After the sudden death of my beautiful child, all I knew was that I had to get away. Friends found me a quiet medieval village in Italy. I had no idea how long I would stay. A couple of months, at least.

This spring marks ten years since I fled New York. I’ve written a book about my journey, called Love, Loss, and Finding Grace in Italy. Because in addition to the beauty and the history, the warm people and the great food, what’s saved me has been the grace I find in everyday Italian life.

It’s not always easy to appreciate when you’re a grieving mother, but what has helped has been writing for an Italian belle notizie or “good news” magazine called B-Hop. This has become my version of practicing gratitude. While working in Italian is still a heavy lift, I find that by the time I’ve discovered, researched, written and shared inspiring tales, lo and behold, I feel better, too. And more: I learn about myself, and sometimes, about my grief.

Recently, I sat in on a singing course held by a nonprofit organization called Zittocancro. Their name translates to “stay quiet” or “shut up, cancer.” I wasn’t sure what to expect. For one thing, I was terrified I would be asked to sing. But the others, all cancer patients, had no fear. ”I’ve always been pretty shy and reserved, afraid of putting myself out there,” Laura Marigliano told me. “This was a challenge, but we’ve had to face several challenges, so why not this one too?”

Surprisingly, the word I heard over and over again was gioia: joy. This infuses everything the group does. Their activities range from sporting events to singing and art workshops, self-defense classes, fashion shows, beauty days, and more. “We never stand still. We don’t want to lose our smiles,” says Daniela Raponi, Zittocancro’s president.

It all started with a social media post by her friend Dykadja Paes. After receiving a devastating diagnosis of triple negative metastatic breast cancer, Paes, then a 28-year-old mother of two, shared a photo with her finger to her lips, saying Zitto, Cancro: “She told the cancer to ‘Shut up—You have to stay quiet because I have so many things I want to do,’” remembers Raponi. ”She chose to face it with joy.”

More and more people responded with their own selfies telling cancer to keep quiet. By 2021, Zittocancro was formed as a nonprofit run by cancer patients, for cancer patients. What Marigliano values is that “they put the woman at the center: her experiences, her pain. So you really feel pampered and embraced.”

Professionals like David Pironaci, a singer and vocal coach who is also Zittocancro’s vice president, work hard to ensure members feel safe. “He makes sure we don’t strain too much,” says Daniela Orfei, “while teaching us to do things we don’t even realize we are capable of.” What’s great about Zittocancro, she says, is that it flips the script of “always being under the thumb of the disease or feeling sorry for ourselves. Instead, we have created a sisterhood that is ultimately about joy and positivity. We fight back.”

There was no way I could miss this message from the universe. While I’ve rebuilt a life here filled with amazing friends, while I laugh and find delight in the endless color of Italy, joy has felt like something closed off to me. Yet these women are finding gioia over and over again. They choose to face adversity with joy. They choose to nourish themselves, and to grow.

As new member Donatella Greco says, “I’m here because I need to charge my soul with positive things, in an environment free from conditioning, free from judgment.”

That, in a nutshell, is what I’m doing in Italy. But I still need to move beyond self-judgment. It’s always seemed as if feeling joy would negate my grief. Yet maybe they can live together. I can grieve, I can love, and I can grab joy when and where I can. I too can choose it. Choose gioia.

A version of this article appeared in Italian at B-Hop.it

“Che bellezza!” I said, thanking them for such a beautiful surprise. “Signora,” one said, pinching his fingers together in the classic Italian what are you talking about? gesture, “we didn’t do the crochet, you know.”

It took women of the town nine months to make the mandalas. As the inscription under the historic clock tower says, these are not decorations, but signs of love.

A simple, human beauty, made by hand.

A beauty that exists only when someone creates it for everyone.

Walking under the roof of suspended mandalas is like being transported to another world—one that is gentle, magical, and above all, based in tradition. The stories of generations fill the air, infused with the spirit of the holidays.

The mandalas, 928 in all, were created at the local senior center and sponsored by the town’s social and cultural association. A poem by the association’s president, Nando Morichelli, welcomes all to share in the beauty of the one-of-a-kind works:

…Each of them has its own meaning,

One that connects the universe to people:

It makes you stop and think deeply

About beautiful things and pausing for reflection.

Mara Gazzella was one of the crochet group’s first members: “We started meeting twice a week four years ago. At first, we were crocheting just for ourselves.”

The idea of turning the women’s private practice into creations shared with everyone came from Mayor Claudia Maciucchi. Having come across a similar exhibit in another town, she realized that “for Christmas, the mandalas would represent so much more than the usual lights. For lights we hire a company, and the company just comes and puts up the lights.”

Instead, she approached the women’s crochet group in punta di piedi—“on tiptoe, because it’s a lot to ask and a lot of work”—and said, “What do you think?”

“We were apprehensive,” remembers Mara, “because it was clearly going to be such a big job. But we embarked on this journey, involving as many people as possible.”

From February to November, the group grew to some 30 women of various ages and backgrounds. “We were women who had seen it all,” says Antonella Gazzella. “We had lost husbands, suffered illnesses … so this became a really positive place, where we talked, chatted about life and about grandkids. We all gave each other a hand. We became a community.”

Plus, says Mara, “there were also women who crocheted who weren’t able to leave their homes. For them it was a direct link to the outside world and to everyday life.”

Some mandalas were made in a few hours; others took nearly a week. Today, the women themselves aren’t completely sure which piece belongs to whom.

Over 440 pounds of yarn were used in all. The group first thought of using hula hoops for frames, but they were too expensive. For a more economical alternative, Giancarlo Torregiani, vice president of the social association, went to gardening supply stores to acquire tubing used for hoses—close to 1,100 yards of it.

Antonella, who is the town optician, is also one of the most skilled crocheters. She originally turned to crochet to alleviate stress: “You have to be focused, you can’t make mistakes, and you have to count and do math. I found that this is something that relaxes a lot of people and is good for their health.” The collective mandala project, she says, soon became “an excuse to be together and to share with others. Now we are extending the sharing to the whole town.”

“They were made within a community, and people feel this,” says the mayor. “You feel the unity. It’s as if the suspended mandalas are embracing you with warmth. For me, it is joy, for everything behind it—the stories, the history, and the community of Trevignano:

I can hear the voices of the ladies from years past, when you would pass through the historic center and they were all around you. Some were crocheting, others chatting and telling stories. They always stopped you, whoever you were, and asked, ‘Ma tu de chi si fija?’—which in local dialect means, “Whose daughter are you?” And in the end, even where there was no kinship, you felt the bond. You always felt the bond.

“Working together, today’s women have carried on a culture that has been a little dormant, a little asleep. Instead, they have rediscovered tradition, and filled the streets with it. We see the beauty of what people can create with their own hands and with their imagination.”

It is a message the creators hope will resonate especially with the younger generation: to slow down and appreciate the value of their surroundings.

“It is important for us to pass on our heritage and way of life,” says Mara. “In the future, it would be wonderful to have some of the men join our group. After all, there is a longstanding tradition here at the lake with fishermen and their nets.”

For now, the women are filled with pride for all they have achieved. The reaction has been overwhelmingly positive—from their neighbors, from the town administration, and from the numerous visitors who have come to Trevignano just to see the mandalas.

“Look at the town!” beams Antonella. “Look at what the women of this place have created.”

“Brave!” agrees Giancarlo, praising them all.

Mara nods. “Women are the heart of everything.”

Their friend Jane smiles proudly. “Individually, they are women. But together, they are a force of nature.”

An Italian version of this article first appeared at B-Hop.it

Yet if there’s one thing being an expat has taught me, it’s that life isn’t about competition. It’s about finding your own path. Happily, my path has taken me to Coloriage, a social tailoring cooperative tucked away in Rome’s Trastevere neighborhood.

Drawn in by the bright, bold West African prints, I wasn’t sure if the all-black-all-the-time New Yorker me could pull them off. What grabbed me in the end was that each article of clothing tells a colorful and important story. And that speaks to me: whether in my pianist, journalist, or communications life, I’ve always been a storyteller who loves stories. Why not make these handcrafted, one-of-a-kind pieces a part of mine?

At the core of the Coloriage enterprise is their Free Fashion School for experienced migrant artisans to adapt their craft for work in the Italian market. “We fill an institutional gap because professional training at this level for refugees and migrants does not exist,“ explains founder Valeria Kone.

Ernest Alulu was a tailor in Nigeria for 20 years: “I had so much passion for tailoring. All the work I learned in Nigeria, I didn’t want to throw it away.” When he heard about the Free Fashion School at a refugee camp, Ernest jumped at the opportunity.

The tailors’ beautiful designs are well known in Rome’s fashion and culture circles. Among customers recently trying on bomber jackets from the latest collection was a leading man of the silver screen, Filippo Timi.

The school now receives more than four times the number of applicants it can accommodate. Students are chosen for skill, creative potential, and commitment, with special attention given to women facing barriers. Sirin fled Bangladesh alone. With steady work through Coloriage, she can now bring her son to Italy.

