The Hidden Code. They Couldn't Write It Down, So They Painted It

 Historical detective: a silent record left by women who had no other voice.

Stand on the hill of Castellengo Castle and look down. The plain spreads out endlessly before you, flat and quiet.

But look closer, just below the castle hill: there is a church. The Church of Saints Peter and Paul sits there as it has for centuries, and even from a distance, something about it feels odd. Its back faces the road. It turns away from you, as if keeping a secret.

That oddness is, in fact, a very precise statement.

Churches were built for people who could not read. Every stone, every orientation, every image was a lesson written in a language older than words. This one follows the ancient rule: the altar faces east, toward the rising sun at dawn. Because Christ was imagined as the sun, the light that conquers darkness. So the faithful entered from the west, from shadow, from what the builders called death, and walked forward toward the light. The door was never meant to face the road. It was meant to face the dark.

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https://exegi.substack.com/p/the-hidden-code-they-couldnt-write

The Knights Without Fear And… (1)

 

Every castle has its ghost. At Castellengo, the ghost isn’t a specter drifting through corridors in the small hours — it’s a political tragedy, sealed into the limestone like a man walled up alive.

Before the grand balconies, before the cellars heavy with wine, there was only a cliff, a river, and a man with a loyalty that would cost him everything.

Part I: The Exile’s Gamble — From the Tiber to the Alps

The story does not begin here.

It begins five hundred kilometers to the south, in the sun-hammered hills of Umbria, where a man named Alberico stood in the shadow of the Castello di Monterone and grasped, with the cold clarity that only younger sons ever know, that none of this would ever be his.

Continue reading https://exegi.substack.com/p/the-knights-without-fear-and-1

Snowlit Milan City Chant

Milan, in this post’s focus, is a beautiful, snowy city, and its secrets are revealed here.

We created this winter song inspired by photos of Milan and Moscow, me and Perplexity

Snowflakes dance on lamplight gold,
City veins in silver cold.
Windows glow, a whispered spell,
Evening’s beauty, pure and fell.
Breathe the frost, embrace the night —
Winter’s kiss, pure delight!

Continue with me on our discovery Milan walk here:

https://exegi.substack.com/p/snowlit-city-chant

The Land Where Survival Was an Art Form

Life in Italy was never easy. Virtually every place and every period could be included in a survival manual. Let's talk about castle secrets again. Once upon a time, there was a castle... “How do we get into that castle?”

“You can’t,” I said.

The car had stopped beside us on the hill. We looked up at the ruin—another forgotten Avogadro fortress, crumbling behind rusted gates and NO TRESPASSING signs.

The driver nodded and drove off, but the question stayed with me. How do you get in? And more than that: why are there so many castles here that nobody can get into, that nobody even knows about?

It was one of those winter days you wait for all season—actual sunshine, breaking through weeks of fog and rain. I had maybe three hours before the light died, and I was desperate to escape my own head. So I did what any reasonable person does: I opened Google Maps and typed “castles.”

Three popped up. Close together. A loop I could drive in an afternoon.

I grabbed my keys.

Continue reading https://exegi.substack.com/p/the-land-where-survival-was-an-art

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.

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

·

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

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

The Garden That Teaches Us to Wait

This Sunday, I'll stand in a garden that took 140 years to become what it is. Not because anyone was slow. Because that's how long it takes to grow a masterpiece. 

I’m volunteering with FAI—Italy’s National Trust—at Villa Silvio Mosca in Biella, a place most tourists will never see.

Have you ever seen doorbells like this? Lovely!

It sits in the shadow of the Alps, in a town known for wool mills and rain. The kind of place many of us skip on our way to more photogenic destinations. But here’s what they’re missing: a lesson our accelerated world desperately needs.

In 1889, Silvio Mosca—an engineer who’d made his fortune in textiles—stood on a bare plot of land. He could have hired an architect. Instead, he drew the plans himself. For two years, he personally oversaw every stone, every tree placement, every sightline. He planted a cork oak, exotic and improbable in Piedmont’s climate. He positioned cedars where they’d frame the mountains just so. He created artificial hills to make a small garden feel infinite.

Then came the waiting.

Continue reading https://exegi.substack.com/p/the-garden-that-teaches-us-to-wait