Seven Laws of Organization (and Disorganization)

Intro ~ The Laws ~ Intentionality ~Precedents and Paradoxes

~ AI Slop ~ Closing for Now

A gateway to disorganization.

Intro

We live in an age obsessed with order. Apps promise to streamline our lives, productivity gurus preach the gospel of minimalism, and yet our desks, inboxes, and camera rolls tell a different story. Maybe the truth is that organization is less a state of being and more a fleeting illusion?

Inspired by Carlo Cipolla’s Basic Laws of Human Stupidity, we wondered: what if we codified the everyday paradoxes of organization into their own set of “laws”? Not scientific laws in the strict sense, but humorous principles that capture the universal frustrations of trying to impose order on chaos.

Call them the Seven Laws of Organization (and Disorganization).

The Laws

1. The Illusion of Order Law

You are never as organized as you think you are. Systems are just chaos with labels, and labels are only as good as your memory of them.

2. The Search Paradox

When you’re looking for something, it hides. When you stop looking, it leaps out. Keys, glasses, wallets, phone, and an object you had in your hand 2 minutes ago all obey this cruel rhythm.

3. The Observer Effect of Clutter

The moment someone watches you search, the item vanishes into another dimension. A coworker hovering or a travel companion waiting impatiently for you to find your boarding pass only guarantees failure or at least a frantic search.

4. The Black Hole Principle

Anything you save for “later” is gone forever. Your camera roll swallows photos whole; that perfect shot of last month’s dinner is now somewhere between screenshots you don’t remember taking. Social media is worse: scroll long enough and you’ll find everything except the post you’re looking for. These are not archives — they are disappearing acts. 

5. The Law of Misplaced Priorities

The more important the item, the less likely you are to find it. Tax documents, passports, or vaccination records disappear, while trivial receipts remain eternally accessible.

6. The Entropy Law

Any organized space will inevitably collapse into chaos unless actively maintained. A tidy desk, a neatly packed suitcase, or a freshly sorted inbox all succumb to disorder in record time.

7. The Filing Cabinet Irony

The more carefully you file something, the less likely you are to remember where you put it. “Safe places” are too safe—they hide things even from you. And the verb file here doesn’t just mean in the classic sense.

Taken together, these laws explain why we keep losing things and why we keep insisting we won’t next time.

Intentionality

Instead of being discouraged by these laws, we should be amused. They remind us that disorganization is not a personal failing—it’s a universal condition. Just as Cipolla argued that stupidity is woven into the fabric of humanity, so too is clutter woven into the fabric of daily life.

Social media and cloud-based apps have promised us perfect organization with their automated albums, searchable memories, curated timelines. But in reality, we’ve outsourced our sense of order to algorithms we don’t control. We pump endless photos, notes, and thoughts into these platforms, only to retrieve them when “they” decide it’s time. How many times has your phone surfaced a random set of images, sometimes eerily appropriate for the moment or sometimes baffling, and you thought, “I couldn’t find those again if I tried”? We are at risk of losing any semblance of personal organization that isn’t algorithmically sanctioned. We don’t organize anymore; we scroll and hope.

In contrast, our Scrapbook project is a humble attempt to reclaim some of that lost intentionality. What started as a way to organize travel memories—photos, maps, notes—has evolved into a curated archive that tries to resist the algorithmic churn. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. Each entry is a deliberate act of remembering, a small stand against the entropy of digital life. In a world where platforms decide what we see and when, the Scrapbook is our quiet rebellion: a place where we choose what matters.

Precedents and Paradoxes

The Seven Laws of Organization (and Disorganization) don’t exist in a vacuum. They join a long tradition of humorous, philosophical, and paradoxical takes on the human struggle to impose order. Consider:

• Murphy’s Law and its many offspring: “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong” has inspired countless organizational corollaries—like “The file you need is always the one you didn’t back up,” or “The one document you forgot is the one they’ll ask for.”
• Parkinson’s Law: “Work expands to fill the time available.” A classic insight into why our to-do lists never shrink, no matter how much time we block off.
• Office humor and cartoons: From Dilbert to desk memes, the futility of filing systems and the tyranny of inboxes have long been fertile ground for satire.
• Disorganization Puns & Wordplay: Disorganization has inspired a rich lexicon of clever terms that blend satire, science, and style:
• Procrastifiling: The act of organizing as a way to avoid doing actual work—filing instead of finishing.
• Folderol: Originally meaning trivial fuss, now repurposed to describe excessive, often pointless labeling and categorizing.
• Entropy Chic: The aesthetic of curated clutter—chaos that’s styled to look intentional and lived-in. 
• Cluttercore: A maximalist design trend that celebrates visible mess as cozy and authentic.
• Shelf-aware: A pun on “self-aware,” used to describe someone who knows their organizational systems are more performative than practical.
• Inboxhaustion: The mental fatigue caused by managing an overflowing inbox that never seems to shrink.
• Ctrl+Alt+Del Decor: A minimalist style that looks like someone wiped their life clean with a digital reboot.

While making us chuckle, these puns also reveal how deeply disorganization is woven into modern life. They’re coping mechanisms, cultural critiques, and linguistic clutter all rolled into one.

So yes, these laws are part of a lineage that is ever evolving. Perhaps we need to treat disorganization as a kind of philosophy, elevating it from mere frustration to something almost noble. It’s not just about losing things—it’s about understanding why we lose them, and what that says about how we live.

AI Slop

Every media revolution breeds not only brilliance but also rubbish. As a recent Scientific American article argues, the rise of AI is no different: it produces dazzling art and useful tools, but also a flood of “slop”—content that overwhelms rather than enlightens. (The article is The Slop Cycle—How Every Media Revolution Breeds Rubbish and Art and is by Deni Ellis Béchard.)

We feel this slop acutely in this moment in the realm of AI Chat conversations. We have dozens of chats we start with different assistants: a travel plan here, a biology question there, a stray idea in yet another thread. Each one promises clarity, yet together they can form a labyrinth. They produce anxiety: did I read something insightful in that chat, and if so, will I ever find it again? Or has it already slipped away? Should I save my chats somewhere?

