Coles, MD, a child psychiatrist, writer, poet, and well-loved professor, the class introduced me to authors who had tangled with the same sorts of questions. Some of the most impactful for me included The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy, Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison, and The Doctor Stories by William Carlos Williams.

While reading these books I began to struggle with the concept of inequality in our society and was disturbed by what felt to me to be my unearned place at the top of the social strata. Each morning on my way to class I would walk by a group of homeless men who camped out on top of a subway grate, taking advantage of the warm air escaping from the Red Line to take the bite out of the nighttime chill. My place in this scene, a student walking comfortably by, contemplating the meaning of life, while they struggled for warmth, seemed arbitrary and based more on the accident of birth rather than any personal merit on my part. It left me feeling guilty yet also motivated to do something, but I wasn’t sure what.

I found inspiration and a direction during the course, bolstered by my somewhat naïve, youthful idealism. I decided that I must find a way to ensure that I was using the many gifts that I had been given to make a difference in the lives of others, particularly those less fortunate than myself. “For of those to whom much is given, much is required”, a quote commonly attributed to John F. Kennedy, drawn from the Bible, summed up how I was feeling.

I am certain that many other young people have landed on this same conviction and found motivation from its simple calling. And I am sure that many eyes have rolled at hearing one more idealistic kid say how much they wanted to help others. But at the time, this guiding principle gave me the moral energy to seek a path in life that would be focused on finding ways to give back, and it still resonates with me today.

I found a way to act on this conviction when Dr. Coles assigned The Doctor Stories to read for the class. In this simple collection of vignettes about life as a doctor in Northern New Jersey caring for the poor, I found what I thought was my life’s purpose. Reading this book in my college library as a junior, I remember the moment distinctly. I entered the library with the book in hand, but with no clear idea what I wanted to do with my life. As I sat on the leather couch reading the stories, there was a moment when I said to myself: “This is what I want to do.” As I read it now for the second time, I found what I believe was the exact paragraph that sent me down a path that I had previously never considered.

It’s the humdrum, day-in, day-out, everyday work that is the real satisfaction of the practice of medicine; the million and a half patients a man has seen on his daily visits over a forty-year period of weekdays and Sundays that make up his life. […] But the actual calling of people, at all times and under all conditions, the coming to grips with the intimate conditions of their lives, when they were being born, when they were dying, watching them die, watching them get well when they were ill has always absorbed me.

I wrote my final essay for Coles’s class on my epiphany and how I felt the literature of social reflection could call us to a vocation. Afterwards, I had a chance to meet individually with Dr. Coles on several occasions. I don’t remember exactly what he said to me. But I remember the impression he made. He was disheveled. He would often go off on tangents, and he always seemed to be looking far away, wrestling with inner questions, unsettled, and unsure. It was apparent that he didn’t have all the answers. But he inspired me in a way that no one else had.

The Doctor Stories motivated me to go to medical school, to pursue a career in primary care, and to take a job at the Community Health Center of New Britain, Connecticut. Connecting with other people, listening to their stories, showing them respect and compassion, and helping them wrestle with their medical and social issues was infinitely rewarding, just as I had hoped.

Once I did a house call for a frail, elderly patient on a snowy day in January. While I was inside, the snowplow came by and blocked my car in the driveway. I shoveled out his driveway and he thanked me, not only for the medical care, but also for the snow plowing. I attended a wedding for two of my patients with HIV who were stable on antiretroviral treatments I was prescribing. I attended patients’ funerals. I got to know people in the community and felt connected in a very direct way.

But things got complicated along the way. I began hearing another call that was pulling me away from patient care. I started thinking that I wanted to find ways to make things work better for patients at a systems level, rather than one patient at a time. I took on a new administrative role at the Community Health Center and cut substantially back on patient care. Over the years I moved “up the ladder” and took on research, increasingly senior leadership positions, and eventually a company to run. Each of these new opportunities seemed to align with my original purpose. Each role kept me engaged in health care and working with the underserved, just as I had set out to do. Or did it?

Nearly forty years later I have come full circle, back to the questions I had in Coles’s class. What is the meaning of a life well-lived? Does this life, still in process, pass muster? More importantly, does it pass muster for me? Have I stayed true to the principles I had adopted after reading The Doctor Stories? If so, why do I feel I’m on the wrong path?

Walking away from it all was a dramatic step, but one that I felt I had to take to sort out the conflicting feelings that were making me uneasy. It is far too easy to keep following a path simply because we’ve been on it for a long time, without asking where it is taking us, or whether we still want to go there. I can still see traces of my youthful idealism in myself and trace them back to the Coles class. But I am also beginning to wonder whether my sense of purpose was too dependent on my career. I’m trying to look at the whole of my life: what I truly want, what I believe my life is for, where I find satisfaction and meaning, what balance might look like, and how relationships and human connection shape the way I want to live.

What path I’ll follow when we return to the U.S. is not clear yet, but I expect it will be different. As I continue on this journey I will share more about my reflections as they unfold.

Book cover of 'The Doctor Stories' by William Carlos Williams, compiled by Robert Coles, featuring a black and white image of a doctor in a white coat holding a baby.

Murder, Passion, and Lucca: an Italian Opera Weekend

Posted on 08/02/2026 by Esterina Anderson

by Daren Anderson

The gorgeous sounds of the opera Tosca filled the lakeside amphitheater as we took in the spectacle of an open-air opera in Italy. The leading tenor, Cavaradossi, pours out his love of life and his love for Tosca as he prepares for his imminent execution. No one writes soaring, sumptuous melodies quite like Puccini. And no one writes opera with such passion, tenderness, and heartbreak. The haunting theme of E lucevan le stelle is passed from a clarinet, to violin, before being taken up by the tenor, and finally returning back to the orchestra. These are melodies that stay with you long after the opera has ended.

Puccini wrote some of the world’s most beloved operas. He composed many of them from his home on the lake in Torre del Lago, where we found ourselves on Friday evening watching Tosca in an open-air amphitheater. From our seats we watched a full moon rising over the stage while catching glimpses of the lake beyond. Onstage there was torture, passion, betrayal, stabbings, suicides, and of course magnificent music. It was the full Italian opera experience.

