Jackson Jambalaya

 PETROGNANO, Italy — Something unexpected happened over the course of the last 13 years. A quiet village in the Tuscan hills—Barberino-Tavarnelle—became a part of my story. Since 2011, spread across weeks and months at a time, more than two and a half years of my life have unfolded here. That was never the intention. But some of life’s best chapters begin that way—unplanned, unannounced, and slowly embedded into who we are. What started as a place to visit has become a place to return to again and again. A place filled with meaning, memory, and dear friends who now feel like family.

When I think back on all the time spent here, it’s not the olive groves and weathered doors I remember most clearly. It’s the people. The friendships. The connections made over long meals, unhurried conversation, shared dishes, and laughter that felt like it could carry on forever.

Our first real friendship here began with Annagloria and Enzo. They owned the villa we rented when my family first came to Tuscany back in 2011. What started as a guest-host relationship quickly turned into something deeper. Over time, as I began leading small groups of Americans through Tuscany, Annagloria and Enzo became not only partners in logistics and hospitality, but true friends. That’s the thing about this place: if you open yourself up to it, the people open their arms right back.

I turned 50 here. Then, a decade later, I turned 60 here, too. That second birthday celebration wasn’t filled with tourists or fellow expats—it was locals. Friends. Family, really. Annagloria and Enzo were there. Marina, my boots-on-the-ground in Tuscany, came with her partner, Marco, a talented local artist. Paolo, who runs the local café where I’ve shared so many meals, brought wine for the group. Marco and Christina, who own a sheep farm just down the road, showed up with a massive wheel of pecorino. Ricardo the tour guide and his wife joined us. Toby and Susan from the bakery brought the cake. Jessie, a Dutch friend living in Rome, took the train up just to be there, and our friends Barbara and Alberto drove down from Milan.

That’s not networking. That’s friendship.

There’s something about this corner of the world that fosters connection. Yes, it’s beautiful. Yes, the food is excellent. Yes, the sunsets are cinematic. But what makes it special—what keeps drawing me back—is the people.

And it’s not just the locals. It’s the folks I travel with, too. When I started RSJ Yonderlust Tours, I thought the highlight would be sharing great meals and favorite spots with others—restaurants tucked down alleys in Florence, secret tucked-away spots in Siena, mom-and-pop vineyards in the Chianti hills. But the surprise gift—the part I didn’t see coming—has been the friendships formed along the way.

Not just my own, but the ones between the guests. A while back, I was visiting with tables in one of my restaurants back in Mississippi, and I noticed a table of eight ladies who’d all traveled with me on various tours. Over the course of dinner, I asked, “How many of y’all knew each other before these trips?” The answer? None.

They’d met on tours. Now, they meet up regularly back home, travel together, celebrate birthdays, share life. That’s the kind of thing that feels like a life well spent—bringing people together who otherwise would have never crossed paths. I’m proud of it. Some groups have become so close they’ve held reunions back home—independent of me—and invited me to attend.

Had it not been for these tours, there’s a long list of people I never would’ve met and friendships I never would’ve formed. Folks from small towns and big cities across the United States. People from different walks of life, all brought together by a shared meal in a faraway place. These tours started as a way to share the beauty I’d discovered in Europe, but they’ve turned into something much richer. Without them, I’d have missed out on some of the most meaningful connections of my life—friendships that now feel like family, and moments that never would’ve happened had we all stayed put.

Friendships have always been at the center of my life’s joy. After my father passed away, my mother moved us into a neighborhood that was overflowing with kids my age. We formed bonds that have lasted decades. We might go months without seeing each other, but when we do, we pick up mid-sentence, as if no time has passed. That’s how true friendship works—proximity doesn’t matter, consistency doesn’t matter. What matters is the care. The concern. The connection.

And in many ways, that’s exactly what these tours have become—vehicles for connection. They’re not about checking off famous landmarks or moving through museums in silence. They’re about shared experiences. Sitting across a table from someone and passing the pasta. Laughing in the back of the van as we wind down a narrow road in the countryside.

That’s where it happens. Not in the bus. Not in the cathedral. Around the table. Always around the table. That’s where strangers become acquaintances, and acquaintances become friends.

For years, my wife and I avoided group tours because they always felt impersonal, rigid, and rehearsed. But these RSJ Yonderlust Tours have never felt like that. Ever. It took me years to understand why. Then it hit me, just this week—I think it’s because we share so many meals together. That’s the glue. That’s the rhythm. And when food is involved, the walls come down. Conversation flows. Laughter becomes easier. Stories are shared. Bonds are formed.

It’s probably why so many of our guests return—five, six, even seven times. Next week, I’ll be in Holland and Belgium hosting a group where every person has toured with me before. For many, it will be their sixth or seventh time. The following week, I’ll be in England and Scotland—same thing. And yes, I appreciate the trust they place in me to handle their hard-earned vacation time and money. But more than that, I cherish their friendship.

My friend Marshall Ramsey says, “There are two degrees of separation in Mississippi.” Maybe one and a half on a good day. If you sit still long enough, someone’s cousin’s barber’s Sunday school teacher will pop up in conversation and you’ll start “diggin’ up kin,” as they say back home. What’s wild is that even on the other side of the world—in a wine cellar in Tuscany or a canal-side café in Amsterdam—I’ll hear someone in my group say, “Wait... you know him too?” And sure enough, the great Southern web stretches across oceans. It’s as if we’ve just exported one of Mississippi’s favorite pastimes: discovering who you know in common and what you ate at their wedding.

These are the relationships that make life rich.

Two years ago, I stood inside a stone church in Tuscany at the funeral for Annagloria’s mother. I couldn’t understand a word the priest said, but I knew exactly why I was there. Because that’s what friends do. Just last week, I attended the funeral of Paolo’s father. Days earlier, Paolo had handed me a wedding gift for my daughter’s recent wedding—where, by the way, four of our Italian friends flew over to attend.

You don’t get that kind of depth in a business transaction. That’s only born from shared moments. Shared meals. Shared life.

It’s simple, really. It’s about being open to others. Open to their stories. Open to learning. And I’ve found that nothing fosters that openness quite like breaking bread together. Whether it’s your childhood neighbor, your college roommate, the barista in a Tuscan café, or the woman sitting across from you on a train from Florence to Rome—you never know who might become a friend.

I’ve come to call it the “Five Fs”—faith, family, friends, food, and fun. If any three of those show up at once, something good’s about to happen. When all five align, magic happens. Friendships are formed. Memories are made.

And at the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about.

Onward.