This is not just clutter in the traditional sense; it’s a sort of chat hell, a new frontier of disorganization born from the very tools meant to help us. AI assistants are designed to ostensibly, yet they often scatter info across ecosystems, tabs, and threads.

Of course, this will improve. Apps and services will get better and heaven help us if ecosystems even talk to each other, so you are not locked into just one. But for now, AI has introduced a fresh layer of entropy—an invisible pile of chats, forgotten insights, and more organizational anxiety.

Perhaps the Seven Laws of Organization gain an eighth (half) sibling: The Law of AI Slop.

Even as technology evolves, disorganization evolves with it. Can we say that the more we outsource our order to machines, the more we risk drowning in their version of chaos? We would rather drown in our own induced chaos.

Closing For Now

Perhaps the lesson is not to fight these laws, but to embrace them. Laugh at the paradoxes, accept the entropy, and recognize that the search for order is itself a kind of comedy.

There are also quiet alternatives, like building your own system. It doesn’t have to be perfect or universal—it can be a homegrown method, a series of rituals, or a project like our Scrapbook. These efforts may not defy the laws entirely, but they carve out small pockets of intentionality in a world increasingly shaped by algorithms.

After all, the most organized among us are not those who conquer clutter, but those who learn to live with it—and occasionally, to laugh at it, or better yet, to shape it into something meaningful.

Transplants: Notes on Aging and Living Abroad

Overview ~ Accent ~ Cultural cues ~ Looked at and overlooked ~

Né pesce né pollame ~ Places act like time ~ In closing - for now

We’re coming up on ten years in Italy—a decade of new words, new rituals, and new ways of being. In that time, we’ve learned how to navigate the health care system, decode the mysteries of Italian bureaucracy, and even order a coffee without causing a scene.

And yet, disorientation still finds us. We are not quite Italian, but slowly less American. Not quite fluent in Italian yet sometimes reaching for English words we’ve forgotten. We live in the in‑between, and we love it. That middle ground keeps us curious, keeps us younger, and helps us approach situations with fresh eyes.

Over the years, we’ve realized that living abroad has more than a few parallels with getting older. Both involve a slow shedding of certainty, a recalibration of identity, and a humbling encounter with the limits of your own understanding. Both ask you to be patient with yourself, to laugh when you miss the joke, and to keep showing up even when you’re not sure how.

This post is about those parallels—how moving abroad and getting older mirror each other. But before we begin, we want to acknowledge that our story is one of privilege. We chose Italy, supported by passports, savings, and the safety of knowing we could always return. For many, migration is not a choice but a necessity—an act of survival rather than curiosity. Our reflections are not meant to equate the two, but simply to share what we’ve learned from our own, far easier journey.

Accent

We like to imagine our American accent has softened over the years, but the truth is, it hasn’t. It clings to us, unmistakable, a kind of passport we carry in our very voices. It marks us as outsiders, though not always in a bad way. Aging does something similar: your voice shifts, thins, or weakens, and suddenly people treat you differently, as if volume or clarity were the same as comprehension. In both cases—living abroad or growing older—others may slow their speech, raise their voices, or simplify their words, assuming you can’t quite keep up.

Then there are the gaps. In Italian, we often know exactly what we want to say, but the word slips away at the crucial moment. What comes instead is a pause, a gesture, a workaround. It’s not so different from the lapses of memory that come with age: the name on the tip of your tongue, the phrase that refuses to surface.

At first, we bristled when our “Ciao” was met with a cheerful “Hi.” How could they know, so quickly, that we weren’t Italian? It felt like failure, as if our accent betrayed us before we’d even begun. But over time, we reframed it. Those exchanges became opportunities to help others practice their English, and we discovered that once conversations moved beyond pleasantries, they almost always circled back to Italian. What once felt like a wall became a doorway.

Cultural cues

In Italy, we sometimes miss the joke. Humor is slippery as it depends on shared history, on references you don’t yet have. In a new culture, the punchline can sail past you just as an older person might miss a cultural reference in their own language. Each missed cue becomes a small research project, a chance to learn the context and catch it next time.

We were reminded of this long before moving abroad. On a Christmas road trip from Seattle to San Francisco in 2012, we stopped at a Dutch Bros drive‑thru. The barista asked something perfectly ordinary, but her phrasing and expressions threw us. After a few confused “huhs,” we finally understood. For a moment, we felt like strangers in our own country. From that day, we joked that you could feel foreign anywhere, even at home.

Italy has only deepened that lesson. We’ve had to learn the choreography of greetings, the etiquette of queues, the subtle rules about when to address someone formally and when not to. Aging brings a similar recalibration. The rules you grew up with—about gender, technology, etiquette—shift beneath your feet. You adapt, or you don’t. Either way, you notice. In both cases, you find yourself in new terrain, learning how to belong all over again.

Looked at and overlooked

In a past blog post The Expat Life – Thoughts and Suggestions for Better Terminology, we suggested “transplant” as a better word than expat. No one has taken us up on it yet, but the metaphor still feels right. Living abroad is like a long hike: you've transplanted yourself somewhere else, you’re exploring, awed by what you find, and constantly aware of the terrain beneath your feet.

On that hike, we are sometimes hyper‑visible and sometimes invisible. Hyper‑visible because we’re easy to spot—our pace (always too fast), our clothes, our names, the subtle cues that mark us as not‑quite‑Italian. Cars beep at us on the street, and we turn to each other asking, “Who was that?” They recognize us, but we don’t recognize them. Around here, anonymity is rare; stepping outside almost guarantees at least two encounters before reaching the corner. It can be inconvenient when you’re in a rush, but mostly it’s a joy.

And then there are the moments of invisibility. A driver asks for directions, but as soon as we answer, our accent betrays us and our advice is dismissed. In conversations with new acquaintances, we’re asked the usual questions—why Bergamo, what brought us here—but once the talk turns to politics, sports, or scandals, the thread slips away. Sometimes we jump in to prove we can follow along; other times we let the pleasantries stand. Either way, the message can feel like you don’t quite belong in the deeper layers of the conversation.

