It’s 8am in Atri, and Luke and I are sitting outside a cafe enjoying capuccini and a bomba: Abruzzo’s answer to the custard-filled donut. It’s market day, and it seems the entire patio of patrons is there to people-watch. 

All around us, tables are being unfolded, umbrellas are opened and secured. A man stacks boxes of children’s shoes, arranging them by color. A woman places a vintage coat on a mannequin, dusting its shoulders and adding a broach to the lapel. A couple paces the length of their food truck, taking turns checking on the porchetta rotating in the oven. 

It seems the whole town has come out to shop—or at least, to socialize. Everywhere you turn someone is yelling “Buongiorno!” and kissing, hugging, or shaking hands. Groups of old men huddle outside storefronts, holding small espresso cups with one hand and gesticulating with the other. You can’t help but think they’ve been friends since childhood. 

Every time I spend a morning at one of Italy’s outdoor markets, I fall more deeply in love with the country and its people. I love watching the villages wake up and come to life; the streets swelling with people. I even love feeling the energy build and hearing the volume rise as customers haggle for deals.

These markets typically take place once a week in the larger towns all across Italy, and each one is different. We’ve been to some that were only fruit and vegetable vendors, and others where clothing and pottery took center stage. There are also specialty markets where you can find antique furniture and costume jewelry. 

Some advice if you’re heading to a market in Italy:

• Most markets officially open at 8am, but this seems to be when most of the vendors arrive to set up. I’d suggest getting to the town at 8 and having a coffee while you scope out the scene. 
• The markets typically close around 1pm; but this could be earlier or later depending on when the vendors want to leave for lunch. Be flexible.
• Make sure to bring cash (ideally, a variety of small notes).
• You can try to bargain, but not for food items.
• Bring your own shopping bags.
• Don’t touch the produce with your bare hands! Even in the grocery stores, I’ve noticed that every Italian puts on plastic gloves before handling fruits and vegetables. So before inspecting items, make sure to find the box or pile of clean gloves. 
• Always choose the vendors with the biggest crowds!

Some information on where we’re staying now:

While I plan to go back and write a post or two about some of the stunning hilltop towns we visited in Umbria, Luke and I are now staying at a friend’s country house in Abruzzo, where we’ll be for the next six weeks. 

The region of Abruzzo is largely undiscovered by tourists, and the landscape is unlike anything we’ve seen in the rest of Italy. Outside our living room window, layers of rolling hills are dotted with olive trees. A craggy mountain looms large in the background and valleys snake down below. Thirty minutes away are sandy Adriatic beaches lined with pine trees. 

Our closest restaurant looks like a cafeteria and serves up large plates of thick, rustic pasta coated in “nonna’s” homemade tomato sauce. Hand-cut ravioli is smothered in a homey mushroom gravy, and a bottle of house wine is 6 euros. No one speaks English, and music comes in the form of Italian music videos which play through the TV. 

It’s incredibly charming and authentic. I look forward to sharing more soon.

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Sitting on the terrace of our friends’ country house in Abruzzo, the morning sun hangs lower than it did two weeks ago. The last of the figs have fallen to the ground and the pomegranates have turned from green to pink. The cactus plants that surround the property are now decorated with crimson fruit—like baubles on a Christmas tree. 

It’s my first time experiencing seasons outside a city, and there’s something so special about it. I feel connected to nature and to the earth. 

Luke and I spent the hottest part of summer in Umbria, arriving during a grueling heat wave. Mornings and late afternoons were spent in our farmhouse apartment’s garden, drinking coffee and watching the sun rise and set. When the air was heavy with heat, we’d retreat to the stone apartment and lie in front of the fan. At night, when the breeze turned cool, I’d see our neighbor walk the grounds with her basket, picking fresh tomatoes and zucchini. Her husband would come over with armfuls of small plums from his trees—and then, the day before we left, a bowl full of the season’s first figs. 

Eating with the seasons is something I learned to appreciate when I moved to Romania—a place where local produce is king. Want blueberries in January? Too bad. Instead, try apples or quince. Looking for celery tops? Well, that’s hit or miss. Better to plan for the bulb, called celeriac. 

This way of eating is not only healthier and better for the planet, but really pushes you as a cook—allowing you to experiment with textures, flavors, and new recipes. 

While this summer in Italy hasn’t introduced me to new fruits or vegetables, the bounty of zucchini from local gardens has meant we’ve had more squash than we knew what to do with. And while I’ve added it to things like ratatouille, frittatas, and warm salads, I’ve also experimented with variations of zucchini pasta—and landed on a version that will forever remind me of this Italian summer. 

