The Italy I Thought I Knew—And the Books That Proved There’s More
- Caesar Sedek
- 3 days ago
- 7 min read
Italy has been part of my bloodstream longer than most of my adult decisions. I spent childhood summers running around Italian piazzas while other kids were at summer camp. I lived in Rome long enough to understand that buses don’t run late—they run when they feel like it. I’ve crisscrossed the country from Puglia’s sunburned heel to the shadow of the Alps, hearing Italian morph from musical southern dialects to German-laced consonants that make you wonder if you crossed a border without noticing.
By now, I know the rhythms. I know the coffee rules. I know the cultural quirks that make you laugh one day and question your life choices the next. And like anyone who’s spent real time here, I developed that dangerous confidence; the feeling that I “get” Italy.
But here’s the humbling truth: no matter how much you think you know a place, other people’s experiences explode the edges of your understanding. Italy isn’t one story; it’s millions. And these books cracked open parts of the country I hadn’t lived myself. They showed me what it’s like to open a bank account in some sleepy corner of Lazio, or battle acqua alta in Venice while the power dies, or fall deeply, irrevocably in love with a tiny Le Marche village that doesn’t even make most maps.
That’s the beauty of these stories. They turn Italy from a country you’ve visited, or plan to move to, into a kaleidoscope of human moments. They make the familiar strange, the strange familiar, and the fantasy real enough to touch.
And they reminded me that Italy isn’t a backdrop—it’s a character. Complicated. Hilarious. Stubborn. Generous. Infuriating. Wonderful.
So here are the books that added color, honesty, and texture to my own Italy, books that don’t just romanticize the dream, but illuminate the reality.
I CAN’T BELIEVE WE LIVE HERE: The Wild But True Story of How We Dropped Everything in the States and Moved to Italy, Right Before the End of the World — Matt Walker & Zeneba Bowers
This was the first book I read when we started seriously talking about moving. The thing I loved most is that the Matt and Zen aren’t superhuman. They’re normal people figuring things out as they go—panicking sometimes, celebrating sometimes, learning constantly. They don’t pretend it’s easy, but they also don’t treat the hard parts like deal-breakers.
What stuck with me was the tone: “Yeah, it’s messy. Yeah, it’s confusing. But we’re doing it.” It made Italy feel less like a fantasy for other people and more like something real families can choose. It didn’t inspire me in some grand way—it just made the whole idea feel doable. And sometimes that’s the spark you need.
NAVIGATING PARADISE — Mark Hinshaw
Mark and his wife aren’t chasing the glossy, big-picture idea of “Italy.” They zero in on one town—a real, unpolished, everyday place—and let it shape them. He pays attention to tiny things most of us overlook: the morning greetings, the shopkeeper who notices your routine, the way a piazza slowly becomes the center of your day. It’s a quiet book, but it hits in a very real way. It makes the whole idea of moving feel less like relocating to a country and more like finding your own little ecosystem.
And here’s the funny part. One day I’m reading this book, thinking, “This guy gets it.” The next day, I’m in some Facebook thread talking about moving to Italy, and the person I’m chatting with turns out to be—surprise—the author. Fast-forward nine months, and we’ve somehow built this friendship/pen-pal thing where we trade thoughts, bounce ideas off each other, and check in like old neighbors. It’s one of those weird full-circle moments where a book stops being just a book and becomes part of your actual life.
That connection reinforced the book’s biggest message for me: Italy isn’t about the big, sweeping gestures. It’s about the small, specific relationships that sneak up on you and change everything.
LIVING IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE — Michael Tucker
Tucker lands in Umbria and ends up building his life through food. Not fancy food—just the everyday stuff: meals with neighbors, new recipes, shared bottles of wine, awkward conversations at the table. The big lesson isn’t “Italy is delicious.” It’s that connection happens slowly, one plate at a time.
This book shifted my idea of “settling in.” I’d always thought the real milestones were logistical—permits, paperwork, bank accounts. Tucker makes a quiet case that the real milestones are human. A regular café. A shared laugh. Someone calling you by name. It made the whole idea of moving to Italy feel less like a giant project and more like something that unfolds naturally if you show up, stay open, and don’t rush it.