Aging carries the same duality. You’re either fussed over or ignored, depending on the moment. You’re visible when people project assumptions onto you, invisible when they assume you have nothing to add.

And like aging, living abroad often requires asking for help with things that once seemed simple—forms, instructions, even the right word at the right time. The lesson in both cases is humility. You learn to ask. You learn to receive. And in that exchange, you discover a different kind of strength.

Né pesce né pollame

Neither fish nor fowl, we live with one foot planted in each world. There’s no neat percentage that can measure how Italian or how American we feel. Identity shifts like the weather—on some days we lean into our Americanness, on others we find ourselves moving, speaking, even thinking in ways that feel distinctly Italian.

This in‑between space, far from being a liability, has become an advantage. It forces us to stay flexible, to notice, to adapt.

Sometimes that means starting over with things we thought we’d already mastered—earning a driver’s license again, building a credit history from scratch, learning the rules of a new system. There’s a strange grace in being a beginner twice in one lifetime.

Other times, the parallels are so close to our American life that only small adjustments are needed—a tweak in etiquette, a shift in timing, a new rhythm to familiar routines.

And then there are the discoveries: foods that surprise us, rituals that anchor us, pleasures that remind us why we came. These are the gifts of transplanting yourself to another place. But they are also the gifts of aging—of realizing that change, whether chosen or inevitable, keeps reshaping you long after you thought you were fully formed.

Places act like time

In her 2025 essay “Sky Full of Forests,” part of the collection No Straight Road Takes You There: Essays for Uneven Terrain, Rebecca Solnit reflects on the upheaval brought by climate change. She writes: “We are leaving behind our old familiar world whose stability we can remember as a great kindness and entering into a rough new set of circumstances. Like refugees leaving a place, we are leaving a time. What should we carry with us?”

That image—refugees in time—struck us. It captures the disorientation of change that arrives uninvited. You don’t move, but the world around you does. The familiar dissolves, and you find yourself in a new reality without ever packing a bag.

But there’s another kind of shift: when you do move, when you leave your natal country and step into unfamiliar terrain. In that case, you’re not just swept along by change, you initiate it. You choose to disrupt the stability, to trade the known for the unknown.

Both paths lead to transformation. One is passive, the other active. But each raises the same question: what do we carry with us into the new time?

To understand how change shapes us, perhaps we need a metaphor like Einstein’s Twin Paradox. Imagine two twins: Bob and Joe. Bob moves to Italy; Joe stays in their hometown. In physics, the paradox explores time dilation. But here, let’s consider something more personal and let's call it experience dilation: the idea that place, like time, can stretch or compress the way identity evolves.

So, does Bob experience more, less, or the same as Joe, assuming all else is equal? That’s the catch—everything else is never equal. The answer depends entirely on the individuals, their circumstances, and the unpredictable variables of life.

And then there’s the vanity question: does Bob age faster, worn by the stress of adapting to a new culture? Or does he age more slowly, rejuvenated by adventure, lifestyle, the Mediterranean air? Is the living abroad a wrinkle-maker or a wrinkle-smoother?

We ask because we’ve been wondering about our own aging—especially in comparison to friends who never left the country. Has the move helped us age better? We’d like to think so. But without a version of us who stayed behind, there’s no control group to measure against.

At the next reunion, will we look radiant, glowing from a life lived boldly abroad—as one friend calls it, “living the dream”? Or will we show the wear and tear of navigating Italy’s bureaucracies, cultural shifts, and daily challenges? Only time—and perhaps a few candid photos—will tell.

In closing - for now

As we think about how moving abroad has shaped us, we’re also aware that our journey is just one version of migration. As we mentioned in the introduction, others carry heavier burdens, forced to leave homes behind under far harsher conditions. Their courage reframes our own small disorientations. If anything, our experience has taught us to practice humility—for what we don’t yet understand, for what others endure, and for the truth that moving, whether by choice or necessity, reshapes us all.

And so, as we look ahead, we wonder less about whether we are “aging well” and more about whether we are aging openly. Living abroad has taught us that the measure of a life is not in how seamlessly you fit in, but in how willing you are to keep learning, keep laughing, and keep asking for directions when you’re lost.

Perhaps that is the real gift of both transplanting yourself and aging: the chance to be beginners again, to carry humility like a passport, and to discover that belonging is not a fixed destination but a practice renewed each day.

Lost in Translation: Italian and English Idioms That Can’t Be Translated Literally

Italian idioms ~ English idioms ~ Why idioms matter

  


One of the joys—and frustrations—of learning Italian is discovering that words don’t always mean what you expect. Literal translations can take you down some very strange paths. Take the phrase pirata della strada. We saw it reading an article in the newspaper. We imagined a swashbuckling figure on the highway, sword in hand. In reality it means “hit-and-run driver.” Not quite the same cinematic flair.

This is where idioms come in. Idioms are the secret handshakes of a language—phrases that don’t make sense if you translate them word for word but unlock a whole world of cultural nuance once you know them. Using idioms is tricky but demonstrates a level of proficiency that will impress native speakers.

Here are a few of our favorite Italian idioms, paired with their English counterparts. Following that are some English (American) idioms paired with their Italian counterparts.

Italian idioms

Here are some Italian idioms that ,if you translate word-for-word, will lead you astray. 

In bocca al lupo → literally “in the mouth of the wolf,” but it means good luck. The Italian equivalent of “break a leg.” The common reply is Crepi il lupo! (“May the wolf die!”)

Avere le mani bucate → “to have holes in your hands,” which means to spend money easily.

Non avere peli sulla lingua → “to have no hairs on your tongue,” or in other words, to be blunt with no sugarcoating.

Cadere dalle nuvole → “to fall from the clouds,” meaning to be completely surprised or unaware

Essere al verde → “to be in the green,” meaning to being broke, i.e., out of money.

Andare in bianco → “to go in white,” meaning to fail at something, often romantically.

Saltare di palo in frasca → “to jump from pole to branch,” used to describe someone who changes topics erratically.