Zucchini Pasta (serves 4)

Ingredients:

• 1 package of dried pasta (I like rigatoni, but I also discovered a variety here in Abruzzo called tagliacci, which looks like short pieces of thick spaghetti)
• 4-5 zucchinis, depending on size 
• 3 cloves of garlic
• Fresh parmesan cheese
• Sea salt, freshly cracked pepper, olive oil, water

Method:

• Get out two pots. Fill one with water and mix in enough salt so that it tastes like the sea. Bring to a boil.
• While the water is coming to a boil, chop your zucchini into cubes. (I cut mine in half, vertically, then I cut those halves vertically. Then I chop into bite-sized pieces.) Mince your garlic. 
• When the water is boiling, add your pasta. You’ll cook this for half the recommended amount of time. (For example, I cooked the rigatoni for 5 minutes.)
• In the other pot, add your zucchini, a big glug of olive oil, salt and pepper and sautée over medium-high heat to get some color on the zucchini. After about a minute, lower the heat to medium and add your garlic. 
• When the pasta is half-cooked, turn off the heat and ladle pasta water into the zucchini pot until the zucchini is completely covered (by about two inches). 
• Drain your pasta and add it to the zucchini pot and mix together. Note that you might need to add some additional tap water to ensure the pasta cooks through.
•  Cook until the pasta is to your liking (I like mine al dente) and the zucchini is nice and tender. Turn off the heat and add in about ¼ cup of parmesan cheese and a few more cracks of pepper. 
• The final dish will look almost like a soup. I like to dish out servings using a soup ladle and top with torn basil, some good olive oil, and a bit more parmesan. 

Leftovers keep really well because of the extra liquid. Note that you might not use all the liquid in the pot, but you can if you want to slurp up the delicious garlicky-parmesan broth!

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It’s 7:30 on a Sunday night and Luke and I are the first customers to arrive at Perilli Arrosticini: a family-run restaurant famous for its lamb skewers. 

The staff are still in their pre-shift meeting, but one of the cooks waves us in, yelling “Benvenuto! Buonasera! Buon appetito!” He smiles as he takes his place behind a long charcoal grill—fanning the flames in preparation of the hundreds, if not thousands, of kebabs (arrosticini) he’ll cook tonight. 

These skewers are made up of 1-inch cubes of lean mutton laced with 25% fat, brushed with local olive oil, and seasoned with salt and pepper. They’re turned by hand over coals until charred; served hot, dripping with juice. Like most Italian cuisine, it’s a simple dish, made delicious by the use of quality ingredients. In this case: local sheep that roam Abruzzo’s hills and mountains.  

When Luke and I first arrived to the region, we quickly realized that arrosticini was the area’s most popular menu item—listed as a secondi option, after antipasti (meats, cheeses, and fried dough; often complimentary) and primi (pastas). But at Perilli Arrosticini, they skip the pasta, knowing full well that people are there for the skewers. 

We decide to order 10 kebabs each (the amount most people seem to get), an antipasti platter, a plate of grilled vegetables, ½ liter of red wine, and two desserts (ricotta and pear semifreddo and a nutella panna cotta). Courses are dropped off by friendly waiters who ask “A posto: Is everything ok?” Everything is more than okay, and our response (in broken Italian) delights the staff. 

Located in the countryside, surrounded only by vineyards and hills, I doubt Perilli Arrosticini sees many tourists—despite the rave reviews online. Locals, on the other hand, pack the restaurant as we finish our meal: large families with children, hip 20-somethings, an elegantly dressed elderly couple, a woman with a fluffy dog poking out of her purse.

Outside, cars line the street and smoke billows from the arrosticini window. Luke approaches with his camera and one of the chefs puffs out his chest. “I’m famous!” he jokes in Italian, to the cook beside him. When we leave, they both yell for us to have a good night, and that they hope to see us again soon. They will. 

Details:

Perilli Arrosticini

Address: Contrada Casabianca, 1, 64035 Castilenti TE, Italy

Phone: +39 366 493 9900 (reservations recommended)

Hours: 7:30pm-midnight, Tuesday-Sunday (closed Mondays)

Price: 1 euro per arrosticini (our bill came to just under 50 euros)

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Ever since I was a kid and saw the “I Love Lucy” episode where she stomps grapes, I’ve dreamt about climbing into a wooden wine barrel and doing the same—dancing and stomping with the Italian countryside as my background. 

And a few weeks ago, my dream came true, as I had the opportunity to participate in “Cantine Aperte in Vendemmia,” or “Open Cellars in Harvest.” 

As part of Movimento Turismo del Vino, wineries across Italy host a day of celebration for the season’s harvest—inviting local families and tourists to pick grapes, learn about the winemaking process, eat, drink, and of course, stomp. The first day of harvest happens sometime in September or October, depending on the region and the weather conditions of that year. This year, at least in Abruzzo, it ranged from September 25th to October 8th. 

