Here are six things I’ll do differently this time:

Pack Very Light: There is no easy way to carry, wheel or otherwise convey luggage through Italy, especially once you’re going to rural places. Streets are tight and uneven; train steps are high and difficult; taxis are hard to flag. The only way to do it with grace is to adopt the European custom of wearing your clothes more than once, and taking refuge in an excellent attitude, rather than several pairs of boots.

Double-check the Train Schedule, Seat Assignments and Car Class: There are two Italian women I’ll never forget, though I’m sure they’ve forgotten me. One was a TrenItalian conduttore who had to tell me twice in two different train cars that I had a second-class ticket but was sitting in a first-class car; the other was a surprised little old lady who found me sitting in her seat because I bought a ticket for the wrong day. I maintained I was right and she was wrong. I wasn’t; she was; I am eternally shamed.

Don’t Fear the Farmacia: Being a New Yorker, I expect my health and beauty aid store to be self-serve, along the lines of Duane Reade. Not the case in Italy. However, there’s no reason to fear announcing my symptoms to the white-coated humans who staff my local Farmacia. Everyone does it, and since symptoms have Latin names, they’re pretty much cognates. That said, I’m completely buying a wealth of Claritin, Dramamine and Pepto to bring with me. Which I also didn’t do the first time.

Use Fed Ex for Shipping: When I left Italy last June, I shipped via Italian Air Mail all my winter clothes: two AllSaints knit garments, a winter coat, a pair of boots, a black cashmere sweater, a vintage leather jacket, and a vintage fox collar. The Italian Postal Service “lost” my box. This time, if I ship anything, I’m using a private carrier. I’m consoling myself that somewhere in Italy, a woman is enjoying my very good taste.

Turn Off the Roaming on the iPhone: Stupidly, I didn’t. I got a $1,880.68 phone bill (I bargained it down, but still). Never, ever, ever, again.

Risk the Tongue: I went to Italy not speaking a word of Italian. By the end of my four months there, I found capisco abbastanza bene ma non parlo bene. Which is to say that I could understand well enough, but I couldn’t speak well. Mostly that was because I would refuse to speak. I found my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth in fear. This time, I’m going to talk, even if I talk poorly. The only thing I can do is learn from my mistakes.

And One Thing I did Right: Get lost. There’s nothing like finding yourself in places you’ve never been with no idea how you got there and no clear idea how you’ll get back for making you feel like a new person. I may use a map to journey from town to city and back again, but I love wandering around a city without one. Every itinerary predestines your experience. I like my experiences without mediation, at least most of the time. Maps are for tourists. Why tour life when you can live it?

One thing about Italy: it’s not a grid. It’s insane troll logic. And the only thing you can do is to let go of your Gothamite grid and get good and lost. It’s a beautiful thing, really. I got lost in Genova, Milano, Venezia and Roma, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. I even gotten lost in Bolgheri, but that’s so small there’s hardly any thrill in it.

You see, when you’re walking around in cities that are older than old, you are walking around in a city that’s cooler than cool. Every time you turn a corner, you find something new and by “something new,” I mean something old. It’s a crazy, gorgeous, wacky beautiful world, this smashing of chronology, and it’s mind-blowing.

In Rome, I spent five hours walking around  with not much more to go on than a small map and a smaller Italian vocabulary. I saw the old city of Rome; I saw the Coliseum. I saw how Romans use Circo Massimo as a dog run. I saw graffiti old and new. I took pictures of Roman “centurions” smoking. I saw ruins and ruins and ruins. I saw many ruins, all of them wondrous. I saw stores upon stores filled with things that I would buy had I all the money in the world.

At some point, I walked out of a church and a girl selling tickets to the opera saw me. She sold me a ticket. Later that night, I saw La Traviata at the only Episcopalian church in Roma. I’ve no idea how I got to that piazza where this woman found me. I was lost.

I stumbled my way to the Trevi Fountain, and while I was there, I saw a tiny plaque advertising the Museum of Keats, Shelley and Byron. I saw the bed where John Keats died. I saw the view out of Keats’ window, and it was a very good view, indeed. I saw museums and churches I couldn’t begin to name, and I walked down tiny little alleys. I saw a pizza place (“non focaccia,” its sign said quite pointedly) filled with Italians. In my tiny vocabulary, I bought pizza. I stood outside with a bunch of hungry Italians, all of us clutching in our hands the best pizza, unassumingly wrapped in brown paper, eating almost silently. I’ve said it before: food is serious business in Italy.

I walked some more; I crossed a bridge. I sat down on the steps of something and read my tiny map, realized I was definitely on the wrong side of the river, and I crossed back. I got, in short, good and lost. And when I felt as if I could get no more lost, I bellied up to a coffee bar and asked where to find a taxi. I drank my espresso, thanked the barrista, wandered around the corner, saw some important gleaming white building thronged with people on one side, ruins on the other, and I hopped a cab.