In addition to training with pattern-making and industrial machines not used in their home countries, students receive sector-specific language tutoring to enhance their integration and work opportunities. But, Valeria notes, “It’s not just teaching. We also learn a lot from African techniques…

Distinctly multicultural, reversible Coloriage clothing features natural textiles from West Africa on one side, and unused “dead stock” from Italian high-end designers on the other. Each finished piece tells a unique story of integration, beauty, and sustainability.

After obtaining her PhD in philosophy, Valeria devoted herself to working against fast fashion. It is the African side of Coloriage garments, she says, “that really gives an idea of the slow fashion world. These have been hand-spun, one by one,” by local African artisans using natural pigments to create wax cotton and bazin fabrics.

“They are also healing fabrics,” stresses Valeria, reflecting “the Mali textile tradition of using antibiotic and antibacterial plants in fabrics that heal and protect.” She points to dyes used to heal the wounds of hunters ... a polka dot design representing feathers of the guinea fowl bird, symbol of peace and family protection ... and square shapes evoking boxes where precious belongings are kept.

In keeping with Coloriage’s ethos of care and renewal, proceeds from each piece sold go back to funding the Free Fashion School. Graduates’ success is reflected in their careers: one now interns for Valentino; another for Louis Vuitton. Others, like Ernest, are employed by Coloriage. They in turn give back to the school through tutoring and peer support.

For two years now, Coloriage has garnered the UNHCR “Welcome” award for promoting refugee integration. For Valeria’s team, it’s all part of a broader mission of integration — one that reimagines a contemporary version of “Made in Italy”:

Their aspirations go beyond the cultural symbolism of the designs (as featured in Paolo Virzì’s film Siccità). It also means working as a social business that can change misconceptions about migrants. During COVID, Coloriage implemented a wide-reaching “Su la maschera” (“Raise the Mask”) initiative with the city of Rome—making and donating masks for people in need. “It was exactly the opposite of what you normally hear in the news,” recounts Valeria: “Instead of migrants taking Italians’ jobs, it was about migrants saving Italians.”

The drive for social impact has struck a chord with younger generations. American Virginia Kate Brandt was so taken by the “social fashion movement” she saw during her Auburn University study abroad program that she returned the following year for a Coloriage internship. Tailors like Ernest, she says, “are incredibile because they have so much experience, and being able to see that handicraft traveling to different places around the world makes me smile. This is a small brand, but it has a high impact on lives and in how it transcends borders.”

As for Ernest, he is thankful to be part of a multicultural enterprise that values his craft — ”a place where you can find African and Western patterns coming together. This proves that we can all be one.”

A version of this article first appeared in Italian at B-Hop.it

Piano technicians get very little credit. Rarely, if ever, do they become famous. So imagine my surprise when I visited Ciampi Pianoforti near the Vatican—one of Italy's preeminent piano purveyors—and Silvio Ciampi himself, having heard I lived in the town of Trevignano Romano, asked if I knew Sauro.

“I certainly do,” I replied. Musicians couldn’t help but be drawn to Sauro Manchia’s instrument restoration shop in Trevignano’s historic center. Pianist, composer, and conductor Stefano Cucci remembers being lured in by the notes of a piano as he walked nearby: "I entered the workshop, which seemed like a mysterious cavern ... Sauro being an extrovert and an affable raconteur, we immediately bonded."

Mr. Ciampi smiled. "Sauro is a genius!" he exclaimed.

Little did I know, Sauro had prepared the pianos of the greats, not the least of which were Arthur Rubinstein and Arturo Benedetti Michelangi. The famed Swiss pianist Alfred Cortot requested Sauro as his tuner when he performed in Rome.

What made Sauro special, says Cucci, was his "long workshop experience and a precise knowledge of the instrument's inner workings. He would tune not with a machine, but by ear—as A-list tuners still do today."

Sauro’s old-world authority—"the typical craftsman of an Italy that no longer exists”—along with a lifetime of amazing feats, not just with pianos, is brought to life by his biographer Maurizio Semplice in Memorie di un brontosauro (Memories of a Brontosaurus). The brontosaurus, says Semplice, refers to Sauro’s "historical character … a typical Italian, who spanned seventy years of the 20th century and twenty-five years of the 21st century. That typical Italian is no more ... a social and anthropological relic, who can still teach us much."

Sauro was "literally born into his trade” in 1931, says author Judith Harris: "He grew up on Rome's famous 'street of the artists,' Via Margutta, above an artist's club managed by his father, who also owned the most important piano store in pre-Second World War Rome.” It was in front of that shop on Via XX Settembre—a street better known for government ministries than for music—that Sauro caught the attention of Benito Mussolini, who passed four times a day en route to and from his headquarters at Palazzo Venezia. Harris sets the scene:

In 1936, little Sauro, who was out playing in front of the shop, took a tumble in a pothole and fell off the sidewalk and into the road just as the Duce's automobile passed.

"Mussolini thought one of his cars had hurt me," Sauro recalled. The upshot was that some days later, Mussolini had a toy tank sent to Sauro, “il figlio del pianoforte” (“the piano boy”), for his birthday. (Sauro is shown driving it in the photo at the top of this article.) The accompanying note read:

Motivazione: eri caduto e non avevi pianto. Complimenti. Firmato B.M.

(Reason: You fell and didn’t cry. Well done. Signed, B.M.)

Sauro could have become a pianist. But, he told Semplice, he "always felt like he was on the other end of the instrument: 'I've been fortunate enough to do a wonderful job, a job that's very satisfying, and that's enough for me. You should never push your luck.'"

Tuning a piano, especially for concert pianists, requires precision, acute pitch sensitivity, and immense patience, all under strict time limitations and high-stakes pressure from performers expecting tuning to within a fraction of a cent (one half-tone, say from D to D#, contains 100 cents). Sauro's greatest teacher, his father Alberto, taught him a secret that Sauro repeated to Semplice: "When you're done tuning, the pianist will always tell you there's something imperceptible that needs fixing.... So you say, 'Maestro, I've done my best. Small imperfections will be corrected by your masterful hands,' and you thank him." Sauro did just that while preparing for a concert by Benedetti Michelangeli in L'Aquila:

The maestro had noticed a problem with the D-flat, and, in protest, decided not to play. Sauro rushed over immediately. He began listening. "It must be a problem in the transition between the smooth and the wound strings," he said.... After Sauro had recited the canonical phrase, Benedetti Michelangeli said, "See, what did I tell you?" Sauro promptly said, "It's wonderful to learn from you, Maestro....

"Sauro had his own technique," says Cucci, "and the result was often very convincing." In rebuilding Cucci’s grandmother’s 1874 Viennese grand piano when he was almost 90 years old, Sauro "did a meticulous job of repairing the mechanics and rebuilding part of the keyboard that had lost many of the original ivory key covers."

He was enterprising, and collaborative too. When visiting the home of inventor Pat Peebles, I noted that his turn-of-the-century Bechstein played with the action mechanism of a newer piano. Sauro had helped source materials for Peebles’ innovations; one involved relining the instrument's hammers not with the usual dense wool felt, but with felt cut from tennis balls! This added a unique liveliness to the instrument’s treble.

Sauro brought inventiveness and vitality to all he touched. Cucci notes that "he endured until the age of 94 in his workshop, his reason for living, and after having closed the workshop, understood that life too had reached its end. The two were too deeply intertwined to be separated."

Sauro passed on August 3rd in his beloved Trevignano Romano. Not only did he touch the hundreds who attended his memorial and the many pianists whose performances he made possible, but also a world of people who have been able to enjoy the beauty of music, because of a piano technician. Because of Sauro.

A version of this article in Italian first appeared at B-Hop.it

Herb is a 94-year-old man who lives on my street. We often stop to chat as he walks up and down our steep hill on his daily five-mile trek. But he’s not always on foot: I once spotted him in the bustling Trastevere neighborhood of Rome, taking a break in the middle of a twelve-mile bike ride.

For five years, I’ve known Herb as a friendly American expat with a Harvard MBA. So what a stunning revelation it has been to learn of his epic childhood during WWII as the son of a naturalized U.S. citizen mother, stripped of her passport when she chose to remain in Europe, and an American Jewish father who left before Herb was even born—"I open my eyes on a hot May day in 1931, and will never have the opportunity to know my father Ted." What he did have from Ted was a dangerous last name: Lieberman.

By the time war arrived, Herb and his mother Alice had fled their home in Berlin and settled in the environs of Florence with his future stepfather, Reinhard. All three were in peril: Reinhard, who changed his name to Rinaldo, was a draft dodger from the Nazi army. The fate of this seemingly doomed trio, says Herb,

The family hid in a house tucked away in Via San Domenico on the way to the historic, cypress-lined Tuscan town of Fiesole. Herb's nickname of "Bushy" (due to a tuft of hair on the top of his head) became "Buci," which in turn led to a ditty he despised:

"'Buci, Bucino col culo a mandolino' ('Bushy, little Bushy, with the mandolin-shaped ass'). This often resounded in the courtyard to my chagrin."

