The changing of the season always takes me by surprise. Even though it happens each year, I am always struck by how it manages to creep in, quietly, doing its work in the night. Until one ordinary morning, it shows itself, as if sitting outside your window the whole time.
The fall I know and love is made of grey skies, soggy leaves, Manhattans, and infinite sweaters. In Tuscany, fall means collecting hundreds of tiny olives to be pressed and then drizzled over bruschetta. It means straining nocino from the green walnuts that have been soaking in the sun since summer, and watching the fog drape the persimmon trees with dew each morning. It means sitting with sweet, weathered Italian women as they make ravioli as effortlessly as you or I would jot down our home phone number.
The sun shines bright almost every day here, with a crispness in the air that’s perfect for working outside all week and exploring on the weekends. Over the last few weeks, we visited the charming hilltop towns of Lucca, Volterra, and Chiusure, felt the salty air on our skin and ate buckets of sardines in Cinque Terre, and strolled through the enchanting Bosco della Ragnaia in San Giovvani d’Asso.
While I miss the Northwest rain and my favorite wool socks, fall in Italy is proving to be equally swoon-worthy.