For Kirsten Powers, somewhere in Puglia Kirsten, I hear you found a trullo. Good. You always struck me as someone who understood that the best decisions look slightly irrational from the outside. Moving to the heel of Italy’s boot — that narrow, sun-hammered peninsula that juts into the Adriatic like an afterthought — is exactly the kind of move that makes complete sense once you’ve walked your own land, stood among your own olive trees, and tasted the bread. And that is wher

Drive north from Verona and watch Italy slowly change its mind about itself. The vineyards shift from Corvina to Blauburgunder — which you may know as Pinot Noir, but they will correct you here, politely, as they correct everything. The architecture thickens, the roof pitches steepen against the weight of alpine snow, the signage becomes bilingual and then, quietly, more German than Italian. By the time you reach Bolzano — which they call Bozen — you have left the Mediterrane