We were lucky enough to have heard about the Puccini festival back in the spring, an annual summer-time event in which his operas are performed at Torre del Lago Puccini, where Puccini did much of his composing. To make a weekend out of it, we booked a hotel in the nearby city of Lucca for two nights. Lucca is one of our favorite cities. We first came to Lucca last December on a very quick trip to make a final decision on our apartment. While the rental near Lucca did not work out, we loved the very brief time we spent in the city and vowed to come back when we had more time to explore.

Lucca, like many Italian cities, is surrounded by thick walls. Unlike other towns, Lucca’s Renaissance walls are still completely intact, having never been breached or destroyed. They are impressive to look upon. It is difficult to imagine how many bricks were made and laid, how many workers labored, and over how many years such a massive structure, stretching nearly three miles around the city, was built. It is equally difficult to imagine living in a world where every city needed walls to protect itself from neighboring powers such as Pisa or Florence. But this was the reality of 15^th century Italy which explains the fact that so many cities are walled in and, whenever possible, built on top of hills! Defense was critical in the dangerous world of Medieval and Renaissance Italy.

While the walls were interesting, the best part about them now is that they have been transformed into a kind of outdoor park. The top of the wall is planted with grass and stately trees and there is a paved trail on which one can walk, jog, or cycle completely around the city without interruption. One morning, before the heat settled in, we enjoyed one of our favorite runs since moving to Italy. Koji sniffed a good portion of the walls as well, and even got to spend a bit of time off leash.

Inside the walls, Lucca offers many of the things we have grown accustomed to in Italian cities: ancient churches, lovely piazzas, excellent gelato, Italian restaurants, and centuries of history. Yet the city has an energy all its own. It feels clean, beautifully preserved, and less encumbered by the overwhelming crowds found in nearby Florence.

For me, one of the highlights was a small museum dedicated to Puccini, housed in his ancestral home. The museum had original scores, libretti, some of his clothes and my favorite thing, the Steinway piano on which he composed his works.

Much of our time here felt similar to time in other Italian cities: We had good pizza, good gelato, did some window shopping, and appreciated some historical buildings. And we are starting to feel a bit of “been there, done that” as we continue to explore Italy. But this city still captured me and found a place in my heart.

I am adding it to my list of top places to visit in Italy. I am even thinking about putting together a few sample “itineraries” for those interested in an experience in Italy beyond (or even avoiding) the usual Rome, Venice, Florence circuit. Send me a note if you’d be interested.

We also managed to squeeze in a short trip over to Pisa to see whether the tower still leans. Pisa is only about 30 minutes from Lucca, so after breakfast on our first morning we headed over, hoping to beat both the crowds and the heat. We learned two things. First, the tower does indeed lean—a lot. Second, it is part of an extraordinary complex that includes a magnificent cathedral and baptistry, all set within the Piazza dei Miracoli just inside Pisa’s ancient walls. The cathedral, with its blend of Romanesque, Byzantine, and Islamic influences, is one of the most remarkable I’ve seen in Italy. We also learned that this is one of the most tourist-heavy destinations in the country. By late morning it was packed with tourists, buses, influencers, selfie-snappers, and the heat was becoming intense. We made a quick, surgical strike, admired the tower and cathedral, and retreated before Koji completely melted in the building heat.

Now we are back in Gaville to catch up on projects, get some work done, and implement a new strategy for dealing with the heat. Heat is a new reality that has taken center stage recently. Our apartment has no air conditioning, relying instead on its thick stone walls and high ceilings to stay comfortable. This strategy has worked well for hundreds of years, but this week, with temperatures are hovering daily around 100, it is becoming a bit more of a challenge.

We are learning to adapt. We have standing fans upstairs and downstairs. One blows on us all night. We are also reorganizing our days, taking advantage of the morning hours before the heat sets in. We try to get our exercise and dog walks in early. By 1pm it is simply too hot to run or bike, or even to walk around. During the afternoon we try to move less, drink a lot of fluids, and avoid going out whenever possible.

The extreme heat has added a whole new and unwelcome element to our experience, turning summer, which has always been the best time of year for outdoor activity and travel, into more of a grim slog requiring strategizing and sapping the enjoyment out of many experiences. Fortunately, autumn is not far away.

We continue to find ways to adapt to life in Italy. Learning to live with the heat is simply the latest chapter in a year of discovering new places, embracing unfamiliar routines, and, along the way, learning more about ourselves. That was, after all, the point of this entire adventure. I have no doubt that we will return home with a renewed appreciation for much of what we left behind, but also changed by an experience that was as much about looking inward as looking outward.

What “Made (or Grown) in Italy” Really Means

Posted on 06/01/2026 by Esterina Anderson

By Daren Anderson

I’ve always been fascinated by transportation infrastructure and knowing where things come from, particularly food. The American supermarket is a modern marvel, featuring every imaginable food available all year long. I am amazed at how there can be strawberries and blueberries or fresh lettuce and cherry tomatoes in the middle of the winter. How does a fresh artichoke get to the vegetable section of your grocery store in January? If you look at the label or the price tag sticker, you will see that our food comes from all over the world.

Shopping here in Italy I have continued to nurture my interest in where food comes from. But it has been quite a different experience, at least so far. Nearly everything we buy in the large, modern grocery store in our town is grown or produced in Italy. Nearly all the fish are caught by Italian fisherman in Mediterranean waters. All the fruit and vegetables, with few exceptions, come from Italy. Of course bananas still come from Central and South America, and coffee comes from Asia, African, or South America. But most of the meat and produce that we buy comes from Italy.

And not just Italy, but from a specific region of Italy, often proudly displayed on the package or tag. In fact, some foods have a specific designation, D.O.P., which stands for Denominazione d’Origine Protetta (Protected Designation of Origin), certifying that the product and its ingredients came from a specifically designated region with specific quality standards. Common D.O.P. products include cured meats like Prosciutto di Parma, a wide range of cheeses, Balsamic vinegar, San Marzano tomatoes, and even some arborio rice varietals.

Tracking the source of origin of food in an Italian grocery store is a veritable lesson in Italian geography. Anyone who has watched Stanley Tucci’s “Searching for Italy” series will be well-familiar with the importance of local food traditions and how local climate and soil conditions contribute to the taste and quality of a food product. Grape varietals grown in the area around Modena turn sour much too quickly to support wine making, hence Balsamic vinegar became a signature product from this region in the 1600’s. Volcanic soil on the slopes of Vesuvius produces the perfect flavor and texture for tomatoes used to make sauce (San Marzano). The combination of history, geography, and culture creates a geography lesson that you can literally taste.