My family and I chose to attend Contesa winery’s celebration on October 2nd and we had the most amazing time. Here’s our experience in pictures:

When we arrived to Contesa winery, we were given espresso, a pair of clippers, and a box. (I love how even at a wine event, espresso was prioritized!) We spent a bit of time meandering around the property and soaking in the views, then joined the others in the fields to pick grapes.

The vines were heavy with deep purple clusters. Snipping the tops of the bunches was satisfying, but the sweet juice from the grapes was even more so.

Once our box was overflowing with fruit, we headed back to the cellar.

Already, it was a celebration. The accordion player was singing and dancing along the paths, and visitors were joining in. Kids were running up and down the hills, playing hide-and-go-seek in the vineyards. Then we heard the first pop of the sparkling wine bottles and the resulting cheers from thirsty patrons. It was officially a party.

Our grapes were all dumped into these wooden boxes and all the children took turns jumping up and down. Many had worn their rubber boots for the occasion, and giggled as their parents hoisted them up and onto the wet, squishy fruit.

Once all the kids had had their fun, my mom and I jumped in. Holding onto one another for balance, we danced around in circles, laughing at full volume. Contesa staff members seemed amused at our revelry and took videos. When we got out, we were gifted a wine bottle in appreciation for just how much we embraced the tradition.

The rest of the afternoon was spent eating lunch and tasting the varieties of wine, starting with a sparkling rosé and a fresh white wine called Pecorino (like the cheese). Then we moved on to the most well-known grape variety from the region: Montepulciano D’Abruzzo (not to be confused with Vino Nobile di Montepulciano from Tuscany). During my two months in Abruzzo, I really fell in love with this red wine for its fruitiness and low acidity. It’s easy to drink and very affordable.

My family and I felt so lucky to be able to experience this festival, and couldn’t believe we were the only foreigners in attendance. When I asked the Contesa staff why they chose to open their doors for their first day of harvest, Pierpaolo Pasetti explained to me that it’s not just an excuse for a party (although it was one heck of a party); it’s a way to pass on important traditions.

“It is crucial for our family that future generations discover the world of agriculture, where vegetables come from and how to respect and preserve the environment,” he said. “The farmer can no longer just cultivate the land but must be its guardian and protector, and must teach this to others, so events like open cellar also serve to educate people.”

Information on the Open Harvest in Abruzzo:

What: It’s called “Cantine Aperte in Vendemmia”

When: End of September-Beginning of October (varies each year)

Where: Wineries all over Italy participate, and you can find a full listing on Movimento Turismo del Vino’s website.

How: Find the winery you want to visit, then email them directly to reserve your spot. Most wineries in Abruzzo charge 30 euros per adult and 20 per child.

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Before my parents came to visit us in Abruzzo, I spent hours trying to research what we should do. I’d found lists of the best things to see, but got overwhelmed when looking at the map. There was just so much —and no suggested itineraries. 

Abruzzo has been largely overlooked by tourists and even left out of Italian guidebooks. And as a result, the green, mountainous region full of national parks, medieval towns and beaches remains authentic and surprising. 

My favorite day in Abruzzo (besides the Open Harvest) was spent exploring the area around Gran Sasso National Park, including Campo Imperatore, Rocca Calascio, and the town of Santo Stefano. Here’s what it looked like:

A Long, Beautiful Drive though Abruzzo’s Mountains

It took about 1.5 hours to get from Elice (a small village in the Pescara province) to the Castle of Rocca Calascio. The two-lane road winded through steep hills, under canopies of trees, and to the tops of lookout points—offering views of the valleys and towns below. Then, after about an hour of switchbacks through the forest, we came out to a clearing: flat plains stretching for miles, ending at the stony mountains looming large.

From there, we drove through Gran Sasso National Park until we got as close as we could to the castle (it dead-ends at a small village) and parked on the street. I wasn’t sure where we’d be able to find parking, but since it was October, hardly anyone was around and we were able to get within a 20-minute walk to the fortress. I did hear that if you’re visiting Rocca Calascio during late spring or summer, you’ll either have to park 3km away and walk (about 45 minutes), or park in the town of Calascio and take the shuttle, which supposedly runs every 10 minutes.

Exploring the Castle of Rocca Calascio

This mountain-top fortress and its surroundings is absolutely stunning. Standing at 1,460 meters high, it’s easy to imagine it as a military outpost during medieval times, with its lookout points offering sweeping views over the valley,

While it’s not exactly clear when it was built (various sources state different years, but the official website claims the foundation could date back to year 1000, with historical documents mentioning the castle in 1380), it was partially restored in the 1980s from the earthquake of 1703. Similarly, the fortified village below was reinhabited around the same time—now a quaint, charming little place with several cafes and inns.

On the walk from the town to the castle, you pass an impressive church called Santa Maria della Pietà, built between the 16th and 17th centuries. It was closed when we were there, but the exterior is beautiful, and it serves as a great focal point for pictures.

