Thanksgiving in Tuscany: Why You Should Travel for the Holidays

Trick-or-treating is over for another year, cotton cobwebs and jack-o-lanterns are out by the curb, the last few colorful leaves are tumbling out of the trees, and the clouds and rain have shrouded Seattle in gloom. At times like this, I’m glad to have some happy memories of past travels.

A few years ago at this time, I was getting ready to head to Tuscany for Thanksgiving with my wife’s family. (I wrote a series of blog posts about the agriturismo we stayed at just outside of Pienza, and the many culturally enriching activities they arranged for us.) It was, without a doubt, the most memorable Thanksgiving of my life — and a reminder of why, much as we love our traditions, it’s important to break free from them every so often and spend the holidays in a new place.

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When I tell people I was in Tuscany for Thanksgiving, their first question is — with a note of concern — “Did you have turkey?”

Americans love their Thanksgiving dinner. And many of us simply can’t fathom counting our blessings without an oversized portion of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Our agriturismo host, Isabella, understands this, so very early in the planning stages she reassured her nervous American guests: “And of course we will celebrate Thanksgiving with a special Thanksgiving meal — one with a Tuscan twist.” Well, phew!

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In typically thoughtful fashion, Isabella had arranged a fantastic feast, which happened to be at one of my favorite restaurants in the region (Ristorante Daria, in the tiny hill town of Monticchiello). Months before, Isabella had conspired with the owner/chef, Daria, over a list of traditional Thanksgiving dishes. And the gang at the restaurant had come up with a delicious mashup of American and Tuscan.

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The first two courses were the most Tuscan, but cleverly informed by “our” Thanksgiving ingredients: a delicate pumpkin soufflé, topped with creamy pecorino cheese sauce and fresh-grated truffle. And a dish of pillowy sweet potato gnocchi, gently nestled in a subtle citrus cream. Both dishes were, at once, explosively flavorful and intensely comforting. I would not mind seeing either of these on my Thanksgiving table for many years to come.

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Then it was time for the main event. The waitstaff loaded all of the turkey onto a tray and ceremonially paraded it through the restaurant, like proud hunters with their kill. Then they took it back into the kitchen and re-emerged with beautiful — and very traditional — plates of turkey, green beans, Brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes…with, in a delicious Italian twist, a trickle of fresh-pressed olive oil.

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They also brought out some fantastic gravy and surprisingly traditional cranberry sauce. Daria explained that she’d asked some American friends to ship her some cranberries, which are completely unknown in Italy. (Pretend for a moment you’re an acclaimed Italian chef. And imagine your shock — and maybe disgust — upon taking your first-ever bite into a raw cranberry: an explosion of sour and astringent, wrapped in a tough little shell and infused with a blood-red dye. How on earth do Americans eat this stuff? The answer: Lots and lots and lots of sugar. Even on her first try, Daria nailed it.)

Sitting around the dinner table, watching Isabella’s family, and my family, enjoying an American-Italian hybrid dinner, was poignant. But it made me sad to think that people might pass up an idyllic week in off-season Tuscany with their families, just because of a fear that they may not get their turkey fix. Even if we’d missed out on the turkey, this week would have been totally worth it.

Holiday traditions are powerful. But keep open the option of busting out of your rut every so often. Risk not having turkey at Thanksgiving. Spend Christmas at a radish festival in Oaxaca instead of singing carols around a fir tree. Skip trick-or-treating in order to be in Slovenia the day after Halloween, when everybody in the country goes to the cemetery to decorate their family graves — in a touching celebration of generations past and present. Instead of dozing off watching another Detroit Lions blowout, drive around the French Quarter of New Orleans, handing out Thanksgiving leftovers to homeless people.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience all of those magical holidays, and never regretted what I was “missing out on.” If holidays are fundamentally about surrounding yourself with the people you care about, you can do that anywhere. Your traditions will always be there, back home, waiting for you…next year.

