From Roman Ruins to Bolognese Bliss

We’ve spent most of late October and November in Italy, preparing for our permanent move to Bologna. Being away from the United States has been refreshing — I catch up on the news less often and with far less emotion. From afar, everything seems a bit bonkers. For anyone feeling overwhelmed by it all, and who has the chance to travel outside the U.S., I highly recommend it. It offers a powerful perspective.

The CFS plenaries largely empty.

Our journey began in Rome with a meeting at the Food and Agriculture Organization, whose building now feels almost impenetrable. I attended the Committee on Food Security (CFS), which was eerily quiet. The current Director General of FAO seems to have shifted focus away from the CFS, scheduling World Food Day a week earlier—a move that, frankly, deflates the committee’s momentum. The sessions were muted, with scant government presence. Even the plenaries were only a quarter full.

Perhaps multilateral cooperation and globalism are truly fading, as Richard Horton recently suggested here and here. We’ll see how the world responds at COP30 in Brazil, tackling the urgent challenge of climate change. Sadly, I agree with a recent New York Times article arguing that governments—not just the U.S.—are turning their backs on climate commitments. There are isolated successes, but the overall climate data is grim. The UN’s annual emissions gap report, “Off Target,” warns that countries are unlikely to keep global warming below 1.5 degrees Celsius, the Paris Agreement’s main goal. Experts predict warming could reach between 2.3 and 2.5 degrees Celsius, or even higher if current pledges aren’t met.

Long lines at Da Enzo

Back to Bella Italia. My partner and I have spent nearly five cumulative years living in Rome. When we first arrived in 2010, those felt like golden years. Tourism was present but manageable, with many hidden gems for eating, drinking, and soaking in the vast cityscape. Today, forget it. Rome has turned into a theme park resembling a mockable Roman empire, swarming with tourists. Even secret spots are overrun by huge lines of people eager to replicate the Instagrammable moments. Our favorite place, Da Enzo, now has block-long lines. We used to pop in spontaneously for carbonara and puntarella. It’s sad—Rome and much of Italy have sold themselves cheaply, like a dollar store bonanza.

After Rome’s disappointment, we went to Napoli to visit friends. The city, too, is suffocating under endless tourists—around 5,000 daily from massive cruise ships—who come to eat pizza, drink spritzes (a drink actually invented in Veneto, northern Italy), and walk the “elephant walk” through Spaccanapoli buying cornicelli charms (little horn-shaped amulets for good luck), all because social media told them to. They don’t really experience the city or stay overnight, retreating to their ships for dinner and sleep. Locals believe tourism boosts the economy, and it probably does—but at what cultural cost? Is this growth sustainable? Naples, too, has given itself away. The New York Times article, “The Spritzes and Carbonaras That Ate Italy,” argues tourism has blanketed the country in a uniform food culture. Maybe not everywhere, but it’s heading that way. Nothing can take away the beauty of these places, but god damn, it is getting hard to see it.

Naples wasn’t all bad, once you are off the beaten path. Walks along and swims in the bay of Naples, insanely delicious pizza and vongole, and a lecture at the University of Naples Federico II Agriculture College were highlights. The College is in a beautiful old royal palace in another part of Naples, called Portici. The palace was built as a summer house for the Spanish viceroys on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius. The college curates a beautiful botanical garden on its grounds. The students and faculty were truly wonderful — they energized me to start teaching this spring in Bologna.

Typical aperitivo for two - and costing less than 8 euros…

From Naples, we took the train north to Bologna, and suddenly it felt dramatically calmer—fewer tourists, more progressive energy. The “Quadrilatero” district, a historic medieval market full of gourmet shops near the main piazza, was surprisingly uncrowded. Bologna is a beautiful city bathed in warm orange and yellow hues, with miles of elegant porticos offering sheltered promenades. The city pulses with the energy of its students—the University of Bologna is Europe’s oldest university. Street art decorates many corners, and the local “aperitivo” culture thrives. Bolognese gather around 6 p.m. for wine, cocktails, and small free snacks (why do potato chips taste so good with sparkling white wine - drats!), with weekends seeing aperitivo start even earlier.

There are downsides. The weather is more like NY, and the air quality ain’t good. But it feels like a progressive, productive city that has a certain gothy, young vibe. Will we be able to sit out on our terrace 365 days a year, ala Rome? No. But would I take this over the tourism hellscape? Hells yah.

