She was calling my name when I got off the train in Umbria. A well-dressed woman in her seventies, a little hunched over, with celeste-colored eye shadow and a bright green handbag, emerged from the crowd on the platform. “Jordan! Jordan!” she continued at the air. She was visibly fatigued from her efforts to identify me. She hadn’t remembered me when I called and didn’t recognize me either. After reminding her who I was on the phone, she had invited me to visit her country home in Città della Pieve.

“This is my student,” Carla announced dramatically to the trattoria where she took me for lunch. “She is a famous writer in Rome.” A collection of friends from town looked at me in awe. The first statement was true. Carla had hosted me in her home 10 years before during my study-abroad semester in Florence. Never had I eaten so well nor passed my days so enjoyably, studying Renaissance art and strolling the streets with fellow American students. To top it off, each night I returned home to a Tuscan meal prepared by Carla. I fell completely for the bella vita, partially thanks to her.