Lunch in Santo Stefano di Sessanio

Just 15 minutes away by car is an ancient village made of stone that truly feels as if it’s frozen in time. It was apparently long abandoned after the unification of Italy, and was even advertised as one of the Italian towns paying people to move there and start businesses.

A huge part of the town’s revival is thanks to an “albergo diffuso,” or “diffused hotel” called Sextantio, which purchased several abandoned houses, restored them, and now rents them to tourists. The rooms look amazing and very traditional, and I plan to stay there next time I’m in Abruzzo.

These efforts have not only brought in tourists, but also shops and restaurants selling traditional products. We opted for a place called La Bettola di Geppetto for lentil soup, pastas made with local saffron, and one of the best dishes I’ve ever had: the amatriciana bianca with guanciale and truffle. My family and I actually ordered another plate of that pasta after we were finished because we all needed another couple bites.

Admiring Campo Imperatore

After lunch, we hopped back in the car and headed to Campo Imperatore within Gran Sasso National Park: an alpine meadow often referred to as “Little Tibet.”

It was only 30 minutes away, but we must have stopped three-four times on the way to get out and take in the majestic landscape. Wind whipping through the valleys, its cool sting was invigorating, and the four of us spread out in different directions, frolicking in the fields and staring off into the vastness. What a gift to go somewhere so big—to feel so small.

This was my favorite place in Abruzzo, and one Luke and I plan to return to with camping equipment.

Making our way back to Elice

We made our way through the park and back to the forest, to the narrow switchback roads. We were mostly quiet, taking in the day—save for the occasional “Wow, look at that!” and intermittent sheep sightings.

I wouldn’t have changed a thing, but I do want to go back and stay in Santo Stefano di Sessanio. I heard that you can hike to and from the castle from there, and I like the idea of working up a true hunger so I can over-order more pasta from La Bettola di Geppetto. I’d also like to camp during the warmer months, and to try grilling my own arrosticini at Ristoro Mucciante, located in the plain of Campo Imperatore.

Thankfully Luke and I bought an apartment nearby, so stay tuned. (Yes, we bought a home in Italy! I still can’t believe it. Details to come.)

The post One Day in Abruzzo appeared first on Adventurous Appetite.

It’s 8:30am in Benkovac, Croatia, and already I’ve learned my new word of the day: “živjeli” (pronounced ji-vo-lee), or “cheers.” 

The shot of homemade brandy burns my throat, and my host Vito holds up the bottle—a proud smile on his face. He says this is how I must start my first day of olive picking. 

Vito and his wife Lidija have already been harvesting for ten days now, welcoming help from their son and any friends or neighbors willing to get paid in oil. I’ve come with a new friend Laura, who tells me this is the best virgin olive oil she’s tasted. The hard work is worth it, she says, but it’s a full day; and I’m expected to keep up with Vito: a 70-year-old with the energy and enthusiasm of a teenager.

At the orchard, I get in just one picture before Vito yells my name—followed by the only phrase he knows in English: “Let’s goooo!” I put my camera back in my bag and run over to the first tree: an ancient behemoth with a thick trunk and sprawling branches. 

Vito and Lidija are already unraveling what seems like miles of green netting, and Laura and I grab two corners and power walk behind them. Then we lay a black tarp over the nearby bushes and shrubs so we don’t lose any precious olives. Once the ground is secure, Vito hands me a small rake and shows me how to brush the branches with it. He says I should be quick but gentle. “Don’t work up a sweat.”

Lidija, Laura and I are in charge of the lower branches and Vito is using his new battery-powered harvester which sounds like a lawn mower and looks like Freddy Krueger’s hand, vibrating and sending olives and leaves flying. A large helping of the fruit falls on my head and Vito laughs, yelling my name and saying something in Croatian that I don’t understand. 

It takes about three hours for us to finish pruning the tree—first raking, then climbing the branches to get the fruit near the trunk. Then we gather the nets, pushing the olives towards the center. On our hands and knees, we remove branches and leaves that have fallen with the fruit, then shovel the olives into buckets. We then pour the contents of the buckets into 25-kilogram bags and tie them up to be hoisted into the car. 

My lower back already hurts and my knees are stiff. I’ve cut my hand with a thorn that was stuck in the netting and I’m sucking on the blood while gathering the tarp. Luckily, Vito is happy with our haul: about 150 kilos of olives, which he says will make just shy of 25 liters of pressed olive oil. We can take a break and eat lunch.

Over lepinja (Croatian flatbread), a whole chicken and a jar of pickles, I ask Lidija if her back hurts too. “Of course,” she answers. “This is hard work.” But, she tells me, it’s work they have to do. Vito and her only get 300 euros each, per month, from the government for their pension. It’s not enough to live on, so they rent out two apartments and they rent this orchard each November for 800 euros to be able to work the land and sell its oil. 

