This fall, I did something that I’ve done only once before in three decades of writing: for two whole weeks I booked off work and took a real vacation. Freelance writers can rarely afford half-month-long holidays. But I had spent a good part of 2010 in cardiac wards, tending to my visibly failing father and watching his fellow patients shuffle down the corridors clutching small oblong pillows to their chests. The pillows reminded them of the incisions from their open-heart surgery, and hence their physical limitations. My father, too, hugged one of those pillows. But open-heart surgery could not fix what was ailing him.
After his funeral, I realized that I needed to take time off and go somewhere far away from the haunted faces of those corridors. So I chose a destination that seemed to brim with joie de vivre, a kind of anti-cardiac ward—the small medieval town of Lucca in Italy. It didn’t hurt that Lucca lay in one of the heartlands—so to speak—of the Mediterranean Diet. I was interested in that diet. A family history of early heart disease increases one’s risk. Continue reading