As it turns out, I wasn’t that lost. I was only about seven minutes away from my hotel. Amazing, that.

I still maintain the best thing you can do is to go out and get lost. You find yourself when you’re lost. Everywhere you go, there you are.

I’m beginning to see that he was right.

For about a month after returning to New York City, I suffered intense culture shock. Everything seemed strange and alien, and not in an interesting way. The city that I had loved for over twenty years seemed to have lost its charm; I felt like a stranger in an estranged land. Now back almost two months, I’m no longer feeling that shock that comes from a profound sense of loss. Rather, I’m feeling nostalgia for Italy, and both Italy and my warm and fuzzy feelings for it have been popping up in multiple ways.

First, I’m reading Eat, Pray, Love, which if nothing else articulates the vitality, the weirdness and the beauty of Italian (though less that of Rome, at least in my experience).  Anyone who knows me would be surprised by this development. I’m not the kind of gal who gravitates to reading fare that sits in the aisle marked “Chick Lit.” I can only chalk it up to extreme nostalgia for the land I left seven weeks ago.

Less surprising is my gravitating toward Italian foods, or not so much food but Italian methods of eating and drinking, or not so much methods as Italian protocol. I have, for example, abandoned my French press in favor of my new espresso maker, and I now drink many little cups throughout the day (though I still can’t give up adding a spot of milk). I chew on licorice root as breath freshener and when I want a sweet snack. I buy hideously expensive olive oil, fresh sheep ricotta, and Parmigiano Reggiano, because a house is incomplete without those items. I shop a lot more frequently, especially at farmer’s markets. I eat dinner later, breakfast earlier, and more mindfully.

Cocktails always have appetizers with them. Wine always has food. There is also more wine. Fortunately, I have a job that supports that change. I feel bad for those who return from Italy and can’t indulge their wine wants as they’d like.

It’s weird, though. Here I am in the greatest city in the world in the middle of a sweet, sweet summer, one that has been filled with spending beautiful blue-sky days and twilight filled nights with my friends and my family, and I’m dreaming and scheming madly about when I can get back to Italy.

Not soon enough, I find, an answer that both my friend and many of you probably have heard in your own heads.

Montalcino dreamin’, on such a summer’s day.

As a writer and a misanthrope, I spend much of my time alone, brooding, typing and occasionally, writing. But this past summer, I’ve been unusually social. I attended dinners, parties and weekends away, all pleasant obligations that require me to purchase and proffer a bottle or six of wine. This past summer, the social summer of 2010, has been defined by two specific bottles of wine: Di Conciliis Falanghina 2008 and Valle Dell’Acate Il Frappato 2008.

Neither of these bottles is particularly chic—they both come from southern Italy, areas windswept and arid, not lush, romantic regions like Toscana and Piemonte—so I wasn’t buying to impress a wine snob. They’re not expensive; both retail in the low $20 range. They’re not crafted from well-known varieties; rather, both Falanghina and Frappato are little-known indigenous grapes. They’re not big, fruity, international wines; some people might not easily understand either bottle. Not endowed with the qualities given to most hostess gift wines, the wines I chose are small, delightful, slightly eccentric and cheap—and I love them.

I’m not very good at describing wine in customary wine discourse. I could say that the white Falanghina has a white peach and lychee palate and a bouncy acidity or that the red Frappato has a lovely bright cherry color, a nose of raspberries and a charming, lissome body, but I’d sound disingenuous. That’s not how I think of these wines. It’s now how I remember them, and it’s not why I cart them by the case out to Fire Island.

Instead, I’d say this: the Falanghina always reminds me of a really pretty girl who is a lot snarkier and smarter than you first thought, and the Frappato always makes me think of eating berries on Central Park’s Great Lawn with the love of my life.  Regardless of how I think of the wines—with analogies to fruit and flowers or in metaphors of people and experiences—I’ve enjoyed spending time with these wines, and I’ve liked them enough to introduce them to the people I love.

Summer is ending, and even a curmudgeon like me starts to feel nostalgic. My nostalgia too has become embodied in these bottles. Though the Falanghina may have begun in Campania and the Frappato in Sicilia, they’ve become forever attached to my summer here in Manhattan, on Fire Island and in Vermont. Though they’re wines, they feel like friends. I’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Soon, I’ll be journeying to Sicilia and to the rest of Italy. In the meantime, I’m exploring Sicilia right here at home via the region’s most important red grape, and varietal wine: Nero d’Avola. Whenever I scan a wine list or find myself in an interesting wine shop, I look for Nero. Nero is fast becoming a wine that I know I’ll enjoy. Often compared to Shiraz, it’s dark and full of plums, peppers and silky tannins. Even more wonderful, it’s always modestly priced and it’s an easy fit with most dishes. Moreover, this varietal holds a special connection for me. I recently grabbed two glasses of Nero at nearby NYC wine bar, Bar Veloce, and tried one of IWM’s own Nero-Merlot blends, Buceci. It was delicious, and drinking it, I dreamed of Sicilia, the lands as I imagine them, and my ancestors.