If you’d like some inspiration for experiencing Europe for the holidays — or anytime off-season — here’s a recap of some of the other wonderful experiences we enjoyed during Thanksgiving week in Tuscany:

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We stayed a full week at Agriturismo Cretaiole, perched on a ridge just outside of Pienza and wonderfully run by Isabella and Carlo. Carlo’s dad, Luciano, kept us well-lubricated with nightly doses of grappa and Vin Santo.

We experienced three entirely different — and equally enjoyable — cooking classes: preparing a blowout feast in an Italian mama’s house; shadowing a Michelin chef in his restaurant’s kitchen; and rolling our own pasta back home at our agriturismo.

We explored Montepulciano — my favorite Tuscan hill town — with its colorful cast of craftsmen.

We followed a talented dog as she sniffed out truffles in a primeval forest.

And, in general, we fully enjoyed being in the foodie paradise of Tuscany.

Finally, at the end of the week, we did a little “Black Friday” shopping in Tuscan hill towns, and enjoyed the first of Italy’s holiday lights.

All in all, we found that off-season is a wonderful time to travel in Italy. It’s mild but not cold, it’s less crowded than peak season, and it’s a great time to sample seasonal specialties most tourists never taste.

While you’re digesting your turkey this year, why not do a little daydreaming for next year? A cross-cultural holiday is something worth trying for anybody. Sure, you could miss the turkey, or the Santa suits…but you might just discover something even better.

Or maybe you already have. If you’ve enjoyed holiday experiences on the road, share your favorite memories in the Comments.

Alpine Arcades in Bolzano and Innsbruck

On my latest visit to the borderlands of Italy and Austria, hiking in the Dolomites was — of course — a highlight. But I also enjoyed exploring a pair of engaging and underrated cities: Bolzano, Italy, and Innsbruck, Austria. Separated by an easy drive, these twin cities offer different flavors of the urban Tirolean experience. And both have cozy arcades designed to protect pedestrians from the volatile elements.

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Bolzano sits on a linguistic cusp. Historically it was Austria. But after it became part of Italy at the end of World War I, Mussolini worked hard to Italianize the city. Today most people greet you in Italian, but a few stick to the German. Exploring the city, I make a game out of trying to sort out which of these two cultures fits the city best.

The city’s main square is cozy, tucked against foothills and with a colorfully tiled church. Enjoying this view, I eat the worst strudel I’ve ever had. (Italians may be amazing chefs, but strudel eludes them.)

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Poking through the shopping arcades, I pop out at a lively market street. The stalls are jammed with flowers, produce, and dozens of different variations on speck (the Dolomite answer to prosciutto).

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When all is said and done, the cityscape may look Germanic, but Bolzano’s vibrant colors, al fresco café culture, and spirited market hubbub are definitely Italian.

Heading out of town, I hop on the freeway. And in just two hours — following the same path as the ancient Via Claudia trade route through the Alps — it’s arrivederci, Italia. I’m in Innsbruck, Austria.

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I’ll admit that on past visits, I’ve had a bad attitude about Innsbruck. Among savvy travelers, the city is often written off as an overrated tourist trap. But sometimes when a place gets labeled “overrated” often enough, the bar gets lowered to the point that it starts to exceed expectations. And since my last visit, Innsbruck has gotten much more interesting. (Or maybe I’ve just gotten easier to please.)

I live by the travel rule that if you don’t like a place, you probably just don’t know enough about it. So for this visit, I join a walking tour of the town center. Getting past the touristy gauntlet that runs up the gut of Innsbruck’s old town, the guide introduces me to fascinating little corners of town — from churches slathered with Baroque illusions to artsy, cobbled back lanes.

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The first, last, and only name to remember here is Maximilian I — the Habsburg emperor who invested mightily in his favorite city (back when Innsbruck, rather than Vienna, was the capital of the Holy Roman Empire). In 1494, Maximilian built the Golden Roof, a protected perch glittering with 2,657 gilded copper tiles. It overlooks a posh shopping street lined with arcades…just like the ones in Bolzano. The roof glitters like the Swarovski crystal that’s made just up the valley. (Who knew? I always assumed it was Russian.)