The other thing that I’ve enjoyed in Italy is the countryside. We’ve now traveled through about 2/3 of Italy, from Milan in the north to Calabria in the south. One of the most striking things that we’ve noted is the heavy predominance of farming and agriculture in nearly every region we’ve seen. There are some areas with huge farms and fields that stretch to the horizon. But there are also small farms and plots, even right here in our neighborhood. Whether these smaller plots grow produce that ends up in our local market or grocery store I don’t know, but their presence here and across the country contributes to the beauty of the landscape. It also keeps food interesting and varied and avoids some of the uniformity that characterizes American grocery stores. I am sure that products could be sourced from other places and bring cheaper prices and perhaps more steady supply.

I know that the European Union maintains trade policies, agricultural subsidies, and geographic protections that help support farmers and food producers, and that Italy has been a strong advocate for preserving those traditions. And I am certain that this contributes somewhat to higher prices. But that higher price is paying for many things that society values, such as preservation of tradition and culture, freshness, local variety, jobs in agriculture, and regional pride, to name just a few.

I am no expert in farm policy or EU tariffs, but I will say that shopping in Italy is interesting and fun, and the food is in fact fresher, as people often state. This is one stereotype about Italy that has proven to be true.

The contrast between food and manufactured products has been particularly striking. In food, local production, regional identity, and protected designations seem to produce tangible benefits in freshness and quality. In other categories, however, my observations have been more mixed. Before arriving, I associated ‘Made in Italy’ with high-end fashion, sports cars, pottery, and other luxury items. I assumed it was almost synonymous with craftsmanship and quality. Yet many of the everyday consumer products we encounter, from household goods to inexpensive clothing and miscellaneous items sold in markets, are no better, and sometimes worse, than what we would find in the United States.

I don’t know whether this reflects protectionist policies, different consumer preferences, lower purchasing power, or simply the fact that every country produces both exceptional products and mediocre ones. But it has been a useful reminder that a national label is not a guarantee of quality.

After only three months in Italy, I am far from an expert on agricultural policy, trade, or manufacturing. But living here has made me think differently about the relationship between price, quality, and value. In America, we often assume that lower prices are always better. Living in Italy has reminded me that there are other things worth preserving: local agriculture, regional traditions, distinctive foods, beautiful landscapes, and jobs that keep small communities alive.

None of those things are free. They show up in prices, regulations, and consumer choices. Whether the trade-offs are worthwhile is a question reasonable people can debate. But the true value of a product extends beyond the number on the price tag. The cheapest option often carries costs that are simply paid somewhere else, by someone else, or at some later time.

Wheat growning in Umbria for making local pasta and bread

Sheep just down the hill from our house whose milk is used to make the local Pecorino Toscano cheese

An Unexpected Encounter with Socialized Medicine

Posted on 05/17/202605/17/2026 by Esterina Anderson

By Daren Anderson

Standing at a hospital checkout desk, credit card in hand, can be nerve-wracking. How much will it cost? Is my credit limit sufficient? Will there be more bills later when they calculate the radiologist’s fees or blood tests? Will I need to dip into a home equity line of credit to cover the costs?

But wait — we are in Italy. Maybe healthcare is different here.

We waited in line at the cashier’s desk for about 10 seconds before being called up. A few keystrokes later, we had a bill for $177, paid for with our Visa, and we were on our way.

What, do you suppose, do you get for $177 in an Italian hospital? A glass of orange juice? A CBC?

In Italy, $177 was the total charge for an ambulance ride on a backboard, an emergency room assessment, an X-ray of the lumbar spine, a head CT, an electrocardiogram, and an orthopedic telehealth consultation from the University Hospital in the nearby city of Perugia.

All of these services were provided for Esterina after she slipped on wet pavement in Assisi and fell hard on her sacrum. The fall itself was painful, but the shock, pain, and stress of the event caused her to faint, prompting an ambulance trip to the ER.

You might wonder whether you get what you pay for. Joking aside, in the US this entire event would likely have cost thousands of dollars, some covered by insurance and some not. Would the care have been thousands of dollars better?

The entire experience lasted about four hours. The ambulance took roughly 20 minutes to reach us on streets designed for mules, not advanced life support vehicles. Upon arrival in the ER, Esterina spent about 15 minutes on a stretcher in a hallway before being wheeled into an assessment room where an ER physician sat at a desk asking questions while a nurse relayed them and performed a cursory exam. An ECG was quickly performed and found to be normal. An X-ray of the lumbar spine was ordered. Although we were all certain she had not hit her head, a CT scan was ordered nonetheless for a fall associated with loss of consciousness.

After the consultation, we were back out in the hallway. We waited about 30 minutes for the radiology room to free up, watching several more seriously injured patients appropriately move ahead of us for imaging. Finally, lumbar films were taken, followed shortly afterward by the CT, and once again we returned to the hallway.

We spent much of the next two hours there, staring at a few bad pieces of art on the walls and watching patients, some bleeding, some moaning, some stoic, come and go. Eventually we learned that the CT was normal, but the spine film showed a “cortical irregularity” in the S3-S4 region. In other words, there may have been a small sacral fracture, though the findings were equivocal.

The ER physician was not comfortable discharging her without an orthopedic consultation. The orthopedist was in the operating room, and no one knew when he or she would be available. There was even discussion of transferring her to a larger hospital.

This was a dark moment for both of us.

I try very hard not to “play doctor” when family members are involved. Judgment can be clouded by emotion, and I have not actively practiced clinical medicine in over 10 years. Still, the concern about transfer felt disproportionate to her clinical condition. She had no neurologic findings, minimal pain, and no clear fracture. Rest, movement as tolerated, and some ibuprofen seemed the likely outcome.

Fortunately, soon afterward an orderly came out and explained that the orthopedist had reviewed the films remotely, spoken with the ER physician, and cleared her for discharge. Ibuprofen as needed. Nothing further.

Ten minutes later we were at the cashier, Visa in hand, and a few minutes after that we were on our way back to our hotel.