My grandfather passed away in 1998, but his love of wine lingers. I feel fortunate that he took the time to infuse me with his love of wine; it’s something I’ve held onto until this day. My grandfather and I were close, so I feel lucky that there’s still some family in Sicilia, whom I never really got to know because I grew up in New York. One day soon I’ll search for my Marinos, sit down with them over some granitas, or other Sicilian dishes, and some glasses of smooth Nero d’Avola. We can drink, eat, and catch up. It’s been awhile.

I’m going to go on exploring more wines, but I’ll always make sure I throw Nero d’Avola in the mix, for grandpa. It reminds me of him and of my roots.

During my one-year stay in Italy, I learned about the wines of Liguria.  I’d heard that Cinque Terre was a scenic place on the coast of Liguria, and I made it a point to go see the land, drink the wine, eat the food and talk with the people.  Cinque Terre means “Five Lands,” and indeed there are five villages that make up the region: Corniglia, Vernazza, Monterosso al Mare, Manarola and Riomaggiore.  Cinque Terre, the epicenter of Liguria, is best known by its coastal mountainous trail that can be several hundreds of meters high, and when walking, you’ve nothing but some wires to prevent you from falling to the rocky ocean bottom. This is why you must leave the wine drinking until after the hike.

Many vineyards in Liguria are literally chiseled out of the coastal mountains and rest precariously on terraces.  Heat radiates off the rocks and adds extra ripeness to the grapes, something that would not normally be achievable in these higher climes. Not only are these vineyards on steep slopes that allow for good drainage, but they also benefit from cool sea breezes that provide air circulation, which keeps the grapes dry and prevents molds and other forms of rot from developing. The refreshing, cool nights near the coast help the grapes retain their natural acidity, and the proximity to the sea can impart a savory quality to the wines. The region’s dominant white grape varieties, Pigato and Vermentino, thrive in these conditions, and while they’re often considered the same variety, they do portray different flavor profiles.

July is a pretty hot time of year in Italy, and it was exceptionally hot when we decided to go to Liguria. The sun’s rays reflect off the rocks and radiate outward. The heat is good for the grapes, but it’s not that good for me.  All I could think about was getting to the next town to sample some of the local food and wine.  Thankfully, some clouds came rolling through and showered us with rejuvenating rain. This, however, made the rocky walking surface slippery and slightly more fun.  I made it safely from the southernmost town, Riomaggiore, past the second town of Manarola and then into Corniglia.  This is not as simple as it sounds as there were close to 400 hundred zigzagging steps needed to get into Corneglia. Still, I made it safely.

After the climb, it was definitely time for food and wine. I found a restaurant with a good view and a nice wine list.  I ordered some crudo that consisted of raw local fishes.  I don’t remember the types of fish, but they were awesome with the house white. The light, refreshing and crisp character of the wine was a perfect complement to the delicate flavors of the crudo. Next I had Pesto Genovese; Genova is the Capital of Liguria and this basil infused dish is everywhere.  I paired this dish with a Pigato from one of the local producers.  The wine’s savory, fresh character and aromatic profile played up both the freshness and the aromas of the pesto. This Pigato also paired well with the main course, an assortment of seafood that included mussels, clams, calamari and prawns lightly poached in a simple garlic and parsley broth.

After a white-wine-and-seafood fest I needed something sweet. Fortunately, Liguria makes a dessert wine that is unheard of—unless you’ve been to Liguria and have tasted it. This beloved artisanal wine is called Sciacchetrà, and it’s both rare and expensive. This sweet wine from Cinque Terre is composed of several indigenous white varieties that include Bosco, Vermentino and Albaroa. The grapes are hand-harvested and left to dry in cool ventilated area until the proper dehydration level is reached. Then, the grapes are de-stemmed and crushed. The must is fermented until the wine contains about 14 percent alcohol, leaving residual sugar and a refreshing vein of acidity. Not cloying sweet like many dessert wines, this wine retains its acidic backbone due to the region’s bracing terroir.

After walking three towns and eating a big dinner, I decided that the best route out of Cinque Terre and back to Florence was by train.  I didn’t have the energy to hike another two towns, but my mission was accomplished, and I was more than satisfied. Visiting the region, I learned that the wines, the food, and the land of Liguria are not to be missed. The heat, the light, the ocean breezes all converge to create Liguria, and my memory of the place remains tied to the region’s exceptional wines.