Lidija says she wishes the government paid more money, but that she’s thankful her body allows her to do this work. She and Vito are passionate about olive oil, and this harvest keeps them and their family rich in liquid gold for the entire year. Vito swallows his last bite of chicken and flexes his biceps. “Olives equals health,” he says. He explains that the oil is the reason he has so much energy.

With that, we pack up and start on our second tree. It bears less fruit than the first, but takes just as much work. My body won’t allow me to squat or bend over while standing, so I shuffle from one part of the netting to the other, cross-legged and folded over, separating olives and adding them to my bucket. 

It’s November and the days are already short. The sun starts descending around 4pm and we only have enough time to finish two trees. We have ten bags of olives: around 250 kilos. Vito will take these to the press to make oil, and that oil will rest in large tubs all around his house until the sediment settles to the bottom. The top will be poured into glass bottles and sold for 15 euros a piece. 

Vito and Lidija tell me I did a good job and that I need to go to their house to get my payment. There, Vito fills three empty wine bottles with bright green oil and asks if I can return tomorrow. They still have 18 trees left and need the help. I don’t think my knees or back will allow it, but I tell them I’ll see how I feel after some rest and a few glugs of their olive oil. Maybe it’s the health miracle Vito claims. 

When I get home, I open a bottle and pour the chartreuse liquid over some sourdough. I take a bite and the buttery, fruity oil coats my tongue. It’s fresh and bright, and tastes unlike any olive oil I’ve had before. I can see why Vito is so passionate about it.

The next morning, I sleep in and move slowly. I’m sore and take the time to scrape the dirt from under my fingernails while my coffee boils. Lidija and Vito are already in the orchard, and have another week of labor ahead of them—like so many of the other semi-retired Croatians and hard-working farmers. I’m not sure I’ll be able to help pick olives again, but I look forward to joining them for the end-of-harvest barbecue, when we’ll toast with wine and more homemade brandy: to many years of good good health and good olive oil.

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It’s three days before the new year, and our coastal Croatian apartment is littered with stuff. Plastic IKEA tubs have been pulled out from under the beds, filled with reusable water bottles and exercise equipment. Kitchen cabinets sit open, reminding me of all the food I need to make before packing up the car. 

Luke and I had originally planned to stay until January 8th—exactly 90 days from when we entered the country by ferry. But Croatia recently announced its official entry into the Schengen zone (a collection of EU countries where passports are not required for entry), which means we have to leave sooner, so we don’t overstay our welcome.

It’s complicated, but without a residency visa in a European country, Luke and I can only be within the Schengen zone 90/180 days. And since these are rolling days (which my mathematically challenged brain cannot understand), Luke has created an Excel spreadsheet to help. Its calculations state we need another nine days outside of Schengen, so Bosnia will be our home from December 31-January 9th.

I should be packing, but I can’t seem to open the dresser drawers. Instead, I’m lost in thought, contemplating the events of the last year.

2022, in my mind, started at the end of February. Luke and I were in the Arctic Circle in the snow-dusted forests of Finland when news of Russia’s invasion broke. A guttural scream from one of the lodge’s employees rang through the communal cabin—drowning the crackling fire and prompting guests to look up from their steaming cups of Glögg. The woman apologized, explaining that she was from Ukraine—that most of the winter staff was from former Soviet states. They were all in shock; no one actually expected this to happen. 

It was only a week later that Romania started taking in Ukrainian refugees, and our school community and every Romanian I knew were trying to help in any way they could. Colleagues opened up their homes to mothers and children; friends drove their cars to the border to shuttle weary travelers; and I joined coworkers at shuttered school buildings to set up cots and make beds. When buses arrived, we used Google Translate to make lists of supplies refugees needed, and did our best to let them know they were safe. Even though this old, communist building is scary, it’s full of people wanting to do the right thing. We’re here to help you.

The following months—my last months in Bucharest—were spent taking journalism students to the train station and to refugee centers. They were equipped with reporter’s notebooks and cameras to document the arrival of trains coming in from Suceava: the town closest to a Ukrainian border to the north. They listened as frightened young mothers told stories of hiding in bomb shelters, of standing in the frigid cold as walls of people inched to the border. They volunteered to teach English to young kids and fold donated clothing. I spent most of my volunteering efforts in a small closet in a college dorm building, organizing coats and boots for its residents, then sneakers and cardigans—and finally, summer dresses and flip flops. 

In July, when Luke and I left Bucharest, we donated most of our clothing and all the coffee mugs we’d accumulated during the last five years. I often think about who’s wearing those clothes; who’s drinking out of those coffee cups. Whoever it is, I hope they’re somewhere safe. 

When I think back to our time in Romania, especially after these last few months on the beaches of Croatia, it doesn’t quite feel real. We had one good, albeit stressful year, getting to know the school and culture, creating respective curriculums. But then the next year I was diagnosed with cancer. And then, a global pandemic had us locked down, teaching online for almost a year. Then a year of teaching in masks, six feet apart. Once things were finally looking up, Putin bombed Ukraine and literally, all hell broke loose. Saying goodbye was bittersweet.