Once the trauma, fear, and emotion of the event settled, we had ample time to reflect on our healthcare experience in Italy and to compare it with our own system back home. All in all, the right things were done. The ECG and CT scan made sense. The diagnosis was appropriate, and she was triaged correctly from the start. Getting an orthopedic consultation for a marginal finding may have been somewhat excessive, but it happened quickly enough that the reassurance was probably worthwhile.

In Italy, we got the basics, without the frills. The hospital has no shareholders and earns no profit from our visit or anyone else’s. There was no prior authorization process and no insurance intermediary standing between patient and physician. The radiologist, ER doctor, and orthopedist earn far less than their American counterparts. Yet we still received the essential components of appropriate emergency care, and the outcome was entirely appropriate.

So what might more money have bought?

Better artwork on the walls, certainly. Better bedside manner as well. The physician never actually spoke directly with us, and the nurses and orderlies, while professional, were fairly scarce and often brusque when relaying information. More money might have purchased a more thorough exam. I was somewhat surprised that Esterina was never placed in a hospital gown or given a complete physical examination. She remained in her street clothes and sneakers the entire time — admittedly making it easier to get up and leave.

More money also might have bought a blanket. Throughout the experience Esterina was cold. I covered her with both of our coats along with a thin hospital sheet that I had to request. Perhaps more money would have bought us a curtained exam room like those seen on The Pitt instead of a dingy hallway.

It also could have purchased better facilities and groundskeeping. Many of the hospitals we have seen in Italy, including this one, feel austere and physically underinvested, more functional than welcoming. Tall grass and weeds surround institutional-looking concrete buildings that appear to receive little attention beyond what is necessary to keep them operational.

The biggest thing we did not receive, however, was kindness or reassurance. Everyone was professional, but there was very little warmth. No smiles. No expressions of concern. No one paid much attention to Esterina’s non-life-threatening symptoms or comfort. She was nauseated, dizzy, cold and scared. No one asked. No one checked.

Still, it is important to remember that we were technically uninsured in Italy, even though we carry international coverage that will reimburse us for the charges. An Italian citizen likely would not have paid anything at all for the same care. In the United States, an uninsured person experiencing a similar event could easily face thousands of dollars in bills unless they were fortunate enough to qualify for charity care, Medicaid, or other assistance programs.

How much are all these “extras” worth? Are they worth having 5–20% of the population uninsured? Are they worth a system that can leave people financially devastated by illness or accident? Are they worth the inequities that still define so much of American healthcare?

Personally, I do not believe we should have to choose between humane affordability and humane care. Italian healthcare could use more warmth, comfort, and investment. American healthcare could use far less profiteering and inequity.

Most surprising of all, however, we have not received a single call or card from an injury attorney. And I have not seen a single billboard advertising one anywhere in Umbria.

Back to travel, back to Italian food, and back to health!

Exterior view of a circular building with the sign 'SUB DISTRETTO CIRCO' on the facade, surrounded by trees and grass under a clear blue sky.

A dingy hospital in South Italy (not the one we were in in Assisi)

Becoming Figlinese: Taxes, Pet Passports, and the Perfect Gelato

Posted on 04/12/202605/06/2026 by Esterina Anderson

This was an important week for us. No grand excursions, no Michelangelo, no thousand-year-old walls or frescoes. Instead, we focused on the more mundane, but essential, tasks of daily life: registering our dog, establishing residency, and, perhaps most importantly, finding a local gelato spot.

Some of you may be wondering how we were able to pick up our lives in the U.S. and move to Italy. Were there major bureaucratic hurdles? Was the Italian system difficult to navigate? As of today, Koji and Daren are officially residents of our comune here in Italy (similar to a township or municipality), and Esterina is well on her way to becoming an Italian citizen.

So how did we do it?

As Americans, we can enter countries in the European Union without a visa and stay for up to 90 days within a 180-day period. After that, you must leave what’s known as the Schengen Area—a group of European countries with largely open borders. Staying beyond 90 days without a visa is not permitted. Based on this, we would normally not have been able to contemplate a year or more in Italy without going through the lengthy process of getting a visa before coming here.

Our situation, however, is a bit different. Daren’s brother, Keegan, successfully applied for Irish citizenship several years ago by documenting his Irish ancestry through their grandfather. That eligibility extended to Daren, who followed the same process and obtained an Irish passport. When he left the U.S., he exited using his American passport but entered Europe (via Frankfurt) using his Irish one. As an EU citizen, he now has the right to live and work anywhere in the European Union indefinitely including Italy.

This week, we visited the local comune office in Figline to formally declare residency. Armed with an Irish passport, proof of income, an Italian tax ID (secured before arrival), and a signed lease, we entered the building, took a number and prepared for what we expected would be a long wait. Based on the stories we had heard about Italian bureaucracy, we braced for the worst. Instead, our number was called within five minutes.

The language barrier proved to be the biggest challenge. English is not widely spoken here. But after some effort, an English-speaking clerk stepped in and helped complete the process. The final step was what they call a “police check,” where a local officer visits your home unannounced to confirm that you actually live there. We stayed close to home for several days, not sure what to expect. to our surprise, the officer showed up just three days later, on Friday morning. After confirming our residency, he simply said, “Congratulations, you are Figlinese.”

Esterina’s path is a bit more complex but also progressed this week. She is applying for citizenship under jure sanguinis—“right of blood.” Because her father remained an Italian citizen, she is eligible to be recognized as one as well. With the help of a lawyer, she has gathered extensive documentation—birth certificates, marriage records, and more—to prove her lineage and her father’s uninterrupted citizenship. Her application process is now underway. Once formally submitted, she will be allowed to remain in Italy while it is processed, even if it exceeds the 90-day limit. The timeline is unpredictable, anywhere from a few months to much longer, but we’ve cleared an important hurdle and the police check confirmed her presence at the registered address, so we are now free to travel and are happy to have overcome this important hurdle.

Koji, too, needed to become a resident of Figline. Fortunately, his process was straightforward. Before leaving the U.S., we obtained a required USDA health certificate with help from our local vet, ensured his microchip was in place, and confirmed his rabies vaccination. With these documents, along with our tax IDs and passports, we emailed the regional public health veterinary department and were offered an appointment within two days. At the visit, his chip was scanned, paperwork reviewed, and within ten minutes he was officially registered. He now even has a pet passport, allowing him to travel throughout the EU.

