I’d sort of left you hanging there last month in Bologna, didn’t I? Sorry about that.

It was just that the days that followed seemed a little too improbable, a little too magical to find words for. But when friends have asked in the ensuing weeks how my Italian sojourn was, I seem to spend all my time describing those last few magical days. I pull out my phone and try to recreate the magic of disappearing into an ancient little hamlet in the hills above Bologna, into the company of an improbable, impromptu troupe of magicians, musicians, jugglers, writers, film makers and People Who Just Put on Shows. Mind you, there were just four people other than me there, but each of them wore at least three of the above hats.

Paul, our host, I knew from Port Townsend. He has always been larger than life, both figuratively and physically, towering over everyone else in the room in the role of benevolent showmaster. The word ‘impresario’ was clearly coined for Paul, never mind that it came into being two centuries before he did. Such trifles flutter away in Paul’s presence. His juggling troupe has toured with the Grateful Dead, he’s appeared in half a dozen movies, been a guest on the Merv Griffin Show and Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. Summers, he organizes a group of 60+ performers, educators, and a 25 piece marching band that performs in prisons, small towns and isolated rural communities across the west. I think there’s an Emmy and an Obie on his shelf somewhere.

Like I said, larger than life. And fitting of this presence, Paul and his wife keep a 15th century farmhouse and barn-theater in a tiny hamlet in chestnut country, in the hills above Bologna, to which he retreats in the autumn.

I discovered this when I ran into Paul in Port Townsend a couple of weeks before I headed east. His eyes lit up when I casually mentioned that I’d been needing a break, and had just purchased a one way ticket to Florence. He said he too was heading to Italy shortly, and told me of the house. I must come visit him, he said, and stay a while.

If you’ve followed the narrative so far, you know that one does not say ‘no’ to such an invitation. And so the morning after my last posting found me aboard a series of buses southwest out of Bologna, taking the #87 to its terminus in Tolé, the closest actual town to Paul’s place.

Paul and Ward picked me up. Ward has written, produced and directed a dozen or so films, published a few books, and has a weekly radio show back in Port Townsend – he’d come along into town to help with grocery shopping.

Back at the farmhouse, preparations for the show were well underway. Wait – show? “Phina’s putting on her show this weekend in the barn.” Phina? “Oh hi – you must be Phina!”

Phina (multi-Instrumentalist, writer, singer, magician, dancer) and her sweetie Paul – different Paul, but you do see a pattern here? This one is an award-winning playwright, actor, director, cinematographer, musician – were setting up for a couple of weekend performances of her one-woman show in the barn. Paul – original Paul – had translated it all into Italian for her, to be performed for free for friends and neighbors in the surrounding villages.

It was all a swirl not so much of controlled chaos, but of the practiced, choreographed chaos that those who are of the theater are accustomed to dancing within. At some point between carrying chairs and tables out, searching for lamps and fuel for heaters, and hanging set pieces, Paul observed that it was lunchtime, and asked if I could have a look in the kitchen to whip something up for when they were done with the next rehearsal.

Now, you know how I love a chance to rise to the occasion, don’t you? So there I was, standing in the not-very-updated kitchen of a 15th century farmhouse, surrounded by unknown ingredients labeled in a language I could not read. And I had one hour to assemble a tasty and filling meal for the troupe of intimidatingly talented artists I had just been plonked down among.

Bring it on.

Rehearsal went on a bit longer than planned, but I managed to pivot and was gratified by the gusto with which my still-piping hot potato-onion-pepper frittata (with oregano and sage) and garlic-fried green beans were received.

A word or two here about the house and the setting. Paul tells me that the record shows his house being constructed in the 1430’s as part of the little hilltop hamlet where it now stands. Paul has managed to keep the rustic feel of the place even as he’s soldiered on insulating and adding plumbing, electrical conduit and most of the comforts of the second half of the past millennium.

The house’s walls are bogglingly thick stone and for now, the entire place is kept warm and habitable by a scattering of woodstoves and bedroom-based space heaters. The first hard frost of the season – a break from the unseasonable warmth I’d experienced so far – ensured that these were kept stoked and well-tended.

The fields below are predominantly hay pasture, and the hills above are dense with oak and chestnut. When not playing stage gopher or galley cook, I obtained permission (nay – marching orders!) to follow my wandering feet through these fields and hills. I had missed the chestnut harvest and festival by a few weeks, but tromping along the path under blue skies and falling leaves, the nuts themselves were thicker than pebbles on an Irish lane. Simply kicking your feet at any spot in the ground seemed to send half a dozen flying.

There was folk art in the woods, too, and other little hamlets to be stumbled upon. A bombed out and ruined medieval castle on the hill, an old convent and, unsurprisingly, the region’s chestnut museum (alas, closed for the season).

Back at the farmhouse, there were always more preparations to be done. Paul had conjured and expertly prepared what appeared to be trout for an evening meal, and then we set about hanging, adjusting, schlepping and tending to Phina’s stagecraft between nibbles of tigelle toasted on the woodstove.

The most labor-intensive part of the work was trying to weather-proof – okay, let’s be honest – weather-improve the barn. The cold was to continue through the weekend at least, and the tile roof of the stone barn admitted enough light to read from. Paul – other Paul, I think – had concocted a plan of layering mylar space blankets, bubble wrap and conventional wool blankets into a sandwich and draping them along under the barn’s hodgepodge of rafters.

Doing so disturbed the rafters’ occupants, a svelte squirrel-like rodent I didn’t recognize, but that Paul had been told went by the name of “ghiro” in Italy. Some Googling revealed that in English the creature was a form of dormouse, specifically the species known as – I kid you not – “the edible dormouse.” Apparently the Romans found them tasty? They were cute little things, but I can’t say I see any way to put a good spin on your species name beginning with the word “edible.” Regardless, when it was mealtime again, I passed on the dormouse opportunity and cooked up a ranch hash of potatoes, onions and smoked salmon to fortify the crew for opening night.

As dusk fell, last blankets were put up, lights were hung, seats set in rows and heaters lit. A few cars pulled down the little gravel lane, but mostly people – one by one or in families – seemed to emerge out of the dark on foot, climbing the little ladder to the barn and joining in the festivities. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone, of course, knew Paul.

There was not an empty seat left by the time Paul dimmed the lights and introduced Phina’s show. I won’t pretend to be able to describe the show – it was just what you might expect from a talented multi-Instrumentalist, writer, singer, magician, dancer – but you can get a sense of it over on YouTube.

Time became somewhat fluid as the evening went on, but we all ended up in Paul’s living room, drinking wine and a nut-based liqueur, and eating chestnut-flour blini filled with a sweet nut paste that one of the neighbors had brought. Children were tickled and tossed in the air, guitars were passed around a little more gingerly, and music, laughter and storytelling lasted late into the evening.

I was dead tired – the others must have been even more so – but I couldn’t bear to let the evening end. I was due in California a few days hence, and I knew that when morning came it would be time for me to make my way back down the hill, onto the bus to the train to another train, and from there to the airport and airplane that would extricate me not only from this magnificent little microcosm of light and art and the music of new friends, but from Italy as a whole, and back to that other world that seemed so long and far away from here.