I’ve felt fortunate to be able to hit pause and step away from teaching and process what’s happened. I’ve had five months to slow down and rise with the sun, eating with the seasons and living off the land. I’ve gone on long walks where I’ve gotten helplessly lost and decided to skinny dip at remote beaches. I’ve felt lonely. I’ve asked myself more than once “What the hell am I doing with my life?” 

Earlier today, I heard a Taoist proverb that I can’t stop thinking about: “We cannot see our reflection in running water. It is only in still water that we can see.” 

With tides raging all around the world, I feel an immense privilege to be able to stop—even between visa runs—and wait for the waters around me to calm. I hope that 2023 provides small opportunities for all of us to experience moments of peace, and the chance to see ourselves more clearly.

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Snowflakes the size of golf balls are falling outside the windows, and Luke, Charlie and I are huddled on the couch in front of the electric radiator. It’s been a month since we moved into our Abruzzo apartment, and the best decision I’ve made is buying this portable radiator. That, and the dehumidifier. 

It was September when we made an offer on this place: a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment in the hill town of Citta Sant’Angelo, overlooking vineyards and the Adriatic Sea. It was our second viewing and the windows and patio doors were open—a warm breeze encircling us as we imagined what it would be like to live here. 

Things are a bit different now, in early February—the mountains outside our windows white instead of green. The tiles beneath my feet have turned cold, and the sun stays hidden for much of the day. But the town remains largely the same.

Most mornings, the three of us walk up the hill for cappuccini and cornetti, then shop for lunch and dinner. A few doors down is a fruit and vegetable market where the owner carefully selects our produce (you can’t touch it yourself!) and helps us with our Italian pronunciation. Next, the bakery for some freshly made focaccia, then the pasta shop where nonnas roll and cut gnocchi to order. Our last stop is always at the alimentari to pick up amaretti cookies and a bottle of wine. A young man named Fabio works behind the counter and feeds Charlie leftover scraps of mortadella and pecorino cheese.

In some ways, it’s like a dream; but others, it’s a heavy dose of reality. We are no longer tourists. We don’t speak much Italian. We’ve found mold in the corners of the bathrooms and have spent days emptying the dehumidifier trying to remove the “damp” from the walls. The boiler catches when it overheats, and we’re petrified to leave the gas radiators on due to the high cost of utilities. 

But these things can be fixed (minus the high utilities, but we have plans for solar panels down the line). What can’t, unfortunately, is the fact that we can only stay here for 90 days at a time. 

So, Where is Home?

I’ve lived in a lot of places over the last 13 years, but rarely felt as homesick as I have the past seven months. This is mostly because as an international teacher, I was not only provided with a steady job and apartment, but also a community of expats who instantly became friends and extended family members (Related Post: Insights on Living Abroad). 

Since Luke and I left Bucharest in July, it’s been pretty much just the two of us and Charlie—navigating new countries, new languages, new job opportunities, and all the complexities that come with hosting all your worldly possessions in a 2010 Dacia Logan. We’ve felt incredibly privileged to be able to live so freely and hit the “reset” button after two long years of pandemic teaching, but it hasn’t been easy. 

For those who don’t know, Luke is from Australia and I’m from Florida (pretty much as far apart from one another as you can get). We met in China and have been living in Romania for the last five years. The concept of “home” is blurry and complicated—made even more complicated by rising housing prices and inflation in our home countries. 

Longing for some sense of permanence (and a place to store our belongings), Italy seemed like the best choice: halfway between the U.S. and Oz with affordable homes and a relatively low cost of living…plus all the pasta, pizza, and wine we could ever want. 

The only problem: we can’t get visas. So Italy can only be “home” for less than 180 days a year. 

In Limbo 

In March of 2022, a “digital nomad visa” was approved in Italy—expected to become available by years-end. Unfortunately, this didn’t happen; and due to a change in government, it likely won’t until at least 2024. 

For those who haven’t heard the term, a “digital nomad” is a person who works remotely while traveling the world—making their “home” anywhere that accepts their passport for weeks or months at a time and guarantees a strong WiFi signal. This lifestyle has become increasingly popular since the pandemic started, with more than 50 countries currently offering some sort of visa scheme for foreigners earning foreign income.

While Luke and I are actually trying to end our nomadic lives, this type of visa is our best bet for living in Italy long-term. So until it’s available, we’ll just focus on building our businesses (Luke as a YouTuber/online instructor and me as a writer) and taking things one day at a time—making sure to stop and enjoy all the frustrations and pleasures along the way.

The post A Letter From Abruzzo appeared first on Adventurous Appetite.