We spent a great deal of time preparing for these processes and expected significant obstacles. So far, however, everything has been surprisingly efficient and manageable.

A wooden window with a curtain, featuring a colorful sign inside that reads 'Benvenuti a casa nostra, Anderson' against a backdrop of a stone wall and outdoor terrace. — Clearly Marking our door – advice we got for the Police check

A house number sign featuring a painted jalapeño pepper above the number 5, next to a vintage intercom mounted on a stone wall. — Clearly Marking our door – advice we got for the Police check

There were, of course, other administrative tasks, particularly around taxes, that proved far more complicated. Establishing ourselves in the Italian tax system as self-employed “digital nomads” required the help of both an Italian/U.S. accounting firm and an Italian tax lawyer. The short version: all our 2026 income, even what was earned before we moved, is taxable in Italy. While a U.S.-Italy tax treaty prevents double taxation, Italian rates are higher, making our eventual tax bill somewhat uncertain. We won’t have clarity until we file in Italy in September 2027. For now, we are legally set up to live, work, and pay taxes here. Fun indeed.

Amid all this, we’ve also spent more time exploring our new home base of Figline. At first glance, it felt a bit gritty—not exactly Siena or San Gimignano. But it has everything we need: grocery stores, a weekly market, pharmacies, restaurants, and easy access from our apartment just a few miles away.

And over time, it has grown on us.

The “grittiness” seems to be part of the Italian landscape. Public spaces can feel a bit worn, but Figline has a beautiful central piazza, complete with church bells and outdoor cafés, all surrounded by ancient walls. It’s a real Italian town, with very few tourists. We’ve started to settle into daily life here—haircuts, pharmacy runs, casual meals—and it’s beginning to feel familiar.

Last night, the piazza came alive with a Latin Festival—music, food, and drinks from Spain, Mexico, Argentina, Venezuela, and a host of other Latin countries. This was even more exciting than it might sound because in Italy, finding non-Italian food is a bit of a challenge. In many towns, including Figline, it hardly exists at all. Finally, a burrito and a taco! We can’t say that the food was great, but it was something different for a change. And the scene in town was lively and fun. Children were playing in the square. A DJ played Latin music. Italian women spontaneously broke into dance, and it seemed as if the entire town was in the square strolling, dancing, laughing, and enjoying the evening.

And then, to our delight, we discovered an exceptional gelateria right in the piazza—one that had been closed during our previous daytime visits. On a Friday night, it was buzzing, with over 40 flavors on display. There’s even a “doggie cup” for Koji. To our surprise, some of the best gelato we’ve had in Italy is right here in our own town. Chocolate fondant, hazelnut cream, and cream pistachio are our top 3 favorites so far. We’ve already gone twice and fully intend to work our way through the entire menu.

Promotional poster for the 'Sabor Latino' event featuring a couple dancing, vibrant colors, and details about the event in Figline Valdarno, Italy, including dates and location.

A cup of dog ice cream topped with two dog-shaped biscuit treats, one brown and one yellow, placed on a glass table.

Another truly amazing thing is how amazingly beautiful the spring is here in Tuscany. There are wisteria and wildflowers all over the place. We wish we could share the smell of the Wisteria through this blog. These are some photos from a walk just this afternoon and outside of the piazza last night.

Narrow pathway flanked by walls covered in greenery and purple flowers, leading towards a rustic house with a chimney and satellite dish under a clear blue sky.

A grassy field filled with small flowers, including white and yellow blooms, with trees in the background. A person and a dog are walking in the distance.

Our apartment has also proven to be a great choice, though finding it was not easy. We spent weeks researching and traveling, deciding between urban vs. rural, north vs. south, coast vs. hills, before settling on Tuscany. It felt like the safe, perhaps even cliché, choice. But the infrastructure is excellent, the location is central, and the presence of both tourists and expats adds a layer of comfort.

Our place is part of a converted stone farmhouse, now divided into about a dozen apartments. Ours spans two floors, with two bedrooms and two bathrooms. It sits on a hilltop with sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. We have a small porch where we can eat outside, a pool with lounge chairs, and beautiful gardens to walk through. With sunny days and temperatures in the high 60s this week, we’ve already spent time reading by the pool and enjoyed our first dinner outdoors.

That said, adjusting to a much smaller kitchen and refrigerator has been a challenge. As two people who enjoy cooking at home, we’re learning to adapt to limited space and fewer appliances, but not without some grumbling.

These are the kinds of details you don’t think about when imagining a move like this. Our trips around Tuscany have been picture-book worthy. But the rolling hills, historic towns, and unforgettable meals are only part of the story. The real experience is built from the everyday: haircuts, paperwork, grocery runs, and evening gelato in the piazza. These are equal parts of the tapestry we are weaving as we build this new life here in Italy.

Some more photos of our place that we are falling in love with more and more each day.

A cozy kitchen featuring a wooden table and chairs, a tall storage unit with bottles, a refrigerator, and warm-colored walls. Natural light illuminates the rustic decor, including a rug and wall art.

A cozy kitchen featuring wooden cabinets, a dining table, and a tiled floor, with a staircase leading to another room in the background.

Thanks for taking the time to read. We’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Beauty in the Large and the Small

Posted on 04/06/202604/06/2026 by Esterina Anderson

This past week we spent three days in Florence. It is a gorgeous city steeped in art and history. The Medici, who ruled the city for 300 years, placed enormous value on art—particularly painting, architecture, and sculpture. They used their vast wealth to bring the greatest artists from around Italy to Florence, where they could create masterpieces and experiment with new techniques. It’s not an overstatement to say that the Medici were the founders—or perhaps the midwives—of the Renaissance.

Everything about Florence is big. The statue of David is 17 feet tall and weighs 12,000 pounds. The Duomo, Florence’s famed cathedral, can hold 30,000 people and is one of the largest in the world. Its dome, designed and built by Brunelleschi, remains the largest masonry dome ever constructed. And the crowds in Florence are enormous as well. We were there during the first week in April—not even high season—but the crowds were impressive.

I’d call this phenomenon “big crowds to see big things.” Everyone has heard about the great sights in Florence, and they come in droves to experience them. The line to get into the Duomo stretched halfway around the building (we took a pass). Crowds on the Ponte Vecchio were so dense it was hard to get across. We waited in line for 20–30 minutes to enter the Boboli Gardens. Despite the crowds, we thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated the beauty of this magnificent city—great works, great sights, great food, great city.