Bolognese cuisine is delicious but hearty and meat-heavy. Classics like tortellini, lasagna, and ragù are all rich with meat. The pasta contains eggs—a nod to the north’s wealthier past where eggs were added to flour and water—resulting in specialties like tortellini, ravioli, and tagliatelle. The region is famous for its Parmesan cheese, Sangiovese red wine, and balsamic vinegar. Pork is beloved. There’s a dish called Cotoletta (or Petroniana), essentially veal fried in butter, topped with prosciutto, smothered in Parmesan and meat broth—a literal heart-stopper. Hopefully, we’ll find ways to stay more plant-based here, but dining out in typical Bolognese trattorias might make that a challenge. Mamma mia…

These pasta dishes were delicious but probably did not “meat” the criteria of the EAT-Lancet Commission (Mio Dio!).

When we arrived, Bologna was hosting the “Villaggio contadino Coldiretti,” a fair spread across the city’s piazzas. Farmers from across Italy gathered to celebrate “the centrality of the agricultural world, sustainability, and the value of Italian food.” Coldiretti represents over 1.6 million Italian farmers and agricultural entrepreneurs, advocating fiercely for “Made in Italy” products. They lobby against lab-grown meat, expose agromafia issues, and protest unfair trade price speculation. Some argue these “village” events misuse public spaces and they have ties to the conservative right in the country. I suspect their views on the EAT-Lancet Commission wouldn’t be glowing either…

 

Beef or Bear? On Ambition, Academia, and the Art of Letting Go

I’m sure many of you have been watching The Bear—the TV show that follows Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto, a brilliant young chef who returns home to Chicago to take over his late brother’s gritty sandwich shop, The Beef. Through the chaos of grief and grease, Carmy builds something new: The Bear, a sleek fine-dining restaurant born from heartbreak, hope, and the relentless pursuit of excellence. And yet, he keeps The Beef alive—its humble sandwich window still serving the neighborhood that built it. Amid gleaming, white-tiled walls and sky-high expectations, the crew fights to grow, grieve, and find meaning in their craft. They become a family, forged in heat and held together by love and purpose.

A recent New York Times piece reflecting on The Bear’s Season 4 captured the show’s central tension between the up-scale Bear restaurant and the no-frills Beef sandwich shop perfectly:

“It’s about ambition vs. accessibility, change vs. repetition, risk vs. consistency, complexity vs. simplicity.”

It got me thinking. Over the past 20+ years of my career, I’ve always wanted more Beef than Bear. I craved simplicity—not just in science, but in life. I used to joke that the measure of a person’s life could be found in their keychain. I aimed for two keys or fewer.

But somewhere along the way, the Bear crept in.

Ambition found me. Or maybe I chased it. I threw myself into research, publishing, pivoting. I moved countries several times in pursuit of new opportunities. I left the comforts of traditional academia to dive into international development and returned once more. I pursued sprawling, interdisciplinary projects with too many partners and not enough time. These complex, messy, often maddening endeavors shaped who I am.

That bearish ambition brought me accolades, big jobs, incredible collaborators, and students who have inspired me. But lately, I’ve begun to ask: can I keep going at this pace? Do I even want to? I know I’m not alone in this. An article by Arthur C. Brooks in The Atlantic hit hard:

“Call it the Principle of Psychoprofessional Gravitation: the idea that the agony of professional oblivion is directly related to the height of professional prestige previously achieved, and to one’s emotional attachment to that prestige.”

In academia, no one teaches you how to slow down. It’s always go, go, go. First, you need to raise money just to do your work—and often just to pay yourself and your team. That means writing exhaustive, often soul-sucking grant proposals for donors who want the world for pennies. The odds of success? Dismal. And feedback when you fail? Don’t hold your breath.

Then there’s publishing. To prove your worth and make your science visible, you need to land in the “top journals.” But the peer review process is increasingly dysfunctional—often driven by AI-generated reviewer selection, unpaid labor, and endless revision cycles. Want people to read it? You’ll need to pay for open access. In the end, who benefits? Journals. Not the people we claim to serve.