With no access to a ration card, food was scarce. One afternoon, Herb's parents pulled him aside: "Bushy, our situation here is critical. Neither of us can be seen in the city or in the neighborhood." Herb would be allowed to go out, but if stopped, was to say he was the son of a director of the German-owned Banca Steinhauslin bank: "We know you are only nine, but you've already seen and heard enough to deserve our confidence." All of a sudden, Herb says, he became "a responsible little man."

Herb would go to the market with Amerigo, who also lived in Herb's house—their families "united by an invisible but unbreakable bond." Amerigo's wife Pasqualina would be the one to find Herb years later after he was injured by shrapnel and separated from his mother. It was, he says, "the absolute worst experience of the war for me." When finally reunited with Alice, he recalls,

"I run towards her and we fall into each other's arms. My deep-seated certainty that everything would work out well was confirmed."

Young Herb's optimism, coupled with a knack for making the best of any situation, would serve him well in the years to come. During this period, he received just one year of tutoring by a family friend, Maestro Pezzano, before Pezzano left to become a lieutenant in the Italian army. At home, the family perfected their English by reading English-language books after dinner. As Herb notes, "The choice of texts was definitely adult: D.H. Lawrence instead of Lewis Carroll. I made the acquaintance of Lady Chatterley at the mature age of eleven. Snow White never formed part of the menu."

These readings, overheard through the thin house walls by a neighbor, led to what would be the first visit by German soldiers to Herb’s home. He remembers experiencing a strange detachment as an SS officer pointed a Maschinenpistole automatic at his chest: "I feel a curtain descending on me. Strange, I am in another world. Fear is an unknown feeling.… I even notice with calm interest that the officer has a well-fitting blue-gray uniform." When asked about the existence of Rinaldo, who was hiding in a concealed floor compartment, Bushy knew what to say: "That wretch! He was a friend of Mom's but he left her. They had a fight and he went away with a lot of money."

"Buci" was often called upon as a translator. When a neighbor screamed that a German soldier was about to kill her grandson who was suffering an epileptic fit, Herb stepped in. "Heil Hitler," he declared. "This boy is healthy ... I know him well. He goes to school and has a good record as a Balilla (a fascist youth organization)."

When the Allied soldiers finally liberated Fiesole in early September 1944, they took Buci on as a junior interpreter, paying him in valuable K-ration pre-packaged meals. The first time he returned to Le Lune, he proudly carried his trophies "to make people understand once and for all that I was no longer the little boy 'Buci Bucino with the mandolin-shaped ass.’"

Eventually, an enterprising Herb became "rich" doing odd jobs for the soldiers that included introducing them to prostitutes—although "at fourteen, I just wasn’t ready for the plunge myself." This allowed him to "afford to offer ice cream to my friends and even buy myself a nice bike."

Herb’s bicycle opened up worlds. "Pushing the pedals" allowed him to explore Lucca, Arezzo, and Greve in Chianti. One day, after a grueling five-hour ride to Passo del Giogo high in the Apennine Mountains, he experienced "what might aptly be called a mystical experience. It transcended any feelings or emotions I had ever had. Pure bliss, a merging with the universe, unlimited consciousness."

When the war ended, Herb's bicycle excursions were replaced by rides to rigorous lessons with Maestro Pezzano, back from military service and determined to prepare Herb for the Liceo Scientifico (a demanding Italian high school focusing on advanced math and sciences). He got in, his admission "full of promise. The end was not as glorious." Herb was so "loath to relinquish my freedom and adventures" that he was nearly expelled. Luckily, his mother soon arranged for them to join cousins in Staten Island.

First there would be trips to Switzerland, including for the long-awaited marriage in Einsiedeln of Alice and Reinhard (who had mistakenly ended up in an American POW camp in France, but that’s a whole other chapter). The inscription on their wedding rings, "an apt reminder of the troubled times we lived through," read:

Believe it or not, this is but a taste of Herb’s extraordinary story. One unforgettable encounter took place in Montreux when he was fifteen. Herb and his mother were dancing at a club when a woman approached and pointed to a Chinese woman who wanted to dance with him. It was none other than the formidable Madame Chiang Kai-shek, who Herb says was "a born dancer; surely she would have had much to teach me."

Herb’s story has filled me with amazement and appreciation for his experience, his sense of humor through it all, and his inspiring outlook on life.

Herb—who eventually took his mother’s maiden name Uhl—would go on to study at Amherst College (thanks, he says, to Maestro Pezzano’s intensive tutoring as well as lower educational standards in the U.S.) and Harvard Business School before working for 24 years for Singer Sewing Machines and other companies around the world. Yet "nostalgia for Italy would not diminish, so much so that in 1972, I returned to Italy … this time forever.

"If I am alive it is largely due to the merits (and 'defects') of this very humane country, so well versed in the art of 'getting by'—arrangiarsi. Living here for almost sixty years has been my choice, and I do not regret it.

A version of this story first appeared in Italian in B-Hop.it magazine.

The first thing you notice at the Joel Nafuma Refugee Center (JNRC) is that everyone is greeted as a "guest"— welcomed with unconditional respect and hospitality.

A “relaxed atmosphere” is considered a vital resource for guests, says Managing Director Giulia Bonoldi:

Mahamadou is from Gambia. Nine years ago, he heard about the JNRC from other refugees talking about "a great day center in Rome ... how beautiful it is, how important it is, this center of amazing people doing a great job every day." He and his Malian colleague Harouna now both work for the center.

The JNRC's core philosophy is a holistic approach that aims to help individuals integrate into society and become economically independent. But, says Giulia, "you can't proceed in your development process if you don't first have your basic needs fulfilled."

The wide array of vital services provided includes

• Food: Breakfast is served to about 150 guests each morning, adding up to 37,500 meals a year.

• Basic Necessities: 15,000 items distributed annually include clothing, toiletries, and sleeping bags (as a day center, the JNRC does not provide night shelter). Shoes, Giulia notes, "are something we are always in need of."

• Education and Skills: The JNRC holds English and Italian language classes, computer lab access, and job clinics that include resume writing.

• Legal Aid: An immigration lawyer provides free advice regarding permit renewals, asylum, and family unification.

• Psychosocial Support: The center offers sessions in art therapy and music as means of expression.

Tailored support for "every stage of their journey" begins when new arrivals register with Piero Rijtano. Having run operations at the JNRC for over 12 years, Piero finds his work challenging but incredibly rewarding: "This center has given me an important skill ... to see things from different points of view."

Piero recounts what he learned from an African shepherd. Piero had assumed that living in the streets would be the hardest aspect of life for refugees. But the shepherd said he was used to being with animals, sleeping outdoors, and facing dangers from lions, for example. "The biggest problem was not having to sleep outside. The real problem was accepting food ... he said that 'to be in a line for food is the thing that humiliates me.'"

Over the years, Piero has welcomed guests from over 60 countries. Currently, most come from Africa, the Middle East, and South America. And they tend to be young: "I think the majority are less than 30 years old. When you decide to leave your country for another one, the younger you are, the best chance you have."

While the JNRC operates in English and Italian, approximately 50% of its guests do not speak either language. This makes Mahamadou's presence particularly valuable: "I speak seven African languages in addition to Italian and English."

The help of an Afghan colleague who speaks several Afghan dialects (in addition to French and Spanish) was instrumental for one of immigration lawyer Davide Lodi's notable cases—that of a pregnant Afghan woman who was a refugee in Iran with her two children. Her husband, who was already in Italy, wanted to apply for family reunification. Lacking evidence of their family connection, Davide needed to secure a visa for the woman, but had no way to secure her proxy signature. In the end, he “managed to skip this part using an interpretation of the European law and the Italian law, which says that when it's too difficult to get the power of attorney, the judge can check that power later when the person comes here."

Davide volunteers his time at the JNRC. Giulia also started as a volunteer, as did Piero, Human Resources Manager Sharon Nagliero, and Communications Officer Madeline Hennig as well. The center relies heavily on volunteers who come from all over the world. Many Americans are study abroad interns. The JNRC, which operates in English and Italian, has active partnerships with schools including Temple University, the University of Notre Dame, Loyola University Chicago, and John Cabot University.

A Temple student recently wrote, “I assumed … that it would likely be a somber and disheartening experience. However, much to my surprise, it was actually the opposite! People there were smiling, having fun, and genuinely seemed happy to be there. It was beautiful to witness!”

A distinguishing aspect of the JNRC—named for an Episcopal priest who fled persecution in Uganda over 40 years ago—is that while it is located at St. Paul's Within the Walls church in Rome and is associated with the Convocation of Episcopal Churches in Europe, the center is defined as a non-religious organization. As Giulia explains, "While we are guided by the Christian values of acceptance and embracing our neighbors.... we don't want to impact negatively on people of different religions who come from different cultures. It is essential that this is perceived by people who need help."

Today, the JNRC is the largest refugee assistance program of the Convocation in Europe, and has become what Giulia calls “a point of reference for others.… We set up community practice sessions to train project teams across Europe with operative models that come from the JNRC.”