Acqua in bocca! → “water in your mouth!” which is a way of saying “keep it secret!”

English idioms

And then there are the English idioms that Italians scratch their heads at. A bee in your bonnet doesn’t mean insect troubles—it means you’re obsessed with something. Italians might say avere un chiodo fisso (“to have a fixed nail”) to capture the same idea. Different imagery, same human tendency to get stuck on a thought. 


A bee in your bonnet → Italians don’t keep bees in their bonnets. They’d say avere un chiodo fisso (“to be obsessed with”) or for more emphasis avere un chiodo fisso in testa.

Raining cats and dogs → Italians don’t imagine animals falling from the sky. They’d say piove a catinelle (“it’s pouring rain”). Another variant is piove a dirotto.

Steal someone’s thunder → Italians might be puzzled by this one. The closest idea is rubare la scena (“to steal the scene”). Italians might also say rubare la luce dei riflettori (“steal the spotlight”).

Let the cat out of the bag → Italians don’t keep cats in bags. They’d say vuotare il sacco (“to empty the sack”) for confessing or revealing a secret.

Bite the bullet → Italians prefer ingoiare il rospo (“to swallow the toad”) when facing something unpleasant.

Hit the sack → Italians don’t hit the sacks; they say andare a letto (“go to bed”) or andare a nanna (“go to sleep”).

Kill two birds with one stone → Italians soften it slightly: prendere due piccioni con una fava (“to catch two pigeons with one bean”).

Have skeletons in the closet → Italians say avere degli altarini (“to have little altars”), meaning hidden secrets. Altarini refers to small secrets, not necessarily dark ones. For serious secrets, Italians might say scheletri nell’armadio (literally the same as English).

Be under the weather → Italians don’t put health under the weather; they’d simply say non mi sento bene (“I don’t feel well”). Other idiomatic options are sentirsi così così and essere giù di corda (“to feel down”).

Spill the beans → Italians don’t spill beans; they vuotare il sacco, or spifferare (“to blurt out”).

Break the ice → Italians share this one, but they say rompere il ghiaccio — the cultures align here!

Kick the bucket → Italians would say tirare le cuoia (“to kick the hides”) for dying.

Cost an arm and a leg → Italians would say costare un occhio della testa (“to cost an eye from your head”).

Why Idioms Matter

Idioms aren’t just colorful expressions; they’re a window into how a culture encodes meaning. From a linguistic perspective, idioms are what scholars call non-compositional phrases: the meaning of the whole cannot be deduced from the sum of its parts. You can parse peli (hairs) and lingua (tongue) all day long, but you’ll never arrive at “to be blunt” without cultural context.

Idioms are non-compositional because:

• They demonstrate semantic opacity. The meaning is conventionalized and often culturally bound.
• They have a fixed structure, and you can’t freely substitute words, e.g., “kick the pail” doesn’t work.
• They break the rule that meaning equals the sum of their parts.

Non-compositionality is a key property that makes idioms challenging for machine translation and language learners.

Idioms also highlight the metaphorical frameworks that different languages rely on. English speakers imagine secrets as beans to be spilled, Italians imagine them as sacks to be emptied. English speakers put bees in bonnets, Italians hammer nails into their thoughts. These metaphors reveal how each culture conceptualizes abstract ideas like secrecy, obsession, or luck.

There’s also a pragmatic dimension: idioms are shortcuts to belonging. Using them correctly signals fluency not just in grammar but in cultural nuance. A learner who says in bocca al lupo instead of buona fortuna immediately sounds more natural, more “inside” the language. Conversely, a literal translation (“into the wolf’s mouth”) risks confusion or even comic misunderstanding.

Finally, idioms remind us that language is not a transparent code but a cultural artifact. They carry history, humor, and worldview. To study idioms is to study how people think, what they value, and how they play with words. That’s why mastering them is less about vocabulary lists and more about stepping into another culture’s imagination.

So the next time you’re tempted to translate literally, pause and ask: is this really about wolves and nails and buckets? Or is there a hidden meaning waiting to be discovered? That’s where the fun begins.

From Avogadro to Fermi: Italians Whose Names Shaped Science

Introduction ~ Physics & Chemistry ~

Mathematics & Economics ~ Life Sciences ~

Conclusion

Twenty-five Italian scientists whose names 

describe  science and math constants or concepts.

Introduction

When you hear names like Avogadro, Volta, or Fermi, you might think of chemistry class, physics equations, or mysterious constants that govern the universe. (Or with Avogadro, maybe you thought of avocado?) But behind these abstract terms are real people, Italians whose insights were such that their surnames became woven into the very language of science.


From the Renaissance to the modern nuclear age, Italy has produced thinkers whose ideas reshaped our understanding of nature, society, and technology. Their legacies live on not just in textbooks, but in the constants, units, and principles that scientists and students use every day. The “volt” that powers your phone, the “Gini coefficient” that economists cite when discussing inequality, the “Pareto principle” that explains why 20% of your wardrobe gets 80% of the wear—all of these trace back to Italian minds.


Our curiosity began with the Gini coefficient. We didn’t know what it was and that it was even named after someone, so we dug in and quickly discovered that Corrado Gini’s story was more complicated than we expected. Beyond his statistical legacy, he was also a believer in eugenics and a supporter of fascism. That realization made us pause. When we use these names in science, we’re not just invoking numbers or constants, but the people behind them—their brilliance, their flaws, and their times. And that’s what inspired this post.

Physics & Chemistry

Italy’s fingerprints are all over the foundations of modern physics and chemistry. Some of the most familiar constants and units we use today are direct tributes to Italian pioneers who investigated bold questions about matter, energy, and the invisible forces of nature.



Amedeo Avogadro (1776–1856)

Avogadro’s name is forever linked to the Avogadro constant—the staggering number of particles in a single mole of substance (6.022 x 10^23). His insight that equal volumes of gases contain the same number of molecules, regardless of type, was revolutionary.