When buying a home in Italy, it seems you either find a skeleton of a house without so much as a kitchen sink, or you inherit the previous owner’s old life. For Luke and me, it was the latter. And yesterday was spent doing a final clean out.

Dozens of yellowed Italian road maps, shoeboxes full of electrical cords. Wine that had turned to vinegar and empty glass honey jars. On the balcony, a rusted grill sat beneath a belted tarp; and below, rusted tongs, basting brushes, and enough arrosticini skewers to feed the entire apartment complex for a month.  

Of course there were nice things as well: leather sofas, a glass-top kitchen table, a wooden desk with a printer, and even stainless steel pots and pans. This means our living room and kitchen are livable, while our guest room has become a dumping ground for large boxes of electrical equipment and rolled up carpets. And unfortunately it will remain this way until we can figure out how to correctly dispose of the trash.

Let’s Talk About Garbage in Italy

One of the first things you’ll learn when moving to Italy is that you must sort your garbage—and I mean all of your garbage. Plastic and metal go in a yellow bin, glass in green, paper in blue, “dry mixed” in gray, and organic/compost in brown. 

After you have this down, next is learning which days are reserved for which recycling collection. For us, we put our yellow container downstairs on Sunday night, followed by plastic on Monday. Tuesday is organico and Wednesday rotates every-other-week between paper and glass. 

We’ve also learned the importance of finding large, heavy rocks to put on top of the bins, as it can get exceptionally windy here. Storms roll in from the sea and the air blows through the valley, whistling and howling between the buildings of our hilltop town. It took one squall for us to realize just how far those plastic containers can travel.

Everyone pays a waste disposal tax each year (“Tassa sui Rifiuti” or TARI), which ensures your recycling is picked up and also gives you a card which opens the town/commune’s dumpsters. You get this card by visiting the commune, which is only open certain days of the week and only for an hour or two at a time. We haven’t been able to work out when our commune office is open, but have plans to camp out at the cafe across the street until a person appears. Until then, we’ve secured a friend’s QR code which will allow us to open the communal trash containers (except for the electronics compartment!), and now we just need to figure out how to communicate with the commune to arrange pickup for larger items and non-recyclable metal (like BBQ skewers). 

Out with the old, in with the new

Since I moved out of my parents’ house at 17, I’ve lived in 16 different apartments. I remember decorating my first dorm with leftover beer bottles and pressing the caps into the ceiling; ordering my first gently used couch off Craigslist, and watching as my ex-boyfriend and his friends hoisted it up the winding staircase. There was the time I went on a payment plan to afford a showroom from Rooms To Go, then the subsequent years when I didn’t so much as hang a picture on the bare white walls. 

This 1,000-sq-ft apartment is the first place I can truly call my own. And though it might take awhile, Luke and I want to make sure it feels like home. The first order of business, of course, is clearing out the guest room. Then we can figure out where we actually buy things like rugs and couches. 

We’ve started doing reconnaissance: taking the bus down to the shopping center in the city to see which stores sell what items and for how much. We’ve learned that Brico is basically a Home Depot (and therefore my own personal hell on earth) and that, at a place called Mondo Convenienza, you can purchase an entire display kitchen for just over $1,000. 

Each time we visit somewhere new, we learn and practice a new phrase. Our most recent: “Vorremmo che fosse consegnato per favore,” or, “We would like it delivered please.” On the same trip, we also realized we’ve been putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable in our address—causing all sorts of confusion (almost every word in Italian is stressed on the penultimate, or second-to-last syllable, not the first or last). 

The next visit will entail deciding whether or not a rolled-up mattress can (or should) fit on the public bus. Stay tuned. 

To Rent or Not to Rent: That’s our Latest Question

A few weeks ago when we returned from visiting family in Australia, Luke and I started looking at the calendar to figure out how long we could stay in Italy before having to leave for another 90 days (for information on Schengen rules, visit this previous post). And about 30 minutes into a stressful discussion involving dog transport, plane ticket prices, and how time zone changes would affect Luke’s tutoring business, we decided we can’t live like this anymore. 

The next day, Luke re-registered with Search Associates (an international school recruitment agency), and I started looking for full-time jobs in Florida and even Australia. The day after that, a school in Costa Rica reached out to Luke for an interview; and a day later he was offered a job on the spot. 

In the span of five days our plans and immediate future changed completely; and in July, we’ll be moving to Central America.

There’s a lot to wrap our minds around: mostly what my professional life will look like in Costa Rica, and obviously, what we’ll do with this apartment. The last week has been spent talking to expats who rent their places and those who keep them as holiday homes. We’ve talked with property management companies to understand renting legalities and realities, and even had an expert named Sergio drop by for an inspection (that turned into a multi-hour visit where we traded life stories). 

