Lucky Lucca

A whirlwind few hours through Lucca, a little Italian town surrounded by its comfy defensive walls and mini moat. Mini me. Here in Tuscany, they say "sei un miccio," (say oon mee-cho) which means "you're a donkey" or more amusingly "you're an ass." Say with a smile and you're bound to quickly make new Tuscan friends. Puccini was born in Lucca and it's a half hour train ride from Pisa Centrale (Peezuh Chen-trah-lay).

Last night I had a brilliant soup called "ribollito", a special farmer recipe using the vegetables and bread from the day before. It's a delicious mush which my 99 year old bubula (Grandma Debby, of the album cover) would love too.

The main drag of Lucca is called Via Fillungo and leads to Piazza Anfiteatro, an arena of pastel buildings that curve and schmooze. In fact, it's a Roman amphitheater dating from the 2nd century. (Lillian, that LA lady, adds: "it's the Grove without Rick Caruso's fountain").

To the north of Lucca, in the Garfagnana region is the Ponte del Diavolo (the devil's bridge). Ghouls, goblins and ancient etruscans dig it. Me too.