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Another travel tip put to good use here: Crowded towns get sleepy after dark. And sure enough, as the sun drops behind the mountains and the sky turns a deep purple, I have Innsbruck’s floodlit cobbles all to myself. I wind up enjoying the best meal I’ve had in quite some time, at a hipster gastropub (Die Wilderin) that’s jam-packed with regulars despite its location, just a few steps from the postcard racks and tourist traps.

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In this part of Europe, the cutesy alpine villages get all of the attention. But sometimes it’s the hardworking regional capitals — like Bolzano and Innsbruck — that leave you with fond memories of urban charms. And unlike in the high-mountain pastures, if the weather turns bad, your trip isn’t ruined…you can just duck under those cozy arcades.

Hiking the Italian Alps with the Eisheiligen

I’m still in Italy — but only technically. In my mind, I’ve already crossed into Austria.

At Italy’s mountainous northern reaches is the region called Alto Adige — or, to many people who live here, Südtirol. That’s the southern part of the Tirol, a once-mighty alpine region now divided between Austria and Italy.

Traveling here, you’re constantly aware that you’re straddling a cultural and linguistic divide. Driving on the highway between Bolzano and Innsbruck, I pass alternating crops of grapes and hops. One town has fantastic pasta and rotten strudel, and the next town vice-versa.

The region is officially bilingual. In the big cities in the valley, most locals speak Italian first. But up in the mountains, people speak German in their homes and in their bones. As someone who speaks a bit of both languages, I find the place hopelessly confusing. It crosses my linguistic wires. I try to ask a restaurant, in German, which days of the week they’re open…and half the words come out in Italian. Montag, Dienstag, mercoledì, giovedì, Freitag, and the Wochenende. Sonntag aperto?

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My home base is in the pretty alpine village of Castelrotto — a.k.a. Kastelruth — with a gigantic bell tower that dwarfs everything around it. When I planned this trip, I knew that my timing was close to the very start of the season. And sure enough, to reach Castelrotto I have to drive through a frigid drizzle.

As I check into my hotel, the hotelier notices me shiver. “You’re here for the Eisheiligen,” she says sympathetically, using an unfamiliar German word that means, roughly, “The Ice Saints.” I ask her to explain. “We get nice, summery weather in late April, early May. But then, in mid-May, another jolt of winter hits for about a week. We call it the Eisheiligen. These are the feast days of some early Christian martyrs — and they bring along frigid weather.” She leans in close with a local gardening tip: “And you never put your flower boxes out until after the Eisheiligen. If you’re careless, the ‘Cold Sophie’ will kill them with her frost on May 15.”

I ask her how long this cold snap will last, and, with pinpoint precision, she promises that summer will return in two days. Sure enough, two days later, I wake up to glorious sunshine. (Even in our age of dual doppler radar and 15-day forecasts, sometimes the old folk wisdom is still the best way to predict the weather.)

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Greeting my only sunny day in the Dolomites, I make a beeline for the gondola up to the Alpe di Siusi (Seiser Alm in German). The lifts just started running yesterday, which makes me a little nervous. Nobody wants to be on the first gondola of the season. And sure enough, as I soar silently through the air to a high-mountain pasture, I keep hearing a rustling underfoot. Finally I figure out that a stowaway mouse is batting around a little ball of paper in the vents.

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Reaching the Alpe di Siusi, I find it swarming with early-bird hikers getting a head start on the summer. Aside from a few persistent snowbanks in shady gullies, the pasture is coming back to life. A few fields are even fuzzy with the earliest blossoms of miniature wildflowers. A month from now, it’ll be a Crayola wonderland. But today, on the heels of the Eisheiligen, it’s sunny and inviting…I’ll take it.