With an annual budget of just $350,000—70 to 80% of which comes from donations and grants unrelated to the church—the center is stretched thin and in constant need of support. One of the most urgent needs is funding for staff program coordinators; with much of the work currently carried out by volunteers who come and go, continuity of services is always at risk. Donations, which can be made via the center’s site or through the Domestic and Foreign Missionary Society of the Protestant Episcopal Church (specify funds to go to the Joel Nafuma Refugee Center) are tax deductible in the U.S.

The JNRC is proud to partner with many organizations and NGOs. "Partnership is fundamental," says Giulia. This includes working with valued donors and volunteers: "There's nothing that we can't achieve together.

"We are talking about dignity of people, about needs for survival, about hopes and dreams to live a better life. Wherever you go, even if nationalities, religions, and governments are different, human beings are very much the same. So there's a lot that everyone can learn from each other."

Samed, a guest from Mali, couldn’t agree more. At the JNRC he has received so much: “New clothes, breakfast, and help finding a job …

A version of this article first appeared in Italian at B-Hop.it

My dog Jake has a wonderful life. A transplant from New York City, he’s free to go wherever he wants, and his days are full of color and charm. Somehow, he even likes going to the vet in Italy. And so do I. In Italy—which has been named the most dog-friendly country in the world—and especially outside of the big cities, veterinarians are heroes of everyday life. I love seeing the way people (clients or not) stop in for quick (or not so quick) greetings…or to drop off a colomba or Easter cake for Luca Mariani, our vet in Trevignano Romano.

The owners of Rio, a French bulldog whom Luca saved from birth complications seven years ago, brought him in from a nearby town for an ear infection. “We are here for the trust and for the friendship,” says Annalita. “Especially in small towns, this is important to the community.”

For Arturo’s human Federica, it is “the way Luca talks, the way he explains things…he really gives me that peace of mind that no one else gives me.”

This year for World Veterinary Day, I decided to hang out with Luca to see what kind of patients he encounters in a typical day, and to learn more about the vital work of veterinarians.

Luca’s day started at 9:00 with a teeth cleaning for 13-year-old Baffo. To Baffo’s owner Sabina, what makes Luca special is “his availability and the simplicity with which he approaches both animals as well as people.” Baffo’s maltipoo “sibling” Nina is one of Luca’s newest patients; she’s just 2 1/2 months old.

Luca has known he wanted to be a vet since he was in the first years of elementary school: “I never had any doubts about it, ever.” Eventually, he had to learn that “a great love for animals is indispensable, but absolutely not enough. The vocation also requires a strong aptitude for medicine.”

Luca’s ten years of medical training, from university to a masters program then specialization school, included the study of physiology, anatomy, biology, chemistry, pharmacology, biochemistry, and more. In fact, Luca points out, “many textbooks have a lot in common with human medicine…let’s say it is a faculty of applied medicine to veterinary medicine.”

Of course, he notes, there are significant differences:

“The first, fundamental difference is that we have clients and patients. The clients are the owners—of the dog, the cat, the parrot, the cow—who obviously call us and establish an ongoing relationship, let’s say of a service and trust nature. Instead the patient, while being 100% sentient, does not speak.”

Arturo is a French bulldog suffering from intestinal problems. At an after-hours clinic, Federica was told Arturo might have a hernia. She brought him to Luca first thing in the morning.

“For me it's important because he was there for Arturo’s birth, so he's known him forever, he knows us, he knows his character, he knows his state of health. And therefore, his opinion is fundamental for us. Before doing anything invasive on Arturo or starting a treatment, it is important to hear Luca's opinion, definitely.”

While they spoke, Arturo bided his time by the door, which was fine with Luca. He calls this “the veterinarian’s cross to bear”:

“You don't have to impose your love on the animal. The animal must be free not to love you, it must be free to growl at you, to shock you, to scratch you because at that moment it doesn't want you to touch it. You have to to be able to reach your goal in the most respectful, least invasive and least stressful way possible.

“At the same time,” adds Luca, “you have to cuddle the owners in a way because you are also a doctor of the well-being of humans.”

Both Roberta and her chihuahua Simba were happy for Luca’s attention after Simba was attacked by a wild boar. Luca found he had bitten in three places: “on the front paw, on the back paw and under the neck—thankfully, superficial wounds.”

“Even so,” notes Luca, Simba “is a dog that you can still play with for an hour, you can do whatever you want, Simba is happy to be here. When he got the anti-inflammatory shot, he was wagging his tail!”

Next up was Lily, who came in with a nail injury. Her cat sibling is also Luca’s patient.

While today Luca happens to be seeing a lot of dogs, as a countryside veterinarian he has treated a wide variety of animals that include a goose from Lake Bracciano with a fish hook stuck in the throat, a bearded dragon with fertility problems, and a turtle crushed under a car: “I slowly reshaped the shell, I put it in a cast and after a month we opened the cast and everything went very well. She recovered perfectly.”

So who was one of Luca’s most memorable patients? “A drunken cow who had eaten pomace, the leftover grape skins after the fermentation of the wine. Grappa is made with it; so it’s highly alcoholic. Anyway it was obvious that she was drunk; she was belching alcohol. And she couldn’t stand on her legs. She would lie down with her head wobbling. But after an IV drip of hydrating fluids and some time, the hangover passed and she was fine.”

Late in the afternoon, Luca saw Polpetta for arthritis injections. Polpetta’s owner, Federico, has developed a close friendship with Luca. “We are at my favorite vet. Luca shows such a special affection that he has for animals. I consider him a fantastic person, even with people. Today, he is like a brother to me.”

Finally, Luca’s last patient Stella came up in with a limp that turned out not to be a problem. Luca’s job was to reassure her human.

“Being a veterinarian,” he says, “presents you with the challenge of expressing yourself well. Caring for animals is easier, because you treat them, and it’s done. People, on the contrary, have to understand what has happened.

“At the end of the day, I feel satisfied and complete. The satisfaction is for having tried and often succeeded—though not always—to be understood by people, which is the hardest thing.”

A version of this article in Italian for B-Hop Magazine can be found here.

One of the most inspiring people I’ve met is Pirjo Eronen. For the Finnish ceramist, living and working deep in the forests of Italy’s Tolfa Mountains is a kind of coming home. 18 years ago, she and her partner Pietro Matarese founded the Laboratorio Boschivo (laboratory in the woods)—an artistic haven where culture and sustainability come together.

Pirjo says she “always wanted to live in the woods again, and do things with my hands.”

Born in a village of Eastern Finland so small that it doesn’t exist anymore, she comes from a family of farmers and crafts people who worked with their hands. Everybody, she says, was self-sufficient. “But your family has ambitions, and you have ambitions. I competed with my brothers to be successful in a man’s world. It was tough, but I managed quite far.”

After finishing her studies in engineering and graphic design, traveling abroad, and entering the work world, Pirjo “decided I want to be happy. That’s all I want. Not to have a career, money, big ambitions in society. I was searching for something else in my life.”

It wasn’t until she became pregnant with her son Pietari that Pirjo turned to clay. “I had that urge to touch the clay, to be part of the earth, be part of this world. Before, I felt like a stranger on this earth. Then I thought, okay, this is the material that will bring me into touch with the ground, with the earth.”

She studied ceramics in Finland, then in Faenza, a small Italian city in Emilia-Romagna with a thousand years of ceramic history. When Pirjo’s son was old enough to go to school, she and Pietro, a third-generation blacksmith from Civitavecchia, decided they wanted to make a home based on a “spartan life.” Consumerism, says Pirjo, is too extreme, as well as harmful. Instead, “we cultivate our own vegetables. We cut our own wood, which will regrow here, for heat and for firing the ceramics. It’s all circular.”

In addition to Pirjo’s ceramics, Pietro’s sculptures, made from iron and recycled materials such as copper wires from old electric cables and tomato tins discarded by pizzerias, can be found throughout the property. Their aim is to share not only their art, but their lifestyle of “living in harmony with everything—the land, but also with people. We want to expand this kind of idea,” says Pirjo.

Laboratorio Boschivo offers ceramics courses, workshops, and cultural events—all in a “social and spiritual context” of respect for the environment. They collaborate frequently with Norwegian artists based in a former convent of nuns in nearby Tolfa, presenting events and exhibitions such as “From Pottery to Plastic” locally as well as internationally in Norway and Finland.

A major turning point for Pirjo was when she realized a long-held dream of building, thanks to her engineering background, her own wood burning kiln: “There is my life before the wood firing, and after. It is a division in style as well. The effect that you get in wood firing, you don’t get in any other way. It’s active. I’m participating, not pushing a button. It depends on so many variables of what I do, such as how I cut the wood. It’s a whole process, with endless research into new combinations of materials.”

Ongoing exploration, including travel, ensures Pirjo’s continuing evolution. Visiting Japan with one of her Norwegian colleagues, she was fascinated by a different approach to the art of ceramics: “For the Japanese, it’s not the object. It’s the concept of the way, the path you take from the beginning. Before I was focused on form and function, a very Finnish way to think. I’m not so interested in that anymore.”