He spent much of his career in relative obscurity, teaching in Turin, and his ideas weren’t widely accepted until decades after his death. His law—proposed in 1811—was largely ignored until the 1860 Karlsruhe Congress, four years after his death, when it became the cornerstone of modern atomic theory. In 1821, during the revolutionary wave across Europe, Avogadro was active in the Piedmontese movement for constitutional reform. This political engagement may have contributed to his periods of professional obscurity, as his views didn’t always align with the ruling powers.


Alessandro Volta (1745–1827)

The volt, the unit of electric potential, honors Volta’s groundbreaking work in electricity. His invention of the voltaic pile—the first true battery—lit the spark for the electrical age.

Volta’s curiosity stretched beyond electricity—he discovered methane gas in 1776 while studying marshes near Lake Maggiore. A devout Catholic and a man of the Enlightenment, he challenged Galvani’s ‘animal electricity’ with experiments that proved electricity could be generated chemically, reshaping science in his age. Napoleon Bonaparte admired him so much that he made Volta a count—proof that science could impress even emperors.




Luigi Galvani (1737–1798)

Galvani’s experiments with frog legs twitching under electrical stimulation gave rise to galvanism. Though primitive by today’s standards, his work laid the groundwork for bioelectricity and modern electrophysiology.

His experiments on frog legs led him to conclude that electricity was inherent to living tissue. Volta disagreed, insisting it was generated by contact between metals. Their debate—Galvani’s “vital force” versus Volta’s “contact electricity”—pushed both men to refine their theories, ultimately leading Volta to invent the battery.

Galvani’s nephew, Giovanni Aldini, carried Galvani’s ideas into dramatic public demonstrations, applying electricity to human corpses. These spectacles captured the imagination of the public and influenced literature, most famously Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.



Enrico Fermi (1901–1954)

A towering figure of 20th‑century physics, Fermi’s name is attached to the Fermi constant, Fermi–Dirac statistics, and even the term fermion. His contributions spanned quantum theory, nuclear physics, and the development of the first nuclear reactor.

A Nobel laureate, he fled fascist Italy with his Jewish wife, Laura, and became a key figure in the Manhattan Project. He oversaw the first controlled nuclear chain reaction in 1942 at the University of Chicago, a milestone in the atomic age.


Evangelista Torricelli (1608–1647)

A student of Galileo, Torricelli invented the barometer and formulated Torricelli’s law describing fluid outflow. The torr, a unit of pressure, also bears his name.

In 1641, Torricelli became Galileo’s secretary and student during the final months of Galileo’s life. He helped the aging master with his work while developing his own groundbreaking ideas.

Torricelli also explored geometry and discovered the paradoxical figure later called Gabriel’s Horn (or Torricelli’s trumpet)—a shape with finite volume but infinite surface area. This baffling result pushed the boundaries of mathematical thought in the 17th century.



Guglielmo Marconi (1874–1937)

Known as the father of long‑distance radio transmission, Marconi’s name lives on in the Marconi antenna. His work helped transform communication, shrinking the world through wireless signals.

He shared the 1909 Nobel Prize in Physics, but later became a supporter of Mussolini’s regime. Not only did he support Mussolini’s Fascist regime, but he also became president of the Royal Academy of Italy, effectively aligning science with authoritarian politics. At the same time, his claim to be the “inventor of radio” was contested, with rivals like Nikola Tesla and Oliver Lodge arguing that Marconi built on their work.

Mathematics & Economics

If physics gave us the constants that describe the universe, mathematics and economics gave us the tools to understand patterns, efficiency, and inequality. Here too, Italian surnames have become shorthand for ideas that shape how we think about society and numbers.  



Vilfredo Pareto (1848–1923)

Pareto’s name is synonymous with the Pareto distribution and the famous Pareto principle, better known as the 80/20 rule. His observation that 80% of Italy’s land was owned by 20% of the population became a universal metaphor for imbalance—whether in wealth, productivity, or even how often you wear your favorite shoes.

Pareto was born in Paris in 1848, the year of Europe’s great revolutions. (His family descended from Genoese nobility exiled to France, which gave him both an outsider’s perspective and a sharp eye for the dynamics of power.) His very birth was surrounded by upheaval, foreshadowing his lifelong interest in how societies shift and elites circulate. Trained as an engineer before turning to economics, Pareto was also a sharp social critic—his writings on elites and power dynamics still spark debate in political science today. Pareto also believed people are mostly irrational, ruled by instincts and excuses rather than logic. Efficiency may be his legacy, but inefficiency was his diagnosis of human nature.



Corrado Gini (1884–1965)

The Gini coefficient remains one of the most widely used measures of inequality. By condensing complex distributions of wealth or income into a single number between 0 and 1, Gini gave economists and policymakers a powerful way to track fairness—or the lack of it—across societies.

His legacy is complicated—beyond statistics, he was a proponent of eugenics and aligned himself with Mussolini’s fascist regime, a reminder that scientific contributions can’t be separated from the ideologies of their time. After WWII, he founded the Italian Unionist Movement, advocating for Italy to be annexed by the U.S.—a testament to his unconventional thinking. It’s a reminder that his intellectual life was as unconventional as his statistical innovations.



Joseph-Louis Lagrange (1736–1813)

Born Giuseppe Lodovico Lagrangia in Turin, he became one of the greatest mathematicians of his age. His name lives on in Lagrangian mechanics, Lagrange multipliers in optimization, and Lagrange points in celestial mechanics—those gravitational sweet spots where spacecraft can “park” in space.

Though Italian by birth, he spent much of his career in Paris and Berlin, bridging scientific communities across Europe during the Enlightenment. Unlike many intellectuals of his time, Lagrange navigated the French Revolution with remarkable skill. He avoided political entanglements, earning respect from both revolutionaries and Napoleon, who made him a senator in 1799. Lagrange, ever cautious about his health, avoided marriage for most of his life, fearing stress would shorten it. Yet he lived to 77 and was buried in Paris’s Panthéon—proof that even the most rational mathematician couldn’t predict his own longevity.

 


Tullio Levi-Civita (1873–1941)

A master of tensor calculus, Levi-Civita’s work underpins Einstein’s general theory of relativity. The Levi-Civita symbol and Levi-Civita connection are still central to modern geometry and physics.

