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The other day I was waiting at a red light in Turin. Impatient. Counting the seconds. And I remembered something I’d read about The Italian Job. Not the 2003 remake. The original, 1969. Michael Caine, three Mini Coopers, and a gold heist in the middle of Turin. The screenwriter, Troy Kennedy Martin, moved the story here for one reason. At the time, Turin had one of the most advanced computerized traffic systems in Europe. Traffic lights run by a computer. In 1969, that sounded like science fiction. So the plot writes itself. The gang sneaks into the Turin traffic control center, swaps a magnetic tape, and the whole city freezes. Gridlock. Three little cars slip through the chaos with the gold. Standing at my light, I laughed. Because that’s exactly how some people try to do Italy. They try to hack it. Find the trick. Skip the line. Get the insider list. And Italy, very politely, turns every light red. There’s another way the film never shows. When the lights are timed in sequence, a driver who moves at the right speed catches one green after another. Italians call it l’onda verde. The green wave. You don’t hack the green wave. You learn its rhythm. That’s what we do in the Belonging Year. We learn the timing. When to push, when to wait, when to say buongiorno and when to say nothing at all. Once you move at Italy’s speed, the doors open one after another. My light turned green. I didn’t even have to break into anything. Are you ready to stop trying to hack Italy and learn its rhythm instead? Reply to this email. Un abbraccio, |
I don’t design trips. I design transformations, for people who want to stop being tourists in Italy and start belonging there. Language, culture, identity, woven into one.
Look closely at yin and yang. Black and white, curled around each other. Most people stop there. But there’s a detail that changes everything: a small white dot inside the black half. A small black dot inside the white. Each one carries a trace of the other. Always. I call what I do Italian Taoism. I was born in Genoa, on the same Ligurian coast as Portofino and Cinque Terre. Then I spent a decade across three continents. None of those places erased Genoa. Genoa didn’t erase them either. They...
Late 1980s. A young Italian at university, Francesco Cirillo, can’t focus. He sits down with his books, and every few minutes his mind wanders off. So he grabs a kitchen timer. Shaped like a tomato. Un pomodoro. He sets it and makes himself one promise: until it rings, I do only this. Twenty-five minutes of attention. A short break. Repeat. After four rounds, a longer break. The Pomodoro Technique. It works because it doesn’t ask for willpower. It asks for a small, honest container. Your...
I like to think of myself as a chef. A good chef doesn’t start with the recipe. She starts with what’s on the counter. She picks it up. Smells it. Presses it with her thumb. A tomato in July and a tomato in November are not the same tomato, and pretending they are is how you ruin dinner. Italians have a phrase for this obsession: la materia prima. The raw material. Get that right and you barely need to do anything. Get it wrong and no sauce will save you. When a person sits in front of me, or...