I want to tell you about a man named Geppetto.
Not the Disney one. A real one.
I was 20 years old, spending a semester in Rome, and a group of us took a day trip to a town called Orvieto—this stunning hilltop city in Umbria, about an hour north of Rome.
We were wandering. No agenda. No itinerary. Just walking down side streets because that's what you do when you're 20 and everything feels like an adventure.
And then I heard it.
This... tapping. Rhythmic. Coming from somewhere below street level.
I followed the sound down a narrow alley, and there—through an open door, down a few worn stone steps—was a workshop.
It was chaos in the most beautiful way.
Wood shavings on the floor. Tools hanging from the walls. Strings and paint and half-finished faces staring out from every surface.
And in the middle of it all, an older man with sawdust in his hair, carving a puppet.
They called him Geppetto. I don't know if that was his real name or just what everyone called him because—I mean, of course they did. He made wooden puppets by hand. Marionettes. The kind with strings and jointed limbs and faces that somehow looked alive.
I stood in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. But he looked up, smiled, waved me in.
I don't remember exactly what we talked about. My Italian was terrible. His English wasn't much better.
But I remember the feeling—like I had stumbled into something real. Something that existed whether tourists showed up or not.
I bought a puppet that day. A small one. He signed my name on it—Amy—in tiny letters on the back.
I still have it.
Here's the part that gets me, even now.
A few months later, my parents came to visit me in Rome. And I wanted to take them to Orvieto.
I wanted them to see this town, this workshop, this man who had given me one of those moments you don't forget.
So we went back.
And when I walked through that door again—months later, one student among what must have been hundreds who wandered through—he looked up from his workbench.
And he remembered me.
Not in a "oh yes, I vaguely recall" way. He remembered. He asked about the puppet. Asked if I was still studying in Rome.
We talked—a real conversation this time (my Italian had gotten better), with my parents watching, probably wondering why their daughter was so emotional about a puppet shop.
But I wasn't emotional about the puppet.
I was emotional because I realized: this is it.
This is what I want travel to feel like. Not checking boxes. Not rushing through. But stumbling into someone's life's work and being seen. Being remembered. Becoming, even for a moment, part of a story bigger than your own.
That was over 30 years ago.
And I think about Geppetto all the time.
I think about him when I find the olive wood carver in Puglia, door open, sawdust floating in the afternoon light, thrilled that someone stopped to watch him work.
I think about him when I meet the alabaster sculptor in Volterra, down a back alley that most tourists walk right past on their way to the souvenir shops.
I think about him when I see travelers buying mass-produced "Italian" ceramics made in China, steps away from a fourth-generation potter who's wondering if his grandchildren will carry on the tradition.
Here's what breaks my heart:
Every year, more of these workshops close.
The artisans get older. The tourists get faster. The alleys get quieter.
And most travelers never even know what they're missing—because they're too busy racing to the next famous thing to hear the tapping coming from below street level.
This is why I do what I do.
Not just to help you plan logistics—though yes, I do that too.
But to help you travel in a way that lets you find the Geppettos. To build itineraries with enough breathing room that you can follow a sound down an alley.
To choose the small towns and the slow mornings and the unscheduled afternoons where magic actually happens.
Because the Italy that changed my life wasn't the Colosseum or the David or the view from the Spanish Steps.
It was a puppet maker in a basement workshop who signed his name on a piece of wood for a 20-year-old student who wandered in.
And who remembered her when she came back.
That's the Italy I want for you.
A presto,
P.S. If you're planning a trip for 2026 and want to make sure there's room for your own Geppetto moment, I'd love to help you find it. Let's plan your trip.