In 1936, Levi‑Civita accepted Einstein’s invitation to Princeton. Their collaboration was not only technical but personal—Einstein valued Levi‑Civita’s ability to translate complex physics into precise mathematics. Despite his brilliance, he was expelled from his university post in 1938 under Italy’s anti‑Jewish racial laws, a stark example of how politics can derail science. After his expulsion, Levi‑Civita lived quietly in Rome until his death in 1941, largely cut off from the academic world he had helped shape.



Gregorio Ricci-Curbastro (1853–1925)

Together with Levi-Civita, Ricci-Curbastro developed the tensor calculus that Einstein later used to describe the curvature of spacetime. The Ricci tensor is a cornerstone of general relativity, carrying his name into the cosmos.

He spent most of his career in Padua, quietly building the mathematical tools that would later transform physics—even if he himself never lived to see their full impact.

Life Sciences

Italy’s scientific legacy isn’t confined to the abstract world of numbers or the invisible forces of physics. It also runs deep into the study of living organisms, where Italian anatomists and naturalists helped lay the foundations of modern biology and medicine. Their names still echo in the terminology of anatomy and physiology.

Marcello Malpighi (1628–1694)

Often called the “father of microscopic anatomy,” Malpighi was among the first to use a microscope to study living tissues. His discoveries gave us Malpighian corpuscles in the kidney and Malpighian tubules in insects—structures that still carry his name centuries later.

As physician to Pope Innocent XII, Malpighi embodied the uneasy but productive relationship between Catholic institutions and scientific inquiry in Baroque Italy in the 17th-century. Malpighi’s use of the microscope was revolutionary, but also controversial. Many scholars doubted the reliability of magnification, leading to debates about whether his “hidden structures” were real.



Lazzaro Spallanzani (1729–1799)

A pioneer of experimental biology, Spallanzani’s meticulous work on reproduction and microorganisms challenged the prevailing idea of spontaneous generation. His Spallanzani’s experiments (to refute spontaneous generation) became a cornerstone in microbiology, paving the way for Pasteur’s later breakthroughs.

Spallanzani was a tireless experimenter. He once donned a protective suit and descended into Mount Vesuvius’s crater to study volcanic activity firsthand. He blinded bats to prove they could navigate without sight, anticipating the discovery of echolocation centuries later. A priest, a biologist, and even a volcano explorer, he embodied the restless curiosity of Enlightenment science.



Antonio Scarpa (1752–1832)

A renowned anatomist, Scarpa’s name endures in Scarpa’s triangle (a region of the thigh) and Scarpa’s ganglion (in the inner ear). His detailed anatomical descriptions remain part of medical training today.

He was a brilliant but controversial figure—admired for his anatomical precision, but notorious for his arrogance and political maneuvering within academia. Scarpa was so domineering that he reportedly demanded his students and colleagues address him as “the prince of anatomists.” His arrogance was legendary—when he died, some rivals even celebrated, and his body was allegedly mutilated by enemies before burial, a macabre testament to how polarizing he was.



Gabriele Falloppio (1523–1562)

Fallopian tubes are named for Falloppio. These are crucial structures in female reproductive anatomy. His careful dissections advanced Renaissance medicine and left a lasting imprint on gynecology.

Falloppio was not only dissecting bodies but also writing practical medical advice—his treatise on linen sheaths against syphilis is often cited as one of the earliest documented references to condoms. Even more striking, his father had died of syphilis when Falloppio was a child, so his interest in protection was likely deeply personal.

Conclusion

From the invisible particles counted by Avogadro to the inequalities measured by Gini, Italian surnames have become part of the universal vocabulary of science. They remind us that behind every constant, unit, or principle lies a human story—of curiosity, persistence, and the courage to challenge accepted wisdom.

What’s striking is the breadth of Italy’s contribution. These names span disciplines as diverse as nuclear physics, economics, anatomy, and geometry. Together, they form a hidden thread running through the sciences, a reminder that knowledge is not just abstract but deeply cultural, shaped by the people and places that nurtured it.

Italy’s scientific legacy is not frozen in the past. Each time a student calculates a mole using Avogadro’s number, or an economist cites the Gini coefficient, or an engineer designs around a Lagrange point, they are unknowingly invoking centuries of Italian ingenuity. These names are more than labels—they are echoes of minds that helped define how we see the world.

So the next time you hear a constant or principle in class, pause for a moment. Behind that word is not just a number or a formula, but a person whose ideas were powerful enough to transcend time, language, and borders. And in that sense, the legacy of Italy’s scientific giants is still very much alive.

It is telling, too, that no woman has yet had her surname attached to a fundamental scientific constant, a reminder of how the history of science reflects not only discovery but also exclusion. And while Italy may not rival Germany or France in sheer number of eponymous constants, its legacy is distinctive in breadth: from physics to economics, from anatomy to statistics, Italian names echo across disciplines, carrying a cultural resonance that few nations can match

In every constant, law, and principle, Italy’s genius still speaks the language of science.

A Walk to Alzano Lombardo for Lunch – Autumn Light and Sardinian Flavors

Overview ~ Notes ~ Burro ~ Photos

  

Left to right: A country lane with roccolo - Colle di Ranica; Cross on Colle di Ranica; View from Colle di Ranica toward Val Seriana.

We retraced familiar steps this fall, almost a year after our last walk to Alzano Lombardo. The route was the same—Bergamo through Maresana, Colle di Ranica, Croce del Boscone, and down into Alzano. A friend had made reservations at Burro, the Sardinian-inspired restaurant we had enjoyed before, and we were up for a walk. Instead of a tram ride, we ended with a lift back to Bergamo, full and content after a long lunch.

Overview

Duration: ~2.25 hours walking one way
Elevation gain: ~472 m
Length: ~10.5 km one way
Location: Italy, Province of Bergamo, Bergamo → Alzano Lombardo, Lombardy


The hike reminded us that repetition doesn’t mean sameness. Walking the same path a year later, with different company, different weather, and a different rhythm of the day, the experience became something new. The hazy autumn light, the downtime under the cross, and the Sardinian flavors at Burro combined into a day that felt suspended—an interlude between seasons, between routines. It was also a nice welcome back to Bergamo for us.

