Terri Mastrobuono

There is a version of Italy that exists mainly in postcards, all long lunches and slow afternoons.

As twilight gently settles over the town, the three of us set out on our familiar evening camminata.

This morning, I went in search of a donkey.

I could say I went looking for an ass—but that felt a touch too biblical, or perhaps too American. In Italian, the word is asino—or asina if she’s a she.

This summer has been one of change. Of quiet, surprising shifts. A summer full of detours. A different experience of this place, these people, this version of life.

Some time ago, a fellow Italophile—sharp-eyed and as sun-charmed as I—pointed out something I’d never noticed: in olive groves, the centre of each tree is hollowed, pruned open to the light.

I have been here in the hilltop town of Castiglione Messer Raimondo only two weeks, yet have been invited into nearly every home surrounding mine to “prendere un café’ (take coffee).