I’ve been reading about the life and teachings of St. Francis. Although I’m only at the beginning of what I hope will be an ongoing exploration, I’ve learned enough to know that he would not have thought much of these big, beautiful things. St. Francis found beauty in the small things and preached the importance of simplicity, nature, and faith through action. He didn’t like big churches, big titles, or showy deeds. He cautioned against the dangers of pursuing the “three P’s”: power, prestige, and persona.

I was thinking about him a few days ago while walking Koji first thing in the morning. In the past, I would have been in a bit of a rush. I always walked Koji early, right after getting up, which meant his walk was a chore to complete before breakfast, coffee, and getting to work. While I tried to use these walks to clear my mind and appreciate my surroundings, my thoughts were often elsewhere—focused on “big things” like an upcoming presentation, a meeting, or a deadline.

Big Sights & Scenes from Florence

My walks here in Italy have been different. There is no rush. There are few big things to worry about.

On this particular morning, Koji was very into sniffing. In the past this would have annoyed me. This time, I let him sniff to his heart’s content, which gave me time to appreciate the beautiful views from our hilltop property. This time of year there are wildflowers everywhere—yellow, orange, purple, and white. Whole fields are dotted with them, but they’re so small you miss them unless you stop and look closely.

Then, in the distance, I heard the faint tinkling of what sounded like cowbells. I would not have noticed them had I not paused in silence while Koji sniffed. As I searched for the source, I saw a flock of sheep grazing in the valley below. The bells were sheep bells, not cowbells. Mountains in the distance were snowcapped, and a layer of fog covered the valleys below. In the past, I would have missed this entire scene.

It was as much a masterpiece as any painting in a Florentine gallery. But unlike those in Florence, this one was mine to enjoy without the crowds. Its components were small, everyday things: flowers, fog, and sheep.

Scenes from Morning Walks with Koji

I loved Florence and will absolutely go back to see more. But there are two messages for me in these contrasting experiences. The first is that if we spend our time only seeking out the “big things”—great domes, statues, and famous paintings—we will miss the great works of art that exist everywhere in nature. They are not celebrated or recorded, but they are there for the taking if we only stop and look.

And therein lies the second message: these natural masterpieces are easily missed. We likely overlook hundreds of them every day when we are preoccupied with other things. Slowing down, even for a few moments, opens us up to appreciating the masterworks in our own backyard.

Learning the Rhythm of Italy

Posted on 03/29/202603/29/2026 by Esterina Anderson

By Daren Anderson:

This week was about settling in. We’ve now been in Italy for four weeks, and it feels like we are starting to get the hang of things. We bought the Italian version of an EZ Pass and felt very proud breezing through the tolls without stopping, just like back home. We shopped at a local market for housewares and some food. We took Koji to establish care with a new veterinarian, and we got a membership card at our favorite grocery store.

Mastering some of these day-to-day basics has been rewarding and has helped us start to feel settled, but it’s also given me a chance to think about how different it can be to be “settled” in a new country. Italy is a modern, Western country with a language and culture that overlap with ours in so many ways. There are many similarities to life back home. But when you step back and look at the mechanics of daily life—the minute components that make up our activities and routines—differences emerge that require some adjustment.

A big contributor to these differences is history and the varied ways our societies have developed. I would describe Italy as a thoroughly modern country, as advanced in consumer technology and infrastructure as the US, but superimposed on a physical environment that was built, in some cases, over a thousand years ago. Yesterday we looked upon a beautiful church in the small town of San Quirico d’Orcia that was built in the 1100s. Buildings are old. Roads are old.

Even the location of towns is different. Have you ever seen a town in the US built on top of a hill? Or encircled with large stone walls? Likely not. In the US, most towns and cities are in valleys or along major rivers. That’s probably because American towns were not built with the need to defend against raiding barbarians in the 500s. However, Italy is filled with walled-in, hilltop towns. When you gaze out over the Tuscan countryside, you see hills everywhere capped with beautiful towns. Hilltop towns are one of the best things about Italy. Today they are beautiful and historic. In ages past they were ideal for hurling rocks, arrows, and spears down upon invading hordes and keeping them at bay. Such a need simply didn’t exist when Albany or Peoria were founded.

This geography and history drive some of the most obvious differences between living in Italy and living in the US. You drive up incredibly steep hills to reach many towns and cities. Roads are very narrow. Navigating through cities—a topic I explored in more detail in a previous blog—is fraught with challenges: squeezing through tight passages and bumping over cobblestones. It simply can’t be done with a large vehicle. Cities were designed and laid out in the Middle Ages or earlier. They certainly were not built with SUVs and 4x4s in mind. An 18-wheeler will never deliver supplies to a business in an Italian town.

Which is why Italians, almost without exception, drive very small cars. There are models that simply don’t exist in the US, like Opel, Citroën, the Mercedes A-Class, or the BMW 1 Series. Fiat 500s and Pandas are among the most common vehicles, and they are rarely seen in the US except as novelties for a few Italophiles. There are no Chevy Tahoes. There are virtually no pickup trucks.

Parking is very different too. It is rare to drive up to a store, pull into a well-apportioned parking lot, and walk in to buy your shampoo. While some stores have parking lots, most are on city streets requiring parallel parking, or parking in a parcheggio (parking lot) outside of town. Our favorite very large, very well-stocked grocery store does have a nice parking lot—but the spaces are really tight and narrow. Our car, with its range of cameras and sensors, sounds like a horror movie as beeps, tones, and progressively dire chimes ring out just to pull into a space at the Coop.

In addition to the physical differences, there are others that have taken more time to recognize. There is a cadence and schedule in Italy to which we are still adapting. Much of it centers around eating. We are breakfast eaters and always start the day with a decent, healthy meal. That hasn’t been an issue since we tend to eat at home or, when traveling, at a hotel with a breakfast buffet catering to tourists. We’ve been able to find our favorites—oatmeal, cereal, eggs, cottage cheese, and yogurt—without difficulty.

