The Village of Secrets: Every Stone Speaks in Symbols

Inside Rosazza—Italy's Most Mysterious Village, Built by Freemasons to Transform the Soul Rosazza, Province of Biella, Piedmont

Sometimes the rain knows something you don’t.

Google promised a dry afternoon, but the sky had other plans. By the time I left my car at the village entrance, the drizzle had turned serious, insistent, the kind of rain that soaks through optimism and practical planning alike.

I had no destination, no agenda—just a pull I couldn’t name, urging me toward Rosazza on this gray November day.

I’d been here before, of course. Many times. But always rushing, always with somewhere else to be. This time, drenched and aimless, I finally saw what I’d been missing.

Where Triangles Point to Heaven

The wild boars weren't expecting company for dinner. Neither was I hoping to find myself clinging to a rocky slope in the Italian Alps.

No proper path beneath my feet, just brambles and determination, chasing a mysterious temple that hung somewhere above my head like a promise. But that’s what happens when you follow Federico Rosazza’s ghost through the mountains near Biella.

In 1850s Italy, while most politicians were content with Rome’s marble corridors, Senator Federico Rosazza was building roads through impossible terrain. Not just any streets—sacred paths connecting the Sanctuary of Oropa to the Sanctuary of San Giovanni, including a tunnel carved through solid mountain. Along this route, perched on a scenic overlook that only a man possessed by grief and mysticism would choose, he built something strange: the Tempietto del Belvedere.

Continue reading https://exegi.substack.com/p/where-triangles-point-to-heaven

A Rough Week

Ever feel completely wrung out? Like maybe the best thing to do is just drop everything and go for a walk?

I’m currently swamped creating content and ads for my classes and courses. This is prime time—when people come back from the holidays, settle into their work routines, and start looking for something to fill their winter evenings.

They’re browsing courses, searching for a distraction from life’s daily grind. So right now, you’ve got to pull out all the stops to make them choose you over the competition. But freelancing isn’t easy. Students are flaky. One day they’re all in, the next day they’ve ghosted you... Today they show up, tomorrow they forget, or suddenly something “more important” comes up. It’s a stressful time for a teacher. On top of that, everyone’s getting sick. And I’m also juggling a lot of volunteer commitments... So yeah... It’s a stressful period.

Where I live in Italy, it has been cold over the past few months, with more rain than sun. So I’ve managed to squeeze in a few walks whenever those rare sunny hours appear.

Walking In A Forest: Discoveries And Encounters

Liudmila

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16 novembre 2023

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Italians have coined a new term for early autumn walks: foliage. Sounds French, doesn’t it? I’d never heard it before—or maybe I just never noticed people saying it. It refers to that magical time when leaves start to fall, and the ones still clinging to the trees blaze with bright, warm, gorgeous colors. It’s absolutely stunning, but it only lasts until November. After that, they turn a murky brown.

Continue reading https://exegi.substack.com/p/a-rough-week

The Viper's Flight: 1390 to 2025

What flies away is never truly lost. It only waits to be found again, to catch the light, to rest in someone’s palm and tell its story one more time. 

Candelo’s main piazza (square) with one of the Ricetto towers

The archeologist’s trowel scraped through mud in Candelo’s main piazza and stopped. Something caught the light—a flash of silver pressed into earth that had held it for centuries.

He knelt, brushed carefully with fingers that knew how to coax history from dirt. A coin emerged: sesino di Gian Galeazzo, Milano 1390. The viper of the Visconti, fierce and unmistakable, is still visible after 635 years in darkness.

Late spring, 1390. The same piazza, but different.

Yesterday’s rain had finally stopped, leaving the world washed clean. The air tasted sweet. Ginevra emerged from the narrow cobbled street into the brightness of the square, and in her palm lay the sesino—warm from her hand, catching the morning sun like a small promise.

Continue reading https://exegi.substack.com/p/the-vipers-flight-1390-to-2025

The Weight She Carried: A Chronicle of the Mountain Markets

Looking for the Slow Life, trying to escape the hectic pace of our lives, is the dream of having a peaceful life like our ancestors. I'll tell you today what their life was really like. 

Your phone has buzzed seventeen times since you started reading this. Mine too. We live in an age where everything arrives instantly, yet nothing feels like it truly lands.

But let me take you somewhere else. To a woman I never met, walking a path I’ll never walk.

Three Days Up, Three Days Down

A friend told me about his grandmother. Every month, she would fill a wooden chest with whatever her hands had made—preserves, woven goods, vegetables from the terraced garden clinging to the mountainside. Then she would lift that chest onto her head and begin to walk.

Continue reading https://exegi.substack.com/p/the-weight-she-carried-a-chronicle

Everyone Hates Cyclists (Except When They Don't)

 

The complex relationship Italians (and others) have with cycling, blending the charm of the race tradition with the tensions it creates. 

The roads through Valdengo wind their way toward the sanctuary of Oropa, like ribbons carelessly thrown across the Piedmont hills. Last Sunday, they belonged entirely to the cyclists—or more precisely, to the grand theater of Italian professional cycling, as the first edition of the TROFEO TESSILE e MODA VALDENGO – OROPA carved its way through these ancient textile valleys.

By mid-morning, the procession had already begun. First came the motorcycle outriders, their engines growling importantly. Then the police, lights flashing their blue authority across shuttered shops and closed intersections.

Continue reading https://exegi.substack.com/p/everyone-hates-cyclists-except-when