MY FUTURE HOME: TUSCANY
Let me be clear right out of the gate: I love America. But lately, I’ve been fantasizing about cheating on her with a crumbling stone house in Tuscany. One of those one-euro fixer-uppers. You’ve seen the stories—some sun-soaked hill town practically giving away homes to anyone willing to patch the roof and keep the espresso hot. It’s equal parts romantic and ridiculous, which, frankly, sounds like a pretty healthy upgrade from our current political climate. And no, this isn’t some dramatic expat manifesto. I’m not fleeing to a mountaintop with a generator and a buck knife. I’m just saying… if the United States is going to keep flirting with fascism, maybe I’d rather be sipping Chianti on a broken terrace while it happens.
The thing about Italy that you can’t dispute is that the wine is better. Of course, the leadership is every bit as questionable as our own—but it’s less loud. There’s something deeply unsettling about the level of noise here. We’ve got cable news shouting matches, algorithm-fueled outrage, and elected officials cosplaying as revolutionaries in cargo pants. Every conversation now feels like a referendum on someone else’s mental health. In Tuscany? They argue, sure. But then they take a three-hour lunch, drink a liter of something red, and go prune the olive trees. It’s not apathy—it’s perspective. And I’m finding myself increasingly hungry for that kind of wisdom. And pasta. Mostly pasta.
It's not all about politics. I’m practically apolitical. There’s an entire life raft of perfectly sound reasons supporting my argument.
No sulfites in the wine. That’s right. You can drink red without feeling like you were beaten with a rake the next morning.
The pasta has soul. It’s not mass-produced or gluten-anxious. It’s made by someone’s grandmother who’s been rolling tagliatelle since Mussolini fell.
Fresh rosemary everywhere. Seriously. It grows like a weed. You don’t even need a garden—just walk outside and grab a sprig for your Negroni.
You can disappear in style. Nobody’s checking your credit score or yelling about immigration policy. They’re too busy living.
I’m not giving up on America. I still believe in the promise of it, buried somewhere beneath the pundits and performative patriotism. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little disillusioned. We’ve weaponized common sense. We’re suspicious of smart people. And somewhere along the way, we decided that cruelty was a form of strength. So, maybe I just need a break. Some crumbling walls. A wood-fired stove. A town that shuts down at noon to nap and reheat the lasagna. Somewhere slower. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere with better tomatoes.
Don’t worry—I’ll keep doing the work. Writing the words. Helping good companies say things worth hearing. But, if someday soon you get my out-of-office and it says something about a stone house with questionable plumbing and a Mediterranean diet immersion program… well, now you’ll know why. Wi-Fi works just fine in Tuscany. And espresso is non-negotiable.
America, I love you. But Tuscany’s making a pretty compelling case.
Tom Ostrom
