Italian Adventure 1

I’ve been discharged from the hospital! Nowhere near fully back on my feet yet, but at least I’m home. But wait a minute—home? You were suddenly in an Italian hospital! And you mentioned moving?? You haven't told us anything about that!

Yes, that’s true. And that is why I’m now going to take you along on our Italian Adventure. A compelling serial story in who-knows-how-many parts. Read along with me!

It all started two years ago, when the Amsterdam summer turned out to be so cold and wet that my body couldn't take it anymore. I hopped on the first plane heading south and began what turned into an odyssey through Southern Europe. By land, by sea, and by air. I signed on to the catamaran of former business partner Coen. I rented cars and flew back to Amsterdam every now and then to see family. Sometimes Lydia joined me (including a wonderful week in Lisbon), but I did most of it solo. In this way, I explored vast stretches of Portugal, Spain, and Italy. I spent a lot of time in my own cocoon, observing the surroundings, but I also met lovely people of all stripes—just on the street or through social channels like Couchsurfing and Asmallworld.

Lydia was only half-enthusiastic about my wanderlust. She said: ‘The South of Europe is fine, but I want a permanent place where I can create my art!’

So, I kept an eye out everywhere for somewhere we might eventually put down roots. In all those countries, there is an app that shows you what’s for sale: Idealista. That way, I always knew if there was something interesting nearby.

But what criteria did this new place have to meet? Plenty of restaurants and shops within walking or cycling distance, and preferably some water nearby. A real city within reach and an airport about an hour away. Preferably not an island; that feels too confining. Initially, I looked at cities, but gradually my eye wandered to houses located just outside of villages and towns. A bit of space and some greenery would be nice, too.

Idealista isn’t generous when it comes to providing exact locations or addresses. For privacy reasons, or perhaps to keep the real estate agent somewhat relevant. I turned it into a game. If I saw a nice house, I tried to triangulate the exact location based on the photos—you see that mountain or that tree through that window, and the sea through the other.

That’s how I ended up in all sorts of beautiful places. I fell in love with a house in the dunes near Sintra. I saw attractive possibilities on the Costa Blanca. But the real spark was ignited when Lydia and I went on a road trip around Rome together. We first ended up in the most picturesque borgo villages, where the vistas seemed to have jumped straight off the canvas of nineteenth-century Italian landscape paintings. In those villages, you can buy a spacious apartment for the price of a ten-year-old car. But if you want to experience anything there, you’ll have to play cards with three old men or converse in dialect with the local nonnas. And at most, you’ll have a shop-cum-bar to feed and refresh yourself.

We moved a bit closer to the city. On the south side, in the area known as the Castelli Romani. In these hills lies the cradle of the Roman Empire. Here, Remus and Romulus were suckled by the wolf, and from here they departed for the fertile ground around the Tiber, where Remus mocked his brother and had to pay for it with his life. That fratricide was the beginning of the long and violent history of the city of Romulus, the traces of which have by no means been erased. The road network in Europe, a large part of our language, the Catholic Church as a global continuation of Roman administration—even the gauge of our trains can be traced back to Roman chariot wheels. That small village on the Tiber became a world power. And all of that originated from an Etruscan settlement in the hills where we were snooping around.

We stayed in an apartment with a view of Lake Albano, a picturesque lake situated in a volcanic crater. A few hundred meters away lay the Pope’s summer residence. That made this part of the Castelli Romani—as we later noticed—the only somewhat touristy area.

We spent two nights on the rim of the volcano, the final stop of our tour and time to head home. We had booked a late flight, preceded by a reservation at a top restaurant in Fiumicino. So, pack the suitcases—not much time to waste.

But my search game on Idealista had yielded a new target. A mysterious house, with outbuildings on a hill nearby. The photos didn't reveal much, but they did show beautifully lit underground vaults. I took those pictures for atmospheric images, borrowed from a local museum or something. But the location looked interesting; it scored well on the restaurant and shop index, with the village of Genzano and at least fifty restaurants within two kilometers. Worth taking a look, we thought. But quickly! The house was not exactly in the direction we were supposed to be heading, so it had to be a lightning visit, a quick detour, and then back to the north, to our restaurant!

After taking a wrong turn, we reach the point where, according to my sleuthing, the house should be. An ancient, bumpy dirt road leads us up a hill. To the left of this road, a vegetable garden, olive trees, with some buildings further on, half-hidden behind the trees. To the right, a rolling terrain. Wildflowers bloom in the tall grass. A row of stately cypresses creeps in single file up the hill and points the way to an imposing villa at the top. That’s where we need to be.

A fence shields the property from the road. There isn't much to see from here. The distance to the house is a good hundred meters. We park the rental car in a bay by a gate that seems to have been made to let agricultural vehicles onto the terrain. Judging by the height of the grass, not much maintenance has been done for a while. A rusty lock keeps the gate firmly closed.

Too bad. We would have loved to see more, but the restaurant calls! Let’s just take a short walk along the wire fence then. How beautiful it is here! Just in front of the large house, where the cypresses end, a grove of giant pine trees stands proudly. Those enormous parasol pines, the shade-makers of Rome. Above the yellow-painted facade and the terracotta roof arches a blue sky, with a fluffy white cloud here and there. Good thing we weren't here a day earlier, when the water was coming down in buckets. Now everything is fresh and green.

Hey, look! A hole in the fence! Lydia stops.

Shall we?