Besides captivating us with tales of growing up in Caracas, Venezuela, fleeing to Miami, then moving to the east coast of Italy, Sergio also convinced us that renting would cause us more headaches than happiness. His suggestion was to put some extra TLC into this place, allow his company to “hug” it while we’re away, and to spend our summers here. To let our parents stay whenever they want—doing nothing but eating great food and drinking wine on the balcony—staring out into the Adriatic sea and the expanse of pastoral land and grape vines. To bring our nieces and nephews here on school holidays, and introduce them to Roman history and morning pastries in the old town square.

For now, it sounds like a pretty good plan. 

The post An update from our apartment in Italy: with lessons on garbage recycling, pronunciation, and property management appeared first on Adventurous Appetite.

In our little village of Citta Sant’Angelo, signs of Easter began springing up weeks ago. Shop owners hung pastel construction-paper bunnies in their windows; grocery aisles overflowed with large chocolate eggs wrapped in foil; and bakeries started selling packages of colomba (a dove-shaped cake kind of like panettone).

I always love being in other countries during holidays. It’s a special opportunity to be able to better understand the culture and witness meaningful traditions. And in Italy, where much of the traditions are derived from Catholicism, La Settimana Santa is a sacred time.

Luke and I both felt incredibly lucky to be able to participate in the festivities, and here I’ll share what we did and what we learned. 

Palm Sunday: The Official Start of Le Settimana Santa

The beginning of Holy Week is usually marked with a mass to celebrate Jesus’s arrival in Jerusalem. Here, the church bells rang loudly before service, and the open doors invited the community to worship. Outside, large vases held olive branches in place of palm fronds: a symbol of peace.

After mass, many of the parishioners stopped at the local pasta and sweets shop, Dolce E Salato. Always manned by two older women in aprons, they’re masters at hand-rolling and cutting tagliatelle and gnocchi to order. During the Pasqua holiday, they also sold rabbit and lamb-shaped shortbread cookies dipped in chocolate, and fiadoni, which are savory or sweet baked cheese pastries. Almost everyone, including myself, got a small bag full of fiodini to snack on while walking home. 

Venerdi Santo: The Good Friday Procession

My husband and I had planned to travel to Chieti to experience Italy’s oldest Good Friday procession; but when the time came to walk to the bus stop, neither of us could muster the energy. Instead, we decided to walk up the hill and see what people in our village of Citta Sant’Angelo were up to. I’m so glad we did.

It felt like the entire town gathered to walk the corso, behind hooded figures carrying wooden crosses and sculptures representing the Passion. People played trumpets and flutes, a chorus sang songs of worship, people marched with their dogs, and parents pushed their children in strollers.

I’m not religious, but I felt something spiritual and beautiful walking with the whole of the town. To be part of the collective, experiencing the culture in such a meaningful way, was overwhelming and I feel so lucky to have been a part of it.

These Venerdi Santo processions happen all around Italy, but some of the most well-known in the Abruzzo region are “La Processione Di Cristo Morto” in Chieti and “La Madonna che Scappa in Piazza” in Sulmona. 

Easter Sunday: A Day Celebrating with Family

Similar to many Christian traditions around the world, most Italian families celebrate Easter by exchanging chocolate Easter eggs and partaking in a celebratory lunch. In Abruzzo, it’s also customary to give children cookie dolls and cookie horses, which are found in all of the bakeries during Le Settimana Santa. 

Since Luke and I didn’t have any family in town, we decided to join other families for a set lunch menu at local restaurant Osteria Il Grottino. Dressed in our Sunday finest, Luke and I enjoyed five courses of antipasti, lasagna, handmade pasta, lamb, cake, paired with carafes of house wine. We were there for nearly three hours, twirling pappardelle and joining other patrons in celebratory toasts. (To see an Instagram reel I made of our meal, click here.)

After a much-needed espresso and amaro (the most popular Abruzzi digestives are a bitter gentian root drink called genziana and a sweet shot made from cherries and red wine grapes called ratafia), we strolled the empty corso and ducked inside a bar for one more coffee. It was about 4pm and the place was completely packed with families still finishing dessert and bottles of wine. Easter lunch is certainly a celebration in this part of the world.

Pasquetta: A “Little Easter” Picnic with Friends

One of the many things I love about Italians is they know how to celebrate. And, why not? Holiday meals come with leftovers and hangovers; so it makes sense to continue eating and drinking in the sunshine. 

Called Pasquetta, or “Little Easter,” the Monday after Pasqua is an official holiday in Italy, and a day usually reserved for friends or families to spend time together in nature. Typically, people will pack a picnic lunch and go hiking, or just enjoy eating outside in a field or at the beach. 

Unfortunately, it was cold and rainy here, so Luke and I spent time on the couch. But we did enjoy some foods that would normally be in a local Pasquetta picnic: an asparagus frittata, fave beans, pecorino cheese, and mandarins. It was a great ending to a beautiful week of cultural insights and wonderful food.

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