Category: Regional Styles

I remember standing on a crumbling terrace in Santo Stefano di Sessanio last October, my knees aching from the climb, staring at a wall that refused to make sense. Most travel guides will tell you that the beauty of abruzzo…

I was crouched in the dirt outside a crumbling farmhouse near Velletri last autumn, my knees aching against the damp earth, when I realized most people look at the Roman countryside and casali through a lens of pure, romanticized fiction….

I was standing in a damp basement in Turin last November, my flashlight catching the jagged edge of a limestone block, when I realized how much we get wrong about the piedmont and baroque legacy. Most guidebooks will drone on…

I remember sitting on a crumbling limestone ledge near Vernazza, my knees stained with dust, watching a local farmer inspect a hairline fracture in a retaining wall. While the tourists were busy snapping wide-angle selfies of the colorful villages, I…

I was standing in a narrow carruggio in Camogli last Tuesday, squinting against the salt spray, when I saw it: a “restored” villa where the owner had replaced traditional lime-based pointing with a modern, grey cement grout. It was an…

I was standing under the shadow of the Via Santo Stefano arches last Tuesday, watching a tourist struggle to photograph a “scenic view” while completely ignoring the way the terracotta bricks were actually laid. It’s the same old story: people…

I was kneeling in the damp shade of a Bologna corner last Tuesday, my calipers out and my notebook getting ruined by the humidity, when I realized most people walk right past the very thing that makes these places breathe….

I was crouched in a damp, narrow calle near Cannaregio last Tuesday, my flashlight tracing the jagged interface where a foundation block meets the salt-slicked water. Most tourists walk right past these details, seeing only the shimmering reflection of the…

I remember standing on a half-submerged scaffolding near Cannaregio three years ago, the salt spray stinging my eyes and the smell of decaying organic matter thick enough to taste. Everyone around me was talking about the “miracle” of Venice, treating…

I was kneeling in the damp dirt outside a farmhouse near Merano last autumn, my fingers tracing the edge of a limestone lintel, when it hit me how much we get wrong. Most people visit this region and see a…