The Italy Files: Part 3
Maybe I’ve worried you. Perhaps you’ve begun to fear that this Italy trip was a bust. Well, fear not! The next two days restored our faith in Italy’s magic and the warmth and hospitality of its people. These were the days we spent at the farmhouse inn Il Casato, the most peaceful, welcoming and scenic spot on our journey.


The place is set back about a mile from the main road in a lush valley of vineyards, fields and forested hills. From the door of our room, we could see the Appennini, still tinged with snow, in the far distance. Cherry trees dangled their brilliant sweets just outside our window. It was like we had stepped into one of those Renaissance paintings we saw in Urbino's Palazzo Ducale.

There were several times I couldn’t believe my eyes for all the fairytale beauty of the place. Like the time I looked across to the next hill and saw a herd of horses in a wild gallop on the ridge. Or the sunset that streaked the sky with the most vibrant shades of pink and blue. Or the night we were out walking and spotted a field full of fireflies, or “lucciole” in Italian. How sweet is that word?

While the landscape was stunning, what made Il Casato so delightful were Mario and Mara, the husband wife team that own and run the place. From the moment we drove up, Mario was laughing and teasing us about the BMW. “Where is everyone else?” he asked. “That car is big enough for seven people!” Mario was our buddy from the start, always joking and telling stories.

That afternoon, after a nice long walk, we ate ourselves silly in Il Casato’s rustic, homey dining room. It was the full-meal deal - appetizers, a pasta course, a meat dish and a non-stop supply of Mario’s marvelous Verdicchio, a white wine made from the grapes of his family’s vineyard. Claudia and I drank a bottle each in one sitting, which is why I can’t recall more details about the food other than it was really yummy.

In between courses, we got to exercise our Italian with Mario, who brought out each new dish and kept the wine flowing. A big group of Italians at the next table were celebrating a wedding and made sure Claudia and I got a piece of cake and a glass of champagne. As we all toasted to the newlyweds, Claudia and I exchanged looks of joy and relief. We had escaped the American ghetto.

Over the course of the next day and a half, Mario was the supreme host, always welcoming new guests and brimming with a passion for his land that was absolutely contagious. He took Claudia and I on a tour of his vineyard and showed us the natural spring where he and his neighbors collect fresh drinking water, filling a big bottle for us.

The next night after dinner, Claudia and I, an American couple who were also guests at the farmhouse and a kid who helped out around the place all jumped in Mario’s car and went into town for gelato. Mario said he knew where to get the best gelato for miles, made by hand not in a factory. Sure enough, the place was packed with people at 11:00 PM. Mario made sure we all put in our orders and then insisted on paying for the whole group. Licking my spoon and being nudged along by Mario, I felt like I was about 15 years old.

We lingered outside the gelateria with our creamy treats along with a dozen or so locals, who were all chatty and sitting on eachother’s laps. That was also the night we saw le lucciole, and I was once again intoxicated with Italy.