Pirjo and Pietro have just returned from a different kind of trip to India. “My head is empty of ceramics there. But it’s something that is boiling inside of me and now needs to come out. Sometimes you have to reset yourself. Maybe I will now make something very different.”

Before Easter, Pirjo will hold a wood firing with a variety of artists. In the past, she’s held gatherings ranging from parties of friends including their children, to a group of astrophysicists from Switzerland.

But the Laboratorio Boschivo is not for everyone.

In fact, explains Pirjo, “we don’t want a lot of people here. People must really want to find us. They must be searching. It must be their destiny.” For those who find her, Pirjo says, “I have something to give them. And they have something to give me also. We are sharing.”

This article originally appeared in Italian in B-Hop Magazine.

Contemporary Michelangelo is the second in a graphic pop trilogy that Maurizio calls a “space-time game.” He started with Contemporary Caravaggio, and a question:

“What would the great geniuses, Caravaggio and Michelangelo, have done if they had to grapple with our contemporary tics, tendencies, manias, and phobias?… Many of them we don’t even see anymore, because we have completed absorbed them, whether it’s seeing violence on television every day, or what I call ‘selfitis,’ the psychopathy of the self-portrait.”

Maurizio might be called a quintessential multi-hyphenate. Whether he’s creating works as an author, poet, philosopher, or graphic artist, he says it all still comes down to an extension of his writing:

“Mine is a journey into language, because I really enjoy meanings and the twisting of meaning…. I have always interpreted in an ironic vein, which in my opinion is fundamental. Irony is a moment that goes around a situation, goes around an object, sees it from different perspectives.”

Maurizio’s foray into graphic illustration is a direct result of, and comment upon, our times.

“It’s very recent, because seeing Instagram and social networks that privilege only the image, I said, ‘I want to be the one making the images.’ But these images must be funny, must be ironic, must be aesthetically beautiful, must convey a concept… For me, there must be an idea.

“So I started to work with so-called conceptual art. I started to make objects that must make people smile and laugh. So I would take an object people know, and add a label leading to a new meaning of that object that makes people smile.”

Maurizio flips the lid on everyday objects to present a provocative view of today’s society. Instead of the ubiquitous canisters Italians fill every autumn with olive oil—olio, he shows the marketing and selling of odio or “hate,” along with xenophobia, racism, rancor, and bitterness. Often, his creations take on our obsession with technology: Maurizio’s “PC for Masochists” (with sharp tacks for keys) is also for narcissists (who type before a mirror).

As for how he arrived at the idea of Contemporary Caravaggio, Maurizio points to his childhood and education in Rome, where Caravaggio’s legacy is so deeply embedded. He finds the master, whom Maurizio calls a rocker or punk-rocker of his time, particularly suited to graphic pop re-imaginings.

“He was a great talent because he completely changed the rules, putting commoners and normal characters inside sacred scenes. Through Caravaggio, painting completely changes, it becomes something else in the history of art and in history.”

Critics, Maurizio says, have taken issue with what they say is blasphemy. “Technically no, it is not,” he says. “The subjects are all religious, all of them.” Caravaggio, he believes, would have smiled at what he has done. Michelangelo, maybe not.

Contemporary Michelangelo, which opens next week, is different in that “it is all about movement.”

“All those bodies, those movements, the sculptures of incredible perfection lend themselves to being immersed in different ways. I have even placed them in long sequences, like motion frames. So I took one and put it in a sauna, another one in a sleek, modern living room. I got the damned out of the subway. So then, it becomes a movie.”

One of Maurizio’s favorites in the Contemporary Michelangelo collection is La Pietà, with the blanket that is draped on today’s migrants, placed on the Madonna.

“I liked, in sum, the idea of taking scene, and all one has to do is change one detail and it completely changes everything…. Placed in a 17^th century scenario, the objects of our world become ironic, right? If you live without irony, you live badly.”

It helps, says Maurizio, to be nearsighted.

“Because when you are nearsighted and then you take off your glasses, you have to get closer, you have to put on other glasses, you have to discern. So myopia, which is considered a defect or a problem, actually is not. Because you see things better—the image, the object, the poem, the story.

“I consider myself a very fortunate person because I live in different, parallel universes. I try to provide, at least on certain things, a sense of humor, with light—not in a frivolous way, but that shows my own path of reflection. In the end it amuses me very much when someone sees these things and smiles. ‘There,’ I say. When I see someone smiling, then it’s mission accomplished, right?”

Contemporary Michelangelo opens on December 28, 2024 at the Galleria d’arte Antonella Rizzo in Trevignano Romano, RM, Italy.

A version of this article first appeared in Italian in B-Hop Magazine.

The first tenet: “Bread is Sacred.”

The old me, a long-time New Yorker crazed with juggling the responsibilities of a single working mother, never had time for, nor interest in, pondering the meaning of bread. But the new me who’s moved to Italy notices the beauty and potential in all sorts of everyday aspects of life.

As Mirko says,

“Bread, perhaps more than any other food, contains and brings together so many characteristics, so many emotions, so many moments, so many memories of people. How? In Italy, even if today we’ve lost this tradition a bit, when you set the table, you spread the tablecloth, you placed the cutlery, then the first food you put on the table was bread. Bread was almost a family element, it was like seating a child at the table.”

Bread has always held “a realm of meaning” for Mirko, like those who make it.

“For a long time, bakers were magicians, they were almost gods, because they were able to create something from a powder by adding water and then making that mixture, after cooking, into something truly divine.”

Among the famed artifacts that have been excavated from the ruins of Pompeii are loaves of bread and breadmaking equipment from over 30 bakeries and pastry shops. During the Roman Empire, breadmakers became leading figures in business, society, and even politics. Today, outside Porta Maggiore near Rome’s main train station, one can visit an imposing tomb inscribed "This is the monument of Marcus Vergilius Eurysaces, baker, contractor, it's obvious!"

In Eurysaces’ time, one’s competence might have been noted by saying “Bonum panem fert” (“he brings good bread”). Now, if you want to convey that someone is a really good egg, you call that person “un pezzo di pane” (“a piece of bread”).

While he has always made bread—“from the time I was a boy, in the countryside in Sicily where we had a nice big wood-fired oven and everything was kneaded by hand and very rustic”—if you had told a young Mirko that he would build a career as a breadmaker, he’d have been shocked.

“I never thought that one day I would find myself in a small town near Rome with my own bread…no way!”

As a teenager, Mirko took a job as a pizzaiolo (Merriam-Webster’s definition says “dude who slings pizzas”) to make money. He continued doing it as he pursued a career in theater in Berlin, along with working as a DJ.

“It seems to me that all these jobs—making pizzas, doing set design, acting, being a DJ, and making bread—they all have a connection. It’s about creating something out of many pieces.”

Eventually, he wanted to learn more about the process, “the specific reasons for so many things.” It was, he says, like driving a car but having no idea what makes it run. He undertook a high apprenticeship at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo, established by Carlo Petrini, founder of Slow Food. It was Mirko’s “Mecca.”

“One very important thing was meeting the producers for the first time. Because I've always worked with flour, but I'd never seen a mill, I'd never talked to a miller, I'd never seen a wheat field. And I began to understand that in the making of a pizza or bread, there are so many people and so many stories to tell.”

Mirko is now telling the stories of his new home through his breadmaking. An important principle in the Culetti Manifesto is “Crediamo nel territorio” (believing in the territory), with special attention to biodiversity, sustainable development, and collaboration with local producers. A notable addition to this autumn’s menu is his Tuscia Loaf which uses ingredients including hazelnuts, almonds, and wheat from producers within 20 kilometers of Trevignano Romano.

As for sustainability, Mirko uses a circular eco-oven that reduces the environmental impact by cutting down on waste. This is where the name Culetti comes from; culetti literally means “little rear ends”—in this case, the leftover ends or heels of a loaf.

“This is also why I produce little bread, because if I produce a lot and have some left over, sure, it’s true that I don't throw it away. But reworking and retransforming that bread means time, it means energy. Plus I make larger loaves of bread in order to return to certain values, that is, the sharing of bread. What I always tell people is you don't have to buy and eat it all today. I only use sourdough to allow the bread to keep for more days.”

The value of sharing bread and its power to unite people is what makes it sacred to Mirko. As his manifesto says, "We believe in the intangible wealth that flows from the relationships interlacing our customers, our suppliers, our colleagues and our friends.”

“What I try to do with Culetti, in particular, is to convey a message: let's unite to improve the world a little, which seems to be in decline, especially from an environmental point of view. As a baker, I try to do this, even if it seems incredible, right? I'm not an institution, I'm not an entity, I'm not part of politics, I don't have any institutional power. I just make bread.”

And how can the rest of us, who are not professionals, make better bread at home?

“Many times a loaf of bread is good also because the person who made it is good, because the situation is full of meanings, emotions, and feelings. You don't need to be technically good to make good bread; you need a lot of curiosity. ‘Artisanal’ means that you can make mistakes, that you have to make mistakes.