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The lifts to the upper trailheads aren’t quite running yet, so I ask around for tips. People suggest that I simply ride the bus to the other end of the pasture. So, in the shadow of the long ridge called the Schlern, I hop the bus and ride 15 minutes to a sweet little mountain hut, the Rauchhütte. A breathtaking panorama of the Alpe di Siusi’s twin peaks — Langkofel and Plattkofel — spreads out before me. It’s an unbelievably picturesque spot for a lunch and Apfelstrudel.

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The other tip for hiking on the Alpe di Siusi before the lifts are fully operational is simply to hike up to an upper lift station and follow the trail from there. With a typical European optimism, the tourist office told me it was about a 20-minute hike up to the Puflatsch lift station. Forty minutes of heart-pounding, near-vertical ascent later, I reach the station. Wondering whether it was worth the effort, I begin one of the most stunning hikes of my life — circling the perimeter of the Puflatsch plateau and along the “Witches’ Benches,” with 360 degrees of majestic alpine panoramas.

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So…yeah, it was worth the effort. And it was also worth the damp shoes from having to hike through a few melting snowbanks.

I wouldn’t necessarily advise trying to do summer hiking in the Dolomites before mid-May. The weather is just too iffy. But if you arrive with the Eisheiligen — like I did — you’ll be among the first hikers on the trails…and have this pristine alpine meadow all to yourself.

8 Photos of Backs-Streets Lucca — Tuscany’s Best-Kept Secret

In my last post, I was marveling at the miracle that Lucca isn’t mobbed with tourists. The traffic-free streets are urban canyons crammed with characteristic shops, eye-catching architectural details, and lots of bikes. I had a lot of fun here with my camera. Everywhere I looked, fascinating scenes filled my viewfinder. And to top things off, on my last night in town, I stumbled onto a stunning sunset. Here are 8 reasons why my latest visit to Lucca certainly won’t be my last.

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Why Isn’t Lucca Mobbed? (Not That I’m Complaining…)

Pedaling around the top of Lucca’s city wall-turned-city park, feeling the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, it occurs to me: This is why you travel.

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Another thought occurs to me: Where are all the tourists? Aside from a few well-behaved international families pedaling and strolling along with me, virtually everyone I see up here — and throughout the town — are locals.

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Lucca is a mid-sized city (of around 90,000 people) on the northwestern edge of Tuscany. It’s about a 30-minute drive or train ride from the tourist droves in Pisa. But somehow, Lucca has escaped everybody’s notice.

It’s not for lack of charm. Lucca is right up there on a list of most charming Tuscan cities. Frankly, great artwork aside, I’d rank it above Florence, and possibly even Siena.

And that’s probably Lucca’s secret: No world-class artwork. If there were a Michelangelo or a Leaning Tower here, Lucca would be an obligatory stop on the tourist circuit. But there isn’t…so it’s not.

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Lucca does have some gorgeous churches, and a few decent museums. But the city’s real draw is its everyday-ness. It’s a place still owned and operated by local people — not the tourist-industrial complex. It’s simply a delight to wander.

The big landmarks are the rampart park that surrounds the city center (you can bike all the way around in under a half-hour), a couple of piazzas with towering churches, and an oblong square that echoes the footprint of a Colosseum-like arena that once stood here.

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But the real joy of Lucca is simply wandering its streets. Despite its approximately regular grid plan, the city is a maze. I get lost here more than in any town in Italy. But maybe, subconsciously, that’s intentional — few places are more enjoyable to simply be lost.

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Every side street you pass is a perfect Tuscan tableau.

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And when you dine out on a square, it’s just you, a tasty dish of Tuscan pasta, and centuries of elegant good living.

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The last thing I want is to drive more people to Lucca. But the most obnoxious breed of tourists — the ones who won’t bother with a place unless it has a famous landmark or piece of art they can tick off their list — won’t bother coming here anyway. Everyone says that when they travel, they want to see a “real, untouristy” side of Europe. If you really mean it…then go to Lucca.