For Italians, breakfast is espresso or cappuccino and a pastry. A breakfast like this would leave us both cranky and barely functional. The first real meal in Italy is pranzo (lunch). Lunch starts at 1 p.m. and can run from 1–3. It is considered the main meal of the day. Interestingly, outside tourist towns, everything closes at 1 p.m. until as late as 4 p.m. to allow time for pranzo. This means that if you have shopping or errands—or even just want to window shop in a new town—you need to get it done in the morning. By 1 p.m., you should be seated in a restaurant or, if you are like us and prefer a sandwich at noon, find a way to occupy yourself from 1–4.

Dinner is where we’ve struggled the most. Stores and businesses reopen, and whole towns seem to awaken around 4 p.m. But if you are looking for dinner at six, you’d best cook it at home. Most restaurants won’t even offer seating until seven. And you’ll often be the only one there until 8 p.m. If you are like us and prefer to be heading toward reading and bed around 9:30, you’ll be doing so with a full stomach—which is a prescription for heartburn and a bad night’s sleep.

We haven’t sorted out how to adapt to this new cadence yet. When we are home, it’s easy. We make our own food and eat when we prefer. If we have errands to run, we do them in the morning or after four. It’s more of a challenge when we are traveling and sightseeing. Then you are more at the mercy of the Italian schedule.

One thing we’ve discovered that offers a potential solution is the café. Every town has at least one, usually in the piazza, with a mix of indoor and outdoor seating, a display case of sandwiches and pastries, a commercial espresso machine, and a full bar. Most have decent non-alcoholic options as well. These places serve as a bridge between the main meals. Italians seem to use them for coffee and pastries in the morning, and for drinks and light snacks in the late afternoon. Aperitivo hour, which picks up around 5 p.m., finds people sipping Aperol spritzes or glasses of wine. For us, these are great places to get a bite at noon, or—if we’ve had a full pranzo—a lighter dinner at 6 or 7. We’re still working it out. I’ve been surprised at how out of sync we feel based on these differences in schedules.

Other notable differences: dogs are everywhere. It’s quite a shock initially to walk into a restaurant and see dogs at their owners’ feet under the table. You’ll see them in grocery stores, clothing stores, or pretty much anywhere else. Dogs are extremely popular in Italy and accepted nearly everywhere. We read that dogs—even large ones like Koji—can accompany you on trains. The Italian airline ITA just adopted a policy allowing you to purchase a “seat” for your large dog on domestic flights. It’s been nice for us in that we can bring Koji on most outings and he gets to explore parts of the world his dog mind could previously not have imagined—like a grocery store, a cheese shop, or, yesterday, a china shop (a bit dicey). It does lead to more barking.

Which brings me to another subtle difference: the ambient background noise of daily life in Italian towns. Barking dogs are everywhere. It’s rare to take a walk without hearing them. Chimes are a constant presence. These are brass bells, not electronic imitations. Every town has bell towers atop its churches and municipal buildings. They ring the hours and sometimes the half and quarter hour. At Mass time the bells ring out all over town. More subtly—perhaps unique to our location on a hill in Tuscany—on my morning walks I can hear the distant tinkling of bells around the necks of the sheep in the valley below. These sounds may not even register at first, but they form part of the rich tapestry of life in Italy.

I could write about many other large and small differences—like the confusing electrical outlets (10A, 16A, two-prong, three-prong, large prong, small prong—I bought three different extension cords before getting the right one), or the challenge of finding over-the-counter meds (you buy them in surprisingly small quantities at a pharmacy). I could write a whole blog about traffic circles, which are a huge improvement over traffic lights and stop signs.

But the more important point is that daily life is shaped by history in ways we rarely notice when we’re at home. The routines, the infrastructure, the timing of meals, even the size of our cars—all of it reflects decisions made long before we arrived. Living somewhere new makes those invisible assumptions visible.

And that, I think, is what it really means to begin settling in. Not just learning where to shop or how to pay tolls, but slowly recalibrating your expectations of how a day unfolds. You stop measuring everything against home. You start noticing the logic in the differences. And eventually, without quite realizing when it happened, the unfamiliar rhythms begin to feel less like disruptions — and more like another perfectly reasonable way to live.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

A black dog on a leash walking through a colorful shop filled with decorative pottery and glassware. — Koji in a China shop!

Narrow cobblestone alleyway with colorful buildings, featuring green shutters and a shop window displaying swimwear. — You would not drive an SUV up this street!

Back to Work on Our Terms

Posted on 03/21/202603/23/2026 by Esterina Anderson

By Daren Anderson

The main event this week was both of us going back to work. Well, sort of. But what a different feel this new “work” had for both of us. Both Esterina and I worked for decades in large organizations and held various positions, I at Community Health Center, Inc., and she at the VA. Over the years we worked in different places, had a variety of different roles, and for a long time we both worked from home. But we always worked for someone, had a boss, and had a schedule that generally featured Monday to Friday hours.

This type of work has a cadence that is familiar to many people and generally includes an early morning alarm, a hectic lunch packing, a commute, squeezing in exercise, a rush to prepare dinner, and a “living for the weekend” type of feel. This cadence leads one to think about Wednesday as “hump day” and to celebrate Fridays with “TGIF.” It can feel as if you are wishing your life away. We both enjoyed our jobs, but this daily schedule, at this phase of life, was feeling increasingly constraining. We wanted more independence.

Quitting our jobs and leaving the country was what some might consider an extreme way to find that independence. Last June Esterina retired and, not far behind, on March 1, I followed suit. However, I don’t think either of us considers this true “retirement.” We’ve both spent decades refining our skills and developing our expertise in our fields, and we are not ready to stop using them altogether. We are lucky enough to have complementary skills that are in demand and can be utilized digitally and remotely. The big change from our past work, one that we are adjusting to officially this week, is that we are now working for ourselves.

Prior to leaving, we created and registered a new company, Anderson Healthcare Advisors, LLC. Officially it is a partnership, co-owned and administered by Esterina and me, that provides consulting services to selected clients. With this structure we are free to pursue opportunities that interest us and remain engaged to the extent that we’d like. Prior to leaving work I had put out a variety of feelers to companies and people that I had worked with over the years. Several expressed interest in our new venture, and as of this writing, we have contracts with four of them.

This week, we began working in earnest. We were not sure how it would feel to start working again after only two weeks of being retired in Italy. The truth is, it felt great. For me, it was energizing to dive back into topics like telehealth and rural healthcare improvement, to write memos and white papers, and to conduct some online research. What was most liberating was knowing that I could start work when I chose and stop when I wanted. This allowed us both to get up without an alarm, have a leisurely breakfast together, exercise when we wanted, and sit down at two different desks and work when and as long as we chose.