Notes

The trail felt both known and new. We were away from Bergamo for a month and felt like we were exploring anew the surrounding hills. Passing through oak groves and farm tracks – asking, did we pass this way last time, oh yeah, yes we did. We paused at Colle di Ranica (723 m) under the cross and altar dedicated to those that have perished from war. From here, the southeast view opens partly toward the start of Val Seriana and partly to the Po River valley plain. Between the ever changing and uncertain topography of the pre-alps and the flat certainty of the plain.


We hiked in short-sleeved shirts and broke sweat to earn the 474 m (1550 ft) of elevation gain. At the cross, we sat in silence overlooking the hazy valley. Our only interruptions were the muffled sounds from the valley below and the leaves around us detaching and drifting down, each one trying their best to make some big noise on their trip to the ground but not really succeeding.

Burro

Burro describes their philosophy as “Proponiamo la nostra idea di cucina contemporanea con un richiamo ai profumi e ai sapori della Sardegna, partendo dalle nostre radici e unendo sperimentazione, cultura e qualità.” And indeed, the dishes we shared were colorful, inspired, and deeply rooted in Sardinian flavors. The lunch stretched long, as good lunches should, with plates arriving like small works of art—textures and colors layered in ways that felt both traditional and experimental. Conversation slowed, replaced by appreciation of what was on the table. It was less about eating quickly and more about inhabiting the meal.

Unlike last year, when we hopped on the tram back to Bergamo, this time we were driven home. The ride felt like a gentle coda to the day: no rush, no schedules, just the lingering taste of Sardinian cooking and the memory of leaves falling under the cross at Ranica.

Photos

   

Dishes at Burro Restaurant (Alzano Lombardo). From left to right. Branzino in panure alle mandorle e zucchine; macco di fave, salmone marinato, puntarelle e crème fraîche; pici di pasta fresca, cacio, pepe e limone; sformatino di carciofi, fonduta di alpeggio, carciofi, fritti e menta.


  

Left: Gingko trees in Alzano Lombardo.

Center: An oak tree in the hills above Ranica (BG).

Right: Hike tracks from Bergamo to Alzano Lombardo.

  

Left: Cross on Colle di Ranica.

Right: View from Colle di Ranica toward Val Seriana.

Arches Without Fees: Hiking Devil’s Garden During the Government Shutdown

Overview ~ Notes ~ Reflections ~ Photos

 

 

Top row: Views from trail near Double-O Arch over Devil's Garden and sandstone fins.

Bottom row: Double-O Arch and Landscape Arch in Arches National Park, Moab.
 

This post is about a hike through Arches National Park’s Devil’s Garden trail to Double O Arch. We were in Moab for a wedding and had limited free time to explore, so we only caught a glimpse of Moab’s surreal beauty. Even this hike was cut short for a pre-wedding dinner back in town. On the day we visited the park entrance was wide open: no fees were collected due to the government shutdown.

Overview 

Length: ~7.2 km (4.5 miles) (out-and-back to Double O Arch; the full loop is longer) 

Duration: 1.5 hours (we turned back before completing the loop) 

Elevation gain: 101 m (331 ft) 

Location: USA, Utah, Moab, Arches National Park

The Devil’s Garden trail is one of Arches National Park’s signature hikes, leading to a series of arches tucked into sandstone fins and ridges. Our destination was Double O Arch, a dramatic formation where two arches stack one above the other, like nature’s own punctuation mark. 

Notes

Driving into Arches felt surreal because we had not experienced this landscape in person before and were blown away. You normally stop at the entrance station, pay the fee, and get a map. (Or in some days we heard, you might have to wait to get into the park.) But because of the government shutdown, the booths were empty. Again, a little surreal. We simply rolled into the park, a free pass into one of America’s most iconic landscapes. It was unsettling—like sneaking into a museum after hours—but also a reminder of how fragile the systems are that protect these places.

The trail itself begins at Devil’s Garden trailhead, literally the end of the road in the park. From the trailhead, you go past Landscape Arch, one of the longest natural arches in the world. From there, the path grows more rugged, scrambling over slickrock and weaving through sandstone fins.


We reached Double O Arch, marveling at how erosion had carved two openings in the same sandstone wall. The larger arch frames the desert beyond, while the smaller one sits below like a hidden window. Standing there, you can't help but wonder how these arches form. The answer lies in millions of years of geologic processes:

• Sandstone layers deposited in ancient seas.
• Uplift and erosion exposing the rock.
• Cracks forming in the sandstone fins.
• Water seeping in, freezing and thawing, breaking rock apart.
• Wind and rain slowly enlarging openings until arches emerge.

In geologic time, arches are temporary features—eventually they collapse. Landscape Arch, for example, has shed massive rock slabs in recent decades, a reminder that these formations are always changing.

We didn’t complete the loop trail. Time was short, and Moab awaited with a pre-wedding dinner. Hiking back the way we came, we felt both satisfied and determined to return to explore more in the proper Travelmarx style. That said, the wedding activities were a blast.

Reflections

Returning to the United States after time abroad felt strangely disorienting. Driving into Arches without paying an entrance fee—because of the government shutdown—only heightened the sense that we’d stepped into a country paused mid-sentence. The landscape itself was timeless, yet the atmosphere back home was anything but: a highly charged political environment where even casual family conversations required careful navigation to avoid hot-button topics.

Against that backdrop, our hike through Devil’s Garden became more than just a walk among arches. It was a reminder of permanence and impermanence—the sandstone fins shaped over millions of years, and the fleeting turbulence of human affairs. Later that evening, we shifted from the silence of the desert to the joy of a wedding pre-celebration in Moab. The next day we would be not just guests but officiants, standing with a young couple as they began their life together.

The juxtaposition was striking with political gridlock on the national stage, personal restraint in family conversations, and then, in the middle of it all, the unambiguous joy of a wedding. The arches will one day collapse, the political climate will shift, but what endures are the bonds we create with one another: shared celebrations, moments of togetherness, and the sense of being united for common ends.

