Inside Italy Journal:
Insights for Life, Culture & Living

Espresso isn’t a drink. Espresso is a shot. You walk in, say a word, two quick moves behind the counter – and it’s on the bar. Two sips, maybe three, and you’re gone. No Instagram foam art, no paper cup to-go, no small talk. Just caffeine, straight to the point. And of course: the real espresso is consumed in the bar. In Italy, a bar isn’t a cocktail lounge – it’s the mother of espresso, where the ritual was born and still lives. Everything else is just an imitation. And ther

Sometimes a single person carries the story of an entire region. Giacomo is one of them. At 74, he still lives in his family’s small stone house on the slopes of Monte Baldo. And when you meet him, you realise quickly: this man isn’t just a farmer in the modern sense – he is part of his chestnut groves, just as the trees are part of his own story. “Every tree here is like a friend,” he says, tapping the bark with his stick. And he means it. He knows them all – their moods, th

Everyone talks about the dream: a house framed by a cypress-lined avenue, endless sunshine, a slice of la dolce vita . Sounds perfect. But nobody tells you what it really costs – and not just in euros. Heating bills Yes, heating – in Italy! Anyone who thinks you don’t need it has never tried to survive an Italian stone house in January. Those thick walls keep out the summer heat, but in winter they turn into a fridge. The result: shocking energy bills or a mountain of firewo

At first glance, houses in Italy look like a dream. Stone walls, olive trees, lake views – and sometimes all for a surprisingly low price. But what looks like a bargain online can quickly turn into a complicated project. Buying a house here isn’t just about taste. It ’s about structure, paperwork, history – and knowing what you’re getting into. Let’s talk about the usual suspects. Many properties come with unapproved extensions – so called " abusivi" . If you buy them, you ta

I live in one of those places that are hard to explain unless you’ve experienced them. No main square, no piazza, no bar with an espresso machine clattering at 7 a.m. Just a few houses, spread across three inner courtyards – cortili – and small narrow paths that lead both somewhere and nowhere. That’s the village. Nothing more. And somehow everything. At first, it feels quiet. You  assume no one’s watching. No  one looks at you, no one says much. But after a few weeks, every

People move here with all kinds of expectations. Good food.Better weather.Maybe even a life that finally feels right. What no one really tells you: Italian paperwork is its own chapter. One  without a table of contents. Your first contact with the system isn’t dramatic. It’s just... slow. You queue up, fill out forms that officially don’t exist online, and get told the office is only open Mondays until noon – except today. Codice Fiscale The Italian tax ID. Should take ten mi

You came for the Dolce Vita. Sun on your face, pasta in your belly, a photo with an Aperol spritz – that was the plan.You told your friends: “ I’m starting over .” Now it’s been three weeks – and the Wi-Fi still doesn’t work.You ’ve been to the post office four times and each one felt like a social experiment. You need a tax number just to exist. Six photocopies of your passport – for what, exactly?And everyone takes a break right when you show up. Italy isn’t rolling out a

If you imagine a beach day in Italy as quiet waves, white towels, and minimal noise... you’ve never been to a real Italian beach. And honestly? You’re missing out. Because the beach in Italy isn’t just a place to tan – it’s a full-blown cultural experience. Families chatting loudly under colorful umbrellas, kids building castles and kicking footballs, nonnas unpacking enough food to feed a village, and somewhere, Eros Ramazzotti playing from a Bluetooth speaker. The rows of s

I’ll admit it: when I first came to Italy, I was that person. The one with the detailed to-do list, strict deadlines, five tabs open at once. Everything had to be fast, efficient, and under control. In Italy? That mindset doesn’t stand a chance. And honestly – that’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Italy slowed me down. Not through a mindfulness retreat or a self-care workshop – but through life itself . In Italy, you wait. For the postman. For the plumber. For the

They’re everywhere in Italy. On sun-warmed stone steps, weaving through café tables, stretched across the hood of a Fiat like they own it (because, frankly, they do). They’re not just strays — they’re part of the rhythm, the spirit, the scenery. Italian street cats aren’t looking for a home. They are home. To themselves. To the town. To that little slice of curb outside the bakery where they sunbathe every morning at 10:15 sharp. They come with attitude. The scruffy old tabb