Given Brunello’s recent spate of press, I thought it might be a good time to look at this wine a little more closely. Sangiovese Grosso, a superior clone of Sangiovese, produces Brunello di Montalcino, one of Italy’s most lovely and prestigious red wines. The towns of Montalcino enjoy warmer, drier air than other regions of Chianti, and the open, surrounding countryside offers both ideal ventilation and cool nights. And these characteristics allow Brunello, or in English the “little dark one” because of the grape’s brown hue, to fully ripen and produce the wine’s fuller, richer taste.

Brunello has a serendipitous, even scattershot history. Though Ferruccio Biondi-Santi produced the first Brunello vintage in 1888, the wine really had a halting, sporadic start. There were only four vintages—1888, 1891, 1925, and 1945—declared in the first 57 years of production, and by 1960, there were only eleven total producers. So by the time the region had its boom of vineyard restoration in the 1970s and 1980s, the wine’s rarity had led to both higher prices and a veil of mystery and prestige.

But Brunello’s more recent history is what might spark slightly heated discussions around a wine lover’s table. As production has increased over the last few decades, Brunello’s traditional winemaking process has changed quite a bit. Traditionally, and as late as 1989, Brunello had a minimum cask ageing of 42 months, in addition to bottle ageing. But the cask ageing regulations have been almost halved in the last decade and now stand at 24 months. This lower ageing minimum mixed with Brunello’s popularity has fed an increase in the use of barriques (small oak barrels), which results in the more standardized, uniform taste that traditionalists frown upon.

So where does this leave all of us, in terms of selecting a bottle of Brunello? A wine, we should remember, can be modern in its ageing process and still retain its traditional sense of place, or the characteristics it draws from its particular soil and climate. You can take the wine out of Montalcino, but you can’t take the Montalcino out of the wine.

With over 230 Brunello producers today, the region requires that you need to know not only the region, but also the producer. Whatever your preferred style may be, without question you have options, and they’re worth exploring. However, I tend to the traditionalists, so some of my favorite producers still remain unchanged. I’ll try other Brunellos, but my heart will always belong to Biondi-Santi and Soldera.

The first I reached for was the 1999 Palari Faro, a Nerello Mascalese and Nerello Cappuccio blend from Sicily.  Still deeply colored, the nose was fairly closed until it woke up after half an hour in the decanter and showed dried plums, dusty earth and spice rack deliciousness.  Then I popped the 1997 Castell’in Villa Chianti Classico Riserva. The warmth and concentration of the red cherry fruit so typical of Sangiovese impressed me. This was the most fruit driven of the wines, something I’d expect from a warm and sunny year, and I was surprised how the usually sandy tannins of Sangiovese were so ripe and well-integrated.

Then there was the 1998 Fanti San Filippo Brunello di Montalcino that I took to Apiary last Monday (check out their corkage fee-free Monday nights!).  No brick notes had edged into the rim, and the aromas were just giving up the first whiffs of development with leather and dried leaf.  Comparing the 1997 to 1998 Tuscan wines, I still prefer the more reserved 1998s.

Finally, there was the stately 1998 Rocche dei Manzoni Barolo Cappella Santo Stefano.  This is a wine I carried back from my visit to the winery in 2002, when I hauled the original wooden case right past the customs officials. This single-vineyard Barolo was probably the most promising of them all, yet it is still reticent to express all its aromatic nuances and its firm tannins have yet to fully meld into the structure. I think I’ll put the rest of these bottles at the back of the fridge and forget them for four or five years.

The reward of cellaring has paid off so far, though I admit it’s tough to resist the temptation to fill up the space I’ve freed up in my storage.  Still, I think I hear some 2005 Barbaresco clamoring. Nature abhors a vacuum—it’s only space, and I might as well fill it.

Our sommelier was surprised and said that he loved the wine but he had to coax clients to try it and wanted to know how I knew it.  (Of course it is available at Italian Wine Merchants!).   As my friends and I were well into the bottle, a group of well-dressed clients who looked like they just walked off of Via Montenapoleone came into the restaurant. They were led by a tanned, good-looking, charismatic gentleman.  My friend Rick said, “Who is that? I recognize that face.”

“It’s Valentino,” I answered. I’d know that face anywhere; Valentino is one of my fashion idols.

As Valentino’s group grew, settled into their evening, and began emptying bottles, I said to our sommelier, “OK, I have to know what wine Valentino is drinking.”  He rolled his eyes and told me I would be unimpressed because Valentino asked him for a light Chianti.  The sommelier showed me Valentino’s choice: a bottle of Castello di Selvole Chianti Classico 2006.   But I knew something the sommelier didn’t. Rather than being scornful, I was impressed that Valentino chose what most Italians would drink at home—something from the territorio they know, something inexpensive, and something that goes well with a good meal they’re sharing with good friends.