Gazing out across the sepia-tinted landscape, I can’t shake the feeling I’ve fallen into a Merchant Ivory film from the ’90s, where the scenery is as dramatic as the plot twists. Rolling hills undulate toward the horizon, their gentle slopes draped in a patchwork of dry stone walls and olive groves. Whizzing along this back road, I attract barking dogs to their gates as though I’ve stuffed salami in my Lycra. Up ahead, I spot a bell tower piercing the sky. Minutes later, I reach the village, finding my crew predictably clustered around a bar.
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