“When you have so many variables in the production process, it is normal that in the end you always arrive at a different product. Every night I find myself turning into a puppeteer, so to speak, of so many elements that I can almost never manage them all. The flour changes, my mood changes, the temperature of the oven changes a little. Even if just one of a thousand factors changes, it still gives life to something different. And diversity, in my opinion, is the most important thing.

“It is diversity that makes your product unique.”

(A version of this article in Italian can be found at B-Hop.it.)

I am an “accidental expat”—someone who never expected that, in desperate need of a midlife reset, I’d pack it all in and relocate to Italy in my mid-50s.

Friends back in the U.S. often say, “I want your life!” No doubt, I’ve been fortunate to embrace fresh perspectives and a more serene way of being. I particularly like this quote from Hannah Arendt:

Except, being “alone” is very much a double-edged sword, especially when you are a straniera—a foreigner or stranger, by definition estranged from who and what came before.

Moving abroad on my own has meant that the sense of outsider status that all expats feel is often amplified for me. First there’s the constant social barrier that comes from only being able to communicate in a limited way. Even after eight years of living in Italy, I speak at the level of an Italian child. On a good day, I see this as part of a midlife rebirth. On a bad day, I bemoan the absurdity of being a person who worked in communications who can only communicate in a limited way, devoid of eloquence or subtlety. 

On top of the that, there’s the literal isolation that can come from being a person living alone during difficult and extraordinary times. During COVID, when the lockdowns precluded all but essential contact with anyone outside of one’s immediate household, I was ever so envious of the many Italians around me who lived together as extended families or with partners.

Recently, I have been reliving that feeling of instability. But this time, my take is different.

I belong to a tight-knit group of friends, most of whom are current or former journalists. Many of us are single, and many of us are expats. But more than shared interests or circumstances, what makes this group unique is the special kinship and emotional bond we share.

These last months have been increasingly trying as one of us has been battling an aggressive metastatic cancer. How our group has mobilized, led by a tirelessly devoted woman, to support our beloved friend is nothing short of amazing, and utterly inspiring. There has been constant communication and coordination for food delivery, transportation to medical appointments, dog walking, home company, and more.

These friends have taken on responsibilities that play to their skill sets, be they knowing how to navigate the medical system, nurturing and caregiving, cooking, organizing, researching, writing, or providing digital help. There is no limit to the effort and time people are willing to give. One woman has remote-worked from our sick friend’s home to make sure she is not alone.

Two of us recently got together for an emotional aperitivo. We were, of course, commiserating and feeling terribly sad. But we also recognized how very lucky we are to be part of this extraordinary group of friends who are also every bit family. Many of us have come from different countries, some more recently, some decades ago. Somehow, we have ended up together in the most supportive circle one could ever hope to be a part of, where solidarity and connection are cultivated constantly and with care. To me, someone who has felt unmoored and unrooted for quite some time, this seems to be a miracle.

To speak of the power of friendship may seem trite, but what I have witnessed and what I treasure are a power to the nth degree. I am in awe of my friends. And what a gift, to experience a whole new kind of love late in life. We are a family who chose each other, and choose to be with and to give to each other at the best, and the very hardest, of times.

This article originally appeared in Italian at B-Hop.it

With so much on offer, being the largest media event in Europe—featuring more than 455 speakers in 218 sessions over five days—and the opportunity to listen to icons such as champion of the free press and Nobel laureate Maria Ressa in the stunningly beautiful buildings of Perugia’s city center, you would think that this event would be exclusive.

But this is where the festival really stands out: it’s all free. No registration fee or signups required.

It is an open invitation to listen, learn, and network during the sessions and impromptu gatherings taking place in the lively streets of the city.

The experience is democratic, and empowering. Renowned reporters and leaders of the largest media companies in the world mix with up-and-coming journalists, often from countries where their work is undertaken at great personal risk, and students and locals from Perugia. The brainchild of Arianna Ciccone and Christopher Potter, the festival has been taking place every spring since 2007.

Front and center this year were issues surrounding AI and the threat of disinformation, along with coverage of elections in multiple countries, media suppression, and the state of local news. Since I wanted to write an article for B-Hop Magazine, the Italian constructive journalism site, I was pleased to see a focus on solutions journalism threading through many of the talks.

Attendees learned about new media platforms such as Egab, founded by CEO Dina Aboughazala to empower local journalists across the Middle East and Africa. Each year, she said, some 4,000 journalism students graduate from public universities in Egypt, but, as in the rest of the world, there are fewer and fewer jobs. Egab is an intermediary platform that helps local journalists edit, vet and pitch their unique stories to major news outlets.

In a session on Art and Journalism, Polish actor Adam Kuzycz-Berezowski showed how “combining journalism and art creates a huge force that can change reality.” Addressing suicidality among LGBTQIA+ young people and the state of psychiatric care in Poland, director Jakub Skrzywanek’s SPARTACUS: Love in the time of plague is based on the reporting of Janusz Schwertner. Each performance features the wedding of a different non-heteronormative couple, joined symbolically and movingly before the audience.

This year’s festival also included multiple sessions addressing the problem of news avoidance or news fatigue. Nic Newman of the Reuters Institute for the Study of Journalism shared the Institute’s findings that in 2023, over a third of people across 46 countries say they often or sometimes avoid the news, feeling overwhelmed, with a need to protect themselves. Among the solutions discussed were keeping reports brief, with a focus on relatable human stories, and creating more engaging digital formats. Newman gave as an example the work of Alaina Wood @thegarbagequeen, known for her Good Climate News video bulletins countering climate “doomism”and managing eco-anxiety. Ellen Heinrichs of the Bonn Institute noted the number of increasingly popular “good news” newsletters such as that of the German Augsburger Allgemeine. Interestingly, while the original aim was to reach younger target groups, they “quickly realized that the demand among older readers is also very high.” Both speakers exhorted the audience to report on information needs that exist, not “what you think people should have.” Journalists, Heinrichs said, too often look down on their audiences. What is needed, Newman agreed, is a “user-needs model.”

It was heartening to learn about the Russian Independent Media Archive, now including 2.2 million articles of 44 media outlets, digitized and searchable. One of the founders, Masha Gessen of The New Yorker, said the idea took shape in the first week of the invasion of Ukraine, when it became clear that as independent journalists fled to report freely from other countries, news archives—which they say “could possibly be the key to a future reckoning”—would be in danger. “Maintaining an accurate, factual, detailed, textured record of the past,” they said, “to me is one of the ultimate acts of resistance.”

For journalists who cover war, the story of the BBC’s esteemed reporter Fergal Keane was especially important. Keane spoke poignantly about the scars he bears from war reporting, which have included intense struggles with PTSD and psychiatric hospitalizations. He implored young journalists following in his steps to “not be afraid to step back” when the pressure is too much: “It’s about finding the courage within yourself to say … ‘my mental health should come first.’”

As for the idea of what he called the “golden age”of journalism being past, Keane said “No it’s not! It’s much better. It’s far more accountable.” With all the worries about fake news and disinformation, he is optimistic. “People are challenging it. The counter-fight is gathering pace and will continue to be powerful.”

This is just a very small taste of the International Journalism Festival. For more, you can watch all the session videos here. You can also read a version of this piece in Italian at B-Hop.

Eight years later, I can say without a doubt that la dolce vita is extremely “dolce” for Jake. For a lifelong leash-bound New Yorker to suddenly have free rein in the gorgeous castle gardens of the medieval hamlet of Ceri, with regular visits to the nearby Tyrrhenian seaside, was a joy to behold. Jake was more than pleased to expand his palate to incorporate doggy risotto made by the castle owner’s wife. Then there was mortadella: the first time he tried it, he was sitting on a villager’s lap. After Jake ate the cold cut, the villager, Guido, wondered why his arm was wet before exclaiming, “sono lacrime di gioia!” Jake, he said, was crying tears of joy.  

Jake now splits his time between Rome and a town on Lake Bracciano outside Rome. There, he is routinely greeted as Carlo—short for carlino or pug, Bellino—little handsome guy, or Garibaldi—due to a groomer dressing him in a red bandana, like the 19^th century hero Giuseppe Garibaldi’s famed Red Shirts followers. In addition to daily lakeside promenades or passeggiate, he has two dog beaches to choose from, quite the luxury in a town of fewer than 6,000 people.

Still, it sometimes seems as if Jake prefers Rome. The old city dog in him loves the urban smells of our bustling neighborhood, Trastevere. Plus, he can do so much more than he could in New York. He is even welcome in supermarkets, which have special grocery carts for dogs. This one says, “I’m here too.”

There’s pretty much nowhere dogs can’t go. Perhaps movie theaters, though just last week I saw someone trying to sneak in a Frenchie. I have yet to see a dog turned away from a restaurant, even high-class ones. Most even bring Jake his own bowl of water before we humans get ours. For special occasions, like the 12^th birthday Jake just celebrated, there’s Rome’s Fiuto restaurant, which boasts an extensive canine menu. For his entrée, Jake had beef, carrots, parmesan, and rice; his birthday cake was biscuit crumble with fresh cheese and green apple. Since Jake and his friends lapped up their meals before their humans could finish theirs, the dogs were each given a donut bed according to size for postprandial napping.

