*The rolling hills of Casciana Alta in Tuscany.*

Before Poppyseed Wellness came to life, I spent the summer of 2022 living and working at a restaurant in Italy (Cantina Giuliano in Casciana Alto) — an experience that shaped how I think about food, work, and the rhythm of daily life.

These reflections were originally shared on my Instagram account during that time, and as I reread them now, I’m struck by how much they still resonate. Tuscany taught me about slowing down, finding joy in simplicity, and embracing imperfection — lessons that continue to guide me today. Below are the musings in their original written form.

Throwing Caution to the Wind

18 hours, 2 planes, 3 trains, and 3 car rides. I could get from DC to Seoul in less time than it took me to get to Tuscany. I may be a bit dramatic, but from the time I left home to the time I arrived in Pontedera — the nearest big (and big is being VERY generous) city to where I’m staying — took just over 18 hours. I don’t take that lightly. It took a lot for me to get here, and yet here I am, sitting in a courtyard that’s a patchwork of exposed brick, stucco, trellises, and vines snaking their way up the walls. It’s charming and rustic and quintessentially Tuscan.

I just set the tables ahead of the dinner rush (and rush in Italy means maybe 20 people). The smell of meat ragu is wafting from the kitchen. The flamboyant Italian chefs are chattering away and occasionally calling me in to help with this and that. After the long day of travel, I’ve just been taking it easy today — getting acclimated with the kitchens, meeting the staff, observing a pasta-making class, and catching up on emails.

My house, a three-minute walk from the restaurant, lacks wifi and service, so I take advantage of being at the restaurant to stay connected to the outside world. And speaking of my house, it has the bones to be a dream home. The views are breathtaking. Rolling hills, patchwork fields, vineyards, and the iconic cypress trees. If I lose my mind just enough, I could go all Under the Tuscan Sun and buy the place (and it is indeed for sale), turning it into a real beauty.

Living in a place such as this house will be a real test of my uber-clean, OCD-like preferences for living. There are charming aspects to the house aside from the views — my room overlooks the courtyard that faces the main street of town. As I lay in bed last night, I could hear the sounds of Italian men walking up and down the streets talking, occasional opera singing (I’m not kidding — how Italian is that?!), and a chiming clock marking the hour. I hope to find that clock during my time here. On the other hand, time really isn’t a concept here. It’s so laid-back and peaceful; time just doesn’t feel like a commodity the way it does in the U.S.

The Joy of Simplicity

Life here is simple. Boringly simple, really. People wake up, work in the fields, maybe have a coffee with friends before dinner, and go to sleep. For me, I wake up — sometimes at 7 a.m. and sometimes nearly 11 a.m. I go to the restaurant, bake and cook, sometimes take a walk, try to remember to eat a proper meal (you’d think I’d be better about that being in a restaurant all day), maybe watch an episode (finally got on the Inventing Anna bandwagon), and go to sleep. That’s life here. It’s as simple and routine as that.

But there’s something really beautiful in the simplicity of it. No one is driven by money or materialism, by keeping up with others, or living a grand life. People work to provide for their basic needs. They make enough to support their families and put food on the table, and maybe take a few days of vacation to a local beach. They don’t break their backs, but they also don’t expect others to provide for them. They are happy — it’s as simple as that.

I think foreigners, or maybe just I, have this grand view of Tuscany as wealthy and glamorous, but it’s the countryside. It’s rural, and like in most places, that means people tend to have less. People find joy in making good food and working hard, in spending time with their family, and in helping others. At times, I have to remind myself to check my stress at the door. There’s no place for the mundane worries of high-strung American life in the positive energy of the Tuscan kitchen.

It’s there that the guys create magic. Everything is a flavor bomb. It seems so simple what they’re making sometimes, but made from the heart, it’s really something special. When it’s late at night, the service is done, and I’m hungry, they don’t just tell me to take whatever food I see lying around for dinner — they prepare it for me as if I’m a paying customer. They care so much about their work and treat me so well. They are dream coworkers, and Eli, the winemaker and owner, is the dream boss.

I’m not saying I’m ready to give up my more active and perhaps exciting life back in America, but there are many lessons to be taken from this way of life.

Real Hard Work

I came to Italy with no expectations. I knew it was what I wanted to do, but I figured it would be a bomb or a real bust. So far, we’re on track for the former. What’s really taken me by surprise is how hard it is. Not in a bad way at all — I’ve just never really done anything like it. I’ve never worked 12+ hour days, on my feet, doing real manual labor.

My first job was the one I took out of grad school (no disrespect to my Gan Izzy counselor days). I never waitressed or worked in a store or took any job that one might do before starting in their chosen profession. I will be eternally grateful to my parents that I never had to. Part of me, however, does see the value in that kind of work at some point in life. It teaches grit and respect for people in the service industry — those who are there either by choice or because those are the opportunities available to them.

It’s appalling to see how some of the visitors to the restaurant treat my coworkers (I’m looking at you, fellow Americans). We all can do better and treat everyone with dignity, regardless of what they do for a living.

In other news, I paid the Queen a visit this past weekend. Well, not really, but as good as. I went to my pseudo-home country of England and spent Shavuos at friends’ in London. It was a wonderful visit marked by Jubilee weekend (long live HRM — also a woman who knows all about real hard work), a visit to my favorite restaurant, and best of all, getting to celebrate my step-grandmother’s birthday and recent engagement with her!

Minor Annoyances

I wouldn’t be genuine in my account of this experience if I didn’t address the more annoying aspects of life here. For starters, my legs look like they’ve been eaten alive by mosquitoes. I thought I was escaping the swamp-like summer of Maryland by decamping in Italy for a month, but turns out, this place is a swamp too. It may be worse here, actually.

Or the fact that basically everything is fried. Whoever first thought to dump food into a pot of sizzling oil is a genius, but also the devil. It turns anything into a hyper-palatable delicacy while also wreaking havoc on your digestive system. What can a girl do to get an apple around here?! Turns out, really not a whole lot. It’s not in season, therefore, they don’t eat it.

I take for granted my daily apple in commercialized America, but here, I’m eating a ton of cherries because they grow on trees like a weed. I can’t complain, though — freshly picked cherries are divine. A salad, though? Forget about it. I salvaged some heads of iceberg lettuce that were headed for the trash, and I’m rationing them to get me through my remaining weeks here.

For my mask haters out there (no judgment, I’m one too), you think it’s bad in America? Come to Italy, where not only do they force you to wear masks on all public transport, but they insist it must be a KN95. Some kind stranger gave me a spare she had just bought as I waited to board the plane here, and it’s served me ever since. If you’re not wearing the proper mask, some lovely fellow Italian passenger will take the liberty of ratting you out to an official who then insists you wear the suffocation device in 90-degree heat. I can’t complain — for the most part, Italians are very lovely people.

Aging Well

This 94-year-old Nonna is a beast. Her schiacciata (Tuscan focaccia) is by far the best bread I’ve ever had — and I’ve had a lot of great bread. She hand-kneaded 5 lbs of dough herself and baked it in a bread oven in her backyard. May we all have her strength, tenacity, and stamina at 94.

The beauty of Italy isn’t only in its landscapes or food; it’s in its pace, its people, and its unwavering connection to the present moment. Those lessons continue to shape how I approach wellness, creativity, and joy — long after leaving Tuscany.

XO,