And that’s just the research. You also need to teach, sit on committees, engage with policymakers, serve the public, and perform the theater of relevance. Academia has become a hamster wheel powered by prestige, productivity, and fear. Don’t get me wrong—I love academia and the freedoms it affords. The opportunity to engage with students is unmatched, and the pursuit of new ideas, discoveries, and knowledge remains deeply fulfilling.

I know I sound old. Maybe I am. I’m 53, and as Jackson Browne once sang, I’ve been running on empty for a while now. The spark is still there, but the fire’s a little dimmer. I’m not interested in building anything new—no more centers, initiatives, or empires. I don’t need another publication, another invisible promotion, or a bigger team.

I want to work differently. Slower. With more intention. Less Bear, more Beef.

That means letting go—not of the science, but of the ego that comes with it. It means embracing the role of mentor, not builder. Teacher, not hustler. I’m ready to spend less time painting the canvas and more time showing others how to hold the brush.

So, as I step into this next chapter—joining the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies in Bologna, Italy—I’ll say goodbye to all that: the pace, the prestige, the panic. If I build or invest in anything now, it will be with intention—to ensure that those who come after me are prepared to navigate the complexities of this shifting world.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll enjoy the art I’ve already made. Hang it up. Share it with others. Teach the next generation how to sketch something of their own.

Because sometimes, success is knowing when to stop chasing stars—and start passing the torch. So, enjoy every sandwich.

Walking the world away

There’s something beautifully liberating about walking. Sure, many people equate freedom with owning a car—the open road, the power to go wherever, whenever. But for me, real freedom looks a little different. It’s in the simplicity of walking. No baggage, no plan—just the steady rhythm of your steps and the openness of the world unfolding around you.

Sometimes there’s no destination, and that’s the point: just you, your thoughts, and the path ahead.

It’s something you can do anywhere—through city streets, across forest trails (what we often call hiking), or wandering the quiet edges of forgotten places. You’re never stuck in traffic. If you hit a barrier, you pivot. You reroute. You move on.

You never have to stop.

I’ve written before about the quiet art of flâneuring—that gentle wandering without aim, where the city reveals itself step by step. It’s a ritual my better half and I have embraced over the years, our own kind of moving meditation. Together, we’ve traced the grid of Manhattan in what we called the MaPhattan Project, roamed the worn cobbles of Rome’s rioni, meandered through Bologna’s shadowed porticoes, and covered miles of our Microcosmic Psychogeography of D.C.'s grand avenues and quiet corners. All past places of residence for us.

We walk and talk. We walk and listen, and sometimes, we walk and share bites of something warm and wrapped in paper. But always, we move forward—one foot, then the next—letting the rhythm of the road bring clarity, connection, and stillness in motion.

Food Archivist flaneuring in Meatpacking District NYC before it become douchebag central. Early naughts.

It’s one of the reasons we always found our way back to New York—the pull of the pavement, the hum of the streets beneath our feet. It is the sweeping equalizer (much like the subway) of the city in that everyone (just about) can do it - it doesn’t cost a cent. Once upon a time, Gotham belonged to the walkers. We moved through it like warriors, bold and unshaken, owning every crosswalk, every corner.

But something’s shifted.

Now the streets hum a different tune—faster, sharper, less forgiving. E-bikes flash past like ghosts, scooters weave through traffic with no regard, and cars ignore the rules like they were never written. Gotham, once ours, has become hostile to the quiet act of walking.

To step off the curb now is to take a risk—to scan left, then right, then left again, heart stuttering with every motion blurring past. But in the early mornings, when the city that never sleeps has yet to awake, one can silently flaneur.

Evidence suggests that walking has multiple health benefits. Walking briskly for 150 minutes a week can reduce risk of heart disease and overall mortality. That isn’t too hard. This NYT article summarizes some of the evidence. I try to get 150 min in and plus some every week. On average, at least according to my phone, I walk about 4.8 miles a day. I also try to walk each and every day no matter how busy I am. If you live far from work, maybe get off a train station further and walk the rest of the way. If you drive to work, maybe make a meeting a walking meeting. There are lots of ways to build it in throughout the busy days.

In a world moving towards utter chaos and disorder, walking remains a quiet act of rebellion—an invitation to slow down, to notice, to reconnect or maybe, to disconnect and put the world on pause. Step by step, it gives us back a sense of place, of presence, and of ourselves.