HEAD OVER HEEL — Chris Harrison
What got me about this book wasn’t the love story—it was the slow, awkward, occasionally painful process of trying to fit into someone else’s country. Harrison shows up in Puglia thinking enthusiasm will carry him through. Instead, he hits the wall we all eventually hit: Italy doesn’t hand you the cheat codes. You’re going to mess up the language, misunderstand the family politics, and probably lose your sanity taking the driving test.
Reading it, I found myself nodding because it captures something honest: at first, Italy doesn’t make sense. And that’s normal. The book made me rethink the idea that “loving Italy” means instantly feeling at home. Sometimes loving Italy means feeling like an idiot for a while—and sticking around anyway. It was a good reminder that friction isn’t failure. It’s part of the process.
DOTTORESSA — Susan Levenstein
On the surface, this book is about healthcare in Italy. But really, it’s about how differently people approach life here. Levenstein walks into Italian medicine with a very American mindset: efficiency, privacy, procedures and finds herself in a world where half the family shows up for an appointment and bureaucracy is practically its own character.
What it changed for me was the way I think about systems. Instead of comparing everything to how it works in the U.S., the book nudged me to ask: “Why does it work this way here?” It made Italian healthcare feel less like a mysterious maze and more like a cultural expression: messy, funny, a little nuts, but ultimately caring. It chipped away at my instinct to judge and replaced it with curiosity.
ITALIAN NEIGHBORS — Tim Parks
Parks doesn’t romanticize anything. He’s not sipping wine on a terrace talking about sunsets. He’s dealing with neighbors who pop in uninvited, noise that never stops, and a level of community involvement that borders on surveillance. It’s basically a front-row seat to everyday Italian life without the Instagram filter.
This book quietly reset my expectations. I’d always pictured “peaceful Italian living” as quiet and slow. Parks reminds you that Italy is full of people: loud, opinionated, in-your-business people, and that’s part of the deal. It made me realize that moving here isn’t about disappearing into a postcard. It’s about becoming part of the chaos. In a weird way, that made the whole idea feel more real and more interesting.
THE VENICE EXPERIMENT — Barry Frangipane
Venice, in this book, is basically a beautiful disaster—and I mean that in the best way. Floods, fog, confusing streets, daily inconveniences but also charm, humor, and a kind of magic that only shows up when you stop trying to control everything.
The takeaway for me was simple: Italy is not one-size-fits-all. Regions are their own worlds. What feels impossible in one place might feel perfect in another. And inconvenience doesn’t mean something’s wrong. Sometimes it means you’re having an actual experience instead of a curated one.
THE DARK HEART OF ITALY — Tobias Jones
Jones dives into the parts of Italy most people never talk about: politics, corruption, media power plays, all the messy undercurrents that shaped the country in the late ’90s and early 2000s. And yeah, it’s dated. A lot has changed. Modern Italy isn’t the same landscape Jones was staring at back then. Some of the scandals he describes have faded, the political characters have rotated out, and the country has moved forward in plenty of ways.
But that’s actually what makes the book interesting now. Reading it feels a bit like looking at an X-ray of Italy before the country grew into the version we know today. You see the tension, the cracks, the frustrations—and then you look at how far things have come. The book doesn’t represent Italy now, but it gives context to the resilience baked into the culture.
In a weird way, it highlights one of Italy’s biggest strengths: the ability to reinvent, rebuild, and shake off its seedier chapters. A country that once felt weighed down by its own dysfunction has somehow become a beacon for people chasing a better, slower, more human life. The contrast makes today’s Italy feel even more hopeful.
So yes, it’s dated. But it’s also a reminder that beauty isn’t born from perfection—it’s born from progress.
Ready to Start Your Own Italy Story?
Look, my books aren’t memoirs of life in Italy—not yet, anyway. I’m not unpacking every memory of living in Rome, or the summers spent swimming off Ligurian beaches, or plates of suspicious frutti di mare my dad swore was “perfectly fine.” And honestly, I’m way too lazy right now to turn my childhood into a saga.
But here’s what my books do cover: how to take Italy from a daydream to an actual plan. The visas, the logistics, the money, the pitfalls, the timing—everything that turns “someday” into “we live here now.”
If these stories opened up the emotional side of Italy for you, my books will help you tackle the practical side.
In other words: they won’t tell you what it’s like to live in Italy.
They’ll help you get to Italy so you can find out for yourself.
If you’re ready to go from reading about the good life to building it—start here.
Your blueprint for making Italy real, one step (and one espresso) at a time.