Italy has a reputation for being highly accommodating to pets, literally. A 2022 study named Italy the most dog-friendly country in the world (the U.S. was #13), with the highest number of pet-friendly hotels relative to population. Italy also scored well in terms of animal protection and the number of vets. I’m happy to add that vet expenses are tax-deductible for all dog owners.

Speaking of the vet, one thing that sets Jake apart from a lot of dogs here is that he is sterilizzato or castrato. One study conducted in Central Italy a few years ago found that only 8% of male dogs were neutered. Our vet says this is largely due to misconceptions, like the idea that the dog will get fat, or be less of a guard dog. At least we’re not in Norway, where neutering as a matter of course is considered animal cruelty and prohibited excepted in special cases. There, not only would Jake stand out; I guess I’d have some explaining to do.

The system overall has been very good to Jake. He received his European Union passport before I even got my residency (it will be 10 years before I am eligible for a passport). While trips to the human anagrafa or registry office can be harrowing and full of bureaucratic headaches, the anagrafa canina or dog registry offices have, in our experience, been efficient and the staff exceedingly helpful.

One new regulation that has dog owners talking is a requirement in Bolzano, now expanding from Alto Adige to Piedmont, to submit dogs’ DNA to a database. Dogs’ “business” or bisogni (needs) left in the streets will then lead to fines of between $300 and $1100. While one might question whether this is a good use of forensic investigation resources, we’re not worried.

As long as I continue picking up Jake’s bisogni, it’s a grand life—our dolce vita.

I’m often asked what I miss the most about living in America. Without question, it’s ethnic diversity, especially coming from New York City. Ethnic and race-based statistics are not permitted in Italy; the census notes people’s citizenship and place of birth, which means I am counted here as an American. So, while I can’t give numbers for people like me of Asian heritage, I am sorry to say that, among my circle in Rome, I have just one close friend who is not of European heritage.

That said, being an ethnic minority hasn’t been a problem in terms of fitting in or being accepted by the wonderful communities in which I live—not in Rome, nor in my town on Lake Bracciano, and not even in Ceri, the medieval village (Wikipedia calls it a “hamlet”) of 84 people that was my home for over a year.

The worst discrimination I’ve experienced was at the very beginning of COVID-19. Even before two tourists from China became the first to test positive in Italy, Rome’s Santa Cecilia music conservatory suspended lessons for all “oriental” students from class, regardless of whether they had recently been in Asia. Two days later, I had just boarded a public tram when two young women looked me up and down, then quickly pulled their collars up over the mouths and noses and rushed to the other end of the car. I was interviewed about it in a blog for la Repubblica, though—a sign of how afraid I was of things going downhill—I asked the writer to use my Chinese name.

As we know, once the U.S. was overtaken by what Donald Trump called the “Chinese virus” and “kung flu,” racist harassment and physical assaults against Asians surged. Sadly, even with bigger and more active communities of color, the situation grew dramatically worse in America.

Anti-immigrant attitudes have been found to be higher in Italy than in the rest of Western Europe, especially against refugees and religious minority groups. But there are plenty of people who are eager to learn more about other cultures, and I’ve been fortunate to have been welcomed into their homes and lives. These last two weeks, numerous friends and acquaintances have approached me with questions about the Lunar New Year, such as why the Year of the Dragon is so lucky and why you don’t see Chinese dragons breathing fire. I tell them that the dragon, as the only mythical creature in the zodiac, holds a special place in Chinese culture. Chinese dragons breathe clouds, not fire, and are considered to be benevolent.

Having hosted not one, but two banquets during these two weeks of the Spring Festival, I’m happy to report that there is no shortage of top-notch Chinese restaurants in Rome. (Purists undoubtedly frown upon those that serve a combination of Chinese, Japanese and Thai food in a single establishment, but many focus on creatively and expertly prepared Chinese specialities.) Just over 50% of Italians now express a preference for ethnic food at least part of the time, a huge change for a country traditionally known for its preponderance of restaurants serving only Italian food—and where food is well, everything. You can see the change on supermarket shelves as well.

That means that it is easy to find all the symbolically lucky (and tasty!) foods for the Lunar New Year, from whole fish for abundance, to jiǎozi dumplings for wealth, to chángshòu noodles for longevity. As Lorenzo Giacomella wrote in Italics Magazine,

“In Italy, just like everywhere else, new food comes with new behaviors, new traditions, and new people.”

Next month, the two chefs--one from the north of China, one from the south—at Rome’s Green T. restaurant, which has been awarded the Michelin Bib Gourmand, will be joined by a third whose speciality is serving dumplings in the Shanghainese style. I am Shanghainese, and I can’t wait!

June: When Italians hear my accent they ask, “Why would you leave America and come here? My response to them is I've lived in both places. And I just have to say that the texture and quality of life here is far superior.

June has lived in Italy since 1981. Originally arriving to work as a journalist, she never left.

June: I cannot believe what a beautiful country we live in. The first time I came, the beauty just overwhelmed me. It brought me back. And the smells, the tastes, the people…

Judy: Yes, the beauty, the lack of pollution, the fascinating history. Plus you live life, you enjoy life.

Judy and her partner David are at the center of the large expat community in Trevignano Romano. She has lived in Italy for five decades, working in the foreign service, then as a journalist and writer. David, a long-time BBC correspondent, considers himself one of the original digital nomads.

David: There’s a humanity about people here. When you talk to people, they are genuine. The sense of community is extraordinary. You circulate among your contemporaries, many of whom are foreigners, like you are, but many of whom are not foreign. We go almost every day down to the local bar, where we have close friends who come from all over.

Cristina: It’s not just the sense of community, but also the sense of communion.

Cristina is American, of Italian heritage. Now living in Rome for the second time in the last ten years, she is a cybersecurity expert who has worked in government and the tech sector.

Cristina: It’s the daily rhythm of life in Italy that doesn't really exist in America. Everybody's kind of on their own schedule, on their own rhythm. When I went back to the U.S. after working here for five years, what I missed were just those daily moments of communion, like the morning coffee, going out for lunch or afternoon coffee with your coworkers…. Where I worked in Washington D.C., people would heat up their lunch in the microwave, eat at their desk, and keep working. Here at first I thought it was weird—why does everybody have to have lunch at exactly 1:30? You go a little earlier, a little later, but it's a chance for people to be together because everybody's on the same schedule. When I went back to the U.S. before moving here again, it was really hard for me to get used to the isolation. 

Laura: I think the main difference is that people here love to live. They don't live to work. They live to enjoy themselves. 

Laura is an Italian American visual artist who recently moved back after 40 years in the US.

Laura: In Italy, work is secondary. In the United States, you work, work, work, even Saturday, even Sunday, even at night. But here, like Cristina said, you still take a break for coffee, you lunch together, you take a walk. And then you invent something and you create something together. You don't have to make an appointment to see people. 

Cristina: Yes, in American urban life, as a young professional you have to schedule with friends far in advance. And always at the last minute people will cancel because of work. I would organize a dinner for say, 10 people, and if I was lucky, maybe 6 would show up in the end. Whereas when I moved to Rome, I would invite 10 people and 15 would show up! That was shocking to me. Or just the idea that I could call a friend and say, “Hey I’m in your neighborhood, want to grab a coffee?”

Laura: There is a lot more flexibility and spontaneity, but in the end it always comes down to “Okay, where are we going to eat?” And you go to a local trattoria, but you don’t get drunk.

June: It is a much more natural part of life, drinking—not a rite of passage like it is when young people reach the drinking age in the States. Just drink a glass of wine, and that’s it.

David: The Italian bar is a much more complex institution than, say, the English pub, which in my day mainly served alcohol. It wasn’t where everyone—mothers, children—met for a coffee and talk…

June: And for moments of connection.

Everyone agreed that they would have nowhere near the quality of life they have here if they lived in the U.S., largely because of the cost of living—not just the cost of buying a home or feeding a family, but for what author Kirsten Powers calls the “‘entitlements’ in the United States [that] are rightly understood as human rights” in Italy.

June: All my very close friends in the States, and some of them are artists, some are lawyers, they all make a fairly good living, but they're worried about money all the time. They're scared of retirement…they're scared to death of everything. 

Judy: When my mother got cancer and had to be hospitalized, I went back to the U.S. She was paying $1,000 a day for a room in a hospital. $1,000 a day! And that was decades ago. I realized I would never be able to pay that kind of money, not even with insurance.

David: When Judy inherited a car and house, she found a job. But she did the whole calculation very carefully and found she would have a very uncertain future. Basically, she couldn’t afford to stay in America. In Italy, I’ve had wonderful health care. I’ve had serious heart surgery. I paid nothing for it.

June: We are extremely lucky here that we are covered for everything that could happen. The other day my husband and I were in a car accident and were taken to the hospital. I had x-rays done, and that was it. You paid nothing. You did nothing. They said “you are free to go.” 