It’s only been a week, but so far we’ve both really appreciated being engaged on a limited basis and bringing a bit of structure into our as-yet unstructured lives. We know that we are incredibly lucky to have the freedom to do this — our work translates well to remote consulting, and we are at a stage of life where we have both the experience and flexibility to try it. Still, I suspect that some version of this approach might resonate with others who feel weighed down by the weekly grind. We worked in that rhythm for many years, preparing—perhaps unknowingly—for the option to step away. When the opportunity presented itself, we took it.

We also chose to define “work” more broadly than just the consulting engagements and as such to build in structured “work time” each day that we are not traveling. Both Esterina and I have a long list of things we would like to do that can be classified as “productive”. From writing blogs to creating art, to learning Italian, and perhaps even to writing a book, we both tried this week to create a structure of daily work that enables us to do so. While much of this week focused on the new consulting work, we both also used the structured work time to start pursuing our other goals as well.

I’ve been surprised at how many people, when contemplating the concept of retirement, worry about not having anything to do and being bored. Neither of us could imagine how this could be. But I will say that re-engaging in “work” demonstrated the importance of being productive. There are so many ways to be productive. But I can definitely see that getting up each day without some form of productive engagement could get old really fast.

So we’ve mapped out a new cadence for our new life. The schedule is loose and flexible. Perhaps you could call this semi-retirement. The good thing is that we can ramp up or ramp down the amount of work, and we have the freedom to deviate from the plan at any time. The main thing that we both craved at this phase of our lives was more freedom. And that is what our new lives now provide.

It’s only been a week, so we’ll call this a pilot. But already it feels like we’ve found something we were both craving — not retirement, exactly, and not work as we knew it, but something in between. A rhythm with purpose, structure without rigidity, and days that feel intentionally shaped rather than scheduled. At this point, I think this next chapter may be less about stepping away from work, and more about defining what work means for us.

Views from my new “desks”.

Daren’s Perspective: Manifesting a Dream

Posted on 03/17/202603/23/2026 by Esterina Anderson

I’ve had a lot of time recently to reflect on dreams. Not the kind you have while sleeping, but the things we wish for, hope for, and sometimes, if we are lucky, plan for. I’ve been struck by how many people, when they hear about our plans to move to Italy, say that we’re living their dream. It seems that lots of people—including us—have imagined living abroad, and particularly in Italy. And with good reason.

Italy is the land of La Dolce Vita. It’s a place of great food, famous landmarks, incomparable art, and fascinating history. Everyone has seen images of its stunning hillside towns and seaside villages perched on cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. These images seem to live in our collective consciousness.

Over the past two weeks our own dream became manifest as Esterina and I packed up our home, our dog, my bicycle, five boxes, and six suitcases and moved to Tuscany. We were excited to the point of giddiness as our plane lifted off. But as we arrived and drove into town toward our new home, I have to confess that I felt more than a little trepidation.

As I thought about where this feeling was coming from, I realized that when you act to realize a dream you are taking a big chance and putting yourself at risk. Now the dream has to deliver. What if it doesn’t? What if it’s not everything you imagined? Honestly, how could it be?

In the contemplative stage of creating and sustaining a dream, we build images in our mind’s eye of what that dream will be like. Often those images come from photographs, movies, and social media. Dreams contain the best vision of what we expect to see and experience, but they leave out the more mundane aspects of daily life.

So as we drove up the steep cobblestone street, turned into the driveway and began unpacking boxes, I experienced an odd blending of dream and reality. There was a gorgeous Tuscan vista from our pool, looking out over the hills. From our window we could see small hilltop towns and farms. Roosters crowed, sheep bleated, and everything was in bloom.

Superimposed on this, however, were the practical realities of daily life: learning about recycling and garbage collection; navigating a somewhat gritty town to find the grocery store; figuring out cell phone plans; and simply establishing a routine of sleeping, eating, and dog walking in a new—and very hilly—place.

None of this is to say that dreams don’t live up to their promise. They certainly can. So far, this one is doing pretty well.

A few days ago we took a day trip to San Gimignano, a truly spectacular medieval hilltop walled city. As we walked up the main street toward the piazza, I felt as if I were experiencing exactly the visions I’d imagined from my armchair back in Branford—almost to the point of déjà vu. The city was storybook beautiful and gave the strong impression of transporting us back in time.

This morning we took Koji for a walk down a hill and along a babbling stream in the woods. The air was fresh and the early morning was filled with birdsong.

But I do think that when we dream about something, we exclude the mundane in favor of the sublime. Part of making a dream real involves blending the best of what we’d hoped for with the humdrum elements of everyday life. So far, it’s a heady mix.

So what have we seen and done that has matched—or even exceeded—expectations?

First, Tuscany is truly spectacular in a way that photographs simply can’t capture. The hills are dotted with towns and farms and covered with olive groves and vineyards. The sun and clouds of early spring create an ever-changing play of light and color that transforms the landscape from moment to moment.

Tuscan buildings are colorful—hues of yellow, orange, and brown—highlighted by dark green or brown shutters and brick arches.

The towns themselves are gorgeous. Perched on hilltops and often enclosed by ancient stone walls, each one centers around a piazza with a church and a bell tower that rings out the hours. Everything feels ancient, but beautiful. There is even a slight shabbiness that adds character to the scene. Laundry hanging from windows reminds you that these are not tourist theme parks but real towns where real people live their lives.

And the food really is better.

Whether from the local farmers’ market or the grocery store, everything tastes fresher. I had assumed this might prove to be a cliché, but it’s absolutely true. Yesterday we shopped at a local market and bought fresh onions, artichokes, and tomatoes, along with cheese from a small cheese shop. Even the meat and produce from the grocery store are noticeably more flavorful than what we typically find back in the United States.

We’ve done a lot in two weeks. We are approaching each new day with excitement, grateful for the chance to watch this chapter unfold. We’ll walk the dog, exercise, and cook oatmeal. And we’ll take in the vistas, admire Renaissance art, and enjoy fresh pasta. Perhaps that’s what it really means to live a dream—not escaping ordinary life but discovering that even the ordinary moments are part of it.