Adopted children only  feel a sense of gratitude when they’re much older.
It’s different when an adult chooses to be an adoptee in a country and a society. I’m purposely snubbing  the word immigration because to me that word suggests some kind of necessity: political, economical, educational, the need for a change and curiosity.
my choice for being here is motivated by one overwhelming feeling: love.

I studied Art. Tiny pictures of Italian painters on slides in a smoke filled room (my professor didn’t believe in health restrictions on talent) made up my education of everything that is magical and beautiful.

During my first 10 years in Italy, I was running around the country like a headless chicken, trying to see as much as I could, until I came to the inevitable  realization that Italy, much like an Escher drawing, is an endless mess of tiny hidden villages, a mere human will never see it all. And in every single one of these remote, dialect speaking, tiny places (with unpronounceable names), there is a gorgeous church in which (if you ask the right question) someone will remove an ugly panel from the wall, to reveal a stunning faded alfresco.

I came here following my prince, I stayed here for the Colors and landscapes, for the food and the wine, for the music and the language, but mostly… because, come spring, my 80 year old neighbor goes to prune the vineyards on his old tractor – singing arias of Verdi.

Church of Santa Maria Foris Portas, in Castelseprio,

anonymous painter known only as the Maestro of Castelseprio