Cristina: There’s not even a place to pay! When I broke my arm and went to the emergency room, I said, “Where do I pay? Where’s the register, the reception, to pay?” And my Italian friend was like, “What are you even talking about?”

June: The other thing that I think is a major difference between here and the States is people living on credit card debt. I don’t know anyone there who doesn’t have some debt. Here, it’s hard to even get a credit card that you pay off over time. People tend to have  debit or prepaid cards. And then there’s the expense of college. [Tuition at public universities in Italy ranges from about $650 to $3200.]

Laura: Also, the United States is so dangerous. I don’t feel safe there. I’ve escaped because I felt threatened. On the street I wouldn’t look people in the eyes like I do here. And you see people carrying guns! It’s crazy. So one of the main reasons I came back is because I want to be at peace. I want to enjoy life. Of course, for young people, maybe the United States is still better for finding a job. Because in Italy, bureaucracy is still very difficult and for young people, even if you have a great mind to make something, to build something, you have to go through so many hoops. In fact, a lot of great minds go abroad. Maybe when you get older, Italy and Europe is much better because of the lifestyle, the climate, the health care and so much more. 

June: My daughter is 100% Italian in her being. And yet she realizes that for the world that she wants to move up in, the world of TV and film development, that is the place to be, in California. But she would love to be able to do what she wants, and find the balance between the quality of life here, and the quality of work and salary that she can get there. My sister on the other hand is very high-powered, a New Yorker, but she’s come here often and now says “I could see myself here.” She is thinking of spending at least six to eight months of the year here for love of the quality of life, the texture of Italian life.

David: We spent a fortnight with Judy's daughter in Los Angeles. And I observed their life there. They live in a beautiful house in a leafy suburb…but every drive is a minimum of an hour, and often it's two. Whenever Judy calls her daughter, she's sitting in the car. I said, do you spend your life sitting in the car? 

Judy: In order to do anything, you have to jump into a car. 

Cristina: And again, it's so isolating. At least here, you hop on a train…

David: You get your coffee at the bar at the railway station…

Cristina: And you feel like you’re part of life! This may be my single favorite thing about Italy, a wonderful train system. You can explore all of these amazing places cheaply and easily and stress-free. I wish the U.S. had that. There’s no reason why when I would have to go from New York to Washington D.C. my employer encouraged us to take a plane because it was cheaper, even with the cost of a taxi to the airport, than to take a so-called high-speed train, which was always late and incredibly expensive. I mean, I can get up in the morning and be in Florence in an hour and a half, and in Venice by lunchtime [at about $37 for one way on a high-speed train].

David: It is literally quite, quite extraordinary to be living in a place which was going strong for 2000 years, with ups and downs, but with the depth of cultural achievement which you see all over. My introduction to Italy was through Venice, one of the wonders of the world. And then you discover one by one, bit by bit, Naples…

June: Naples, it's like Alice going into Wonderland. It's like a whole other sense of time and space in how people are treating you and laughing with you. 

David: And what about Sicily? What about Orvieto? What about Florence? What about Genoa? What about Caprarola, just up the road here? 

June: The minute I set my eyes on Italy, I fell in love. I just completely fell in love with it. I had no idea where my life was going to take me. And here I am, still.

Laura: Italy is great. I mean, there are things here that need to be done better, let's say. There are problems. But the place is beautiful. There is spontaneity in life, and I feel so relaxed. I live in a historic area and I go out, everyone is so friendly, and they do not ask “What do you do?” In the U.S. people identify themselves by what they do. I am an engineer, so this is who I am. But that is not true. That's the job that you do. Who you are is something else. What do you want? Are you happy? You need to look into yourself, and we can do that here.

Breana has devoted her life since to helping people see that opera and classical music are not elitist, but rather “fun and evocative, emotional and relatable.”

In particular, she devotes her time to using the power of opera to inspire children and underserved communities around the world. “It’s nice for us to come together and make music, in a world where there is so much turmoil. Music is a universal language. It unites us. There’s nothing bad about it. Even when the music makes us feel sad, you need to have emotions, you need to have feelings, we need to inspire each other.”

In Rome, Breana’s charity, OperAffinity, partners with organizations such as Save the Children and the Jesuit Refugee Service (Centro Astalli) to conduct workshops with Ukrainian, Afghani, and Syrian refugee children. Music has an inherent therapeutic power, she says, allowing children to not only share stories of daily struggles and hardships, but to experience a new kind of self-esteem, and to dream.

It was in Kenya, where Breana also has family, that she first realized the potential of sharing opera with children. “I said I’m Breana and I’m an opera singer and you may not know what that is, but I’m going to show you now how I warm up my voice because in an opera house we don’t use microphones. I started singing, and they started almost breathlessly laughing. First I thought they thought it was just funny, but then it became apparent that they just couldn’t believe it. There was this excitement, and their faces lit up. And we all swayed like butterflies to the Barcarolle “Belle Nuit” from The Tales of Hoffman, and they all embraced it. It was beautiful. It was perfect. And in turn they taught me Kenyan music and Kenyan dance, so we had this great bicultural exchange.”

While OperAffinity is dedicated to promoting opera and classical music to wider audiences, what is it that their audiences get, specifically, from opera? “It’s so emotive,” says Breana. “Sometimes people can’t put their feelings into words, but when they sing and are able to emote, it gives a special kind of relief.” Too often, she says, we assume that many communities and age groups will not understand it because it’s opera. “But they do,” she insists. “They understand it. Their eyes light up. They can’t believe the power of this sound coming out of someone. And why shouldn’t kids and people everywhere be able to experience that?”

Working with a group of refugee women from Syria who were at first reserved and unsure, Breana began to sing Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro.”  “And we taught them the first phrase so they could sing it with me, and then we all sang it together. Suddenly, everyone was crying. In the end, yes, we’re so different in circumstance and culture, yet we are able to come together and connect, emote together and feel.”

OperAffinity’s Kenya Project works with the Art of Music Foundation’s Ghetto Classics, a community program providing music education to hundreds of youth in need. Again, Breana wasn’t sure how they would react to her coming in to sing opera, but after teaching them the children’s chorus from Carmen, they began laughing together, having fun, and sharing stories.

From Italy, Breana continued working online with a young tenor from the program, David Mwenje. In January 2023, OperAffinity brought David to Rome’s Oratorio del Gonlafone to perform for a celebration of the 50^th anniversary of diplomatic relations between the Holy See and Australia. His performance of “Panis Angelicus” was a rousing success. “That is the best feeling, sharing your gift until people are moved,” said David. He credits Breana with introducing him to teaching greats in the world of music who have motivated him to become like them. David is now a music student at Kabarak University in Nairobi.

Breana’s newest project is the Todi Musica Festival. Over two weeks in September, workshops, concerts and pop-up, flash mob performances took place across Todi. Events featured a mix of world-renowned performers, local residents, and international visitors. “I wanted it to be about community and having fun,” says Breana. One event included a 50-minute gala of opera favorites. “I introduced each piece so that people could understand the emotion behind it. Then after just 50 minutes, we had this great party with older people, younger people, and very young people. There is something for everyone.”

For Breana, it’s all about connection. “No matter your age or your background, let’s get together, talk about and experience music and culture, make it fun, not stiff.”

What’s next for OperAffinity? The workshops and master classes Breana conducts for refugees, disability centers, and children can easily be transferred to different places, she says. Having worked in Italy, the United Kingdom, Germany, and Kenya, she looks forward to bringing opera and classical music to even more people and communities. “Through my work I’ve met so many wonderful people who are all doing such good things and helping to share the power of music. This focus on giving and the beauty of opera is what the world needs to see and experience.”

Indeed, Italian opera singing has just been added to the UNESCO Cultural Heritage list.

This article first appeared in B-Hop magazine in Italy.

Nine years ago, I absconded to Italy, a country I have loved since my first visit almost 40 years ago. I left New York three weeks after the memorial for my 14-year-old child. I had no idea if it would be for a month, or a year, or forever. I’m still here, rebuilding a life in Rome, where I have a small fairy tale apartment in a 16^th-century palazzo, and a small house in a nearby town that looks down on Lake Bracciano. It is the most healing place I can imagine.

I’m now writing a memoir—a story of how Italy has saved me with its wonderful blend of warmth, beauty, humor, and colorful human interaction. I have wonderful friends, both expat and Italian, and am trying to live a life of improvisation, in which I don’t know what’s coming down the line, but I’m ready to say “Yes, and…”

Which brings me to writing for an Italian e-magazine of nonprofit, independent constructive journalism called B-hop. “B” stands for beauty, they say, and at the same time evokes the English verb “to be.” Basically, it publishes stories of good news. As a former journalist and multimedia storytelling professional, finding and writing such stories is natural for me. More importantly, it’s my version of a gratitude mantra, or forcing oneself to smile and finding that it really does makes you feel better!

This Substack will include English versions of the good news stories I find and write in Italy. I hope you’ll join me for the journey.