Photos

 

Left: View of Landscape Arch with grey sky.
Right: Trail in Devil's Garden.

 

Left: Sandstone fins in Devil's Garden, Arches National Park, Moab.

Right: A sign explaining how the "walls" or "fins" are formed.

  

Left: Formation in Devil's Garden.

Center: Sign at trailhead showing the possible routes.

Right: Our tracks for walk from trailhead to Double-O and back.

Street Sign Language Lesson LV - Da non perdere

previous lesson | this lesson

In this round of Street Sign Language Lesson, we wander from Bergamo to Brescia and from Iseo to Asolo, discovering how Italian signs can be playful, bureaucratic, or even poetic. 

Bergamo da non perdere
“Bergamo not to be missed”

This tourist map highlights da + infinitive, a classic Italian construction. Da non perdere literally means “to not lose,” but idiomatically it’s “not to be missed.” You’ll see this everywhere: un film da vedere (a film worth seeing), un libro da leggere (a book to read).

160 ANNI DI SÌ PER I NOSTRI TERRITORI. ECCO PERCHÉ ALL'OPS DI UNICREDIT DICIAMO NO
“160 years of yes for our territories. Here’s why we say NO to UniCredit’s offer.”

This is a poster we saw at Banco BPM. The acronym OPS threw us off. OPS is Offerta Pubblica di Scambio, a takeover offer one company makes for another. The background is this: UniCredit withdrew its Public Exchange Offer (OPS) for the acquisition of Banco BPM in July 2025 due to uncertainty over the approval of the Government's Golden Power and the long-time frame to obtain the final resolution of the matter. The offer, launched in November 2024, provided for the exchange of 0.175 UniCredit shares for each Banco BPM share, but was deemed inadequate and at a significant discount to shareholders by Banco BPM.

The Italian language often uses anni di + noun to encapsulate a legacy: anni di lotta (years of struggle), anni di esperienza (years of experience). The phrase—diciamo no—is a classic political slogan structure: subject + verb + emphatic particle.

Bizzi con l'Arrosticino - ti sfizi
“Bizi skewers - indulge yourself” or "Bizzi Arrosticini - the treat that hits the spot"

We saw this jolly kid’s face on a food truck when we pulled into the parking of Spaccio Dolciario Galbusera Tre Marie - Forcola (SO) en route to a hike. (See Val Grosina and Alpe Dosdè Two-Day Hike.)

The verb sfiziarsi comes from sfizio, meaning whim, fancy, or craving. Ti sfizi is second person reflexive: “you treat yourself; you indulge.” It’s playful, colloquial, and Romanesco/Central Italian in flavor. The rhyme between Bizzi (the company name) and sfizi is great marketing sing-song rhyme.

Arrosticini are a traditional dish from Abruzzese cuisine, consisting of small skewers of sheep meat cut into cubes, threaded onto wooden sticks, and grilled. They are prepared with mutton or young lamb, alternating lean pieces with fattier ones, then cooked over charcoal—preferably on a special grill called a fornacella—and eaten with the hands.



È VIETATO DI ABBEVERARE QUADRUPEDI
"Don’t let your dogs drink from this fountain”

È vietato + infinitive is the standard prohibition formula. But here we get di abbeverare instead of the more common abbeverare directly. So, strictly speaking, è vietato abbeverare would be more standard. The addition of di is a regional, bureaucratic flourish, or humorous flourish?

Quadrupedi—literally “four-footed ones”—is a formal, almost zoological term. Instead of cani (dogs) or animali, the sign raises the register, as if the fountain were a Roman law tablet.

We saw this sign in Asolo, in the province of Treviso.



Sono un vaso non un posacenere – grazie
“I’m a vase, not an ashtray – thank you”

In this sign spotted in Brescia, the vase speaks in the first person: sono un vaso. This anthropomorphic use in public notices makes the message more direct and polite. Compare: Non buttare i rifiuti ("don’t throw trash") vs. Io non sono un cestino ("I’m not a trash can"). The latter feels more human, and more shaming.

Also note the lack of punctuation between vaso and non un posacenere. In English we’d expect a comma or dash, but Italian signage often skips it, relying on rhythm.



SPAZIO CALMO
“Calm space”

This accessibility sign designates a refuge area that people with disabilities should use during emergencies. We saw the sign near an elevator in a parking structure in Bergamo.

The phrase is interesting because spazio calmo is not idiomatic everyday Italian, you’d expect phrases like zona di rifugio or area protetta. But spazio calmo is the official technical term in fire-safety regulations (Decreto Ministeriale 3 agosto 2015). It’s a literal borrowing from EU directives, where “calm space” is used in English.



TELO MARE COVERI
“Beach towel by Enrico Coveri”

We instinctively read Coveri as “cover”—but it’s the brand, Enrico Coveri.  Another reminder of how cultural literacy can trip us up in the funniest ways.

Un telo mare is the standard phrase for a beach towel. Notice there’s no preposition: not telo da mare but simply telo mare. This is an example of a “bare compound” construction that Italian allows in set phrases: scarpe tennis (tennis shoes), pantaloni sci (ski pants).




transito consentito alle biciclette solo se condotte a mano

“Please walk your bike”  

This sign was spotted along a pedestrian waterfront path in the town of Iseo, on Lago Iseo. The Italian wording is long and formal: literally, "Transit permitted to bicycles only if walked by hand." It’s the kind of precise and legalistic phrasing you’d expect in a municipal ordinance.

What struck us is that the English version on the same sign is more compact: "please walk your bike." Rather than spelling out the condition ("transit permitted only if…"), it flips the perspective and gives a direct instruction to the cyclist.

Why is this the case? Italian public signage often mirrors the syntax of regulations. The phrase transito consentito… echoes the language of traffic codes, where permissions and restrictions are spelled out in full.  On the other hand, English signage tends to favor brevity and direct imperatives: "Keep off the grass", "Mind the gap", "Walk your bike". The goal is quick comprehension over legal precision. Italian frames the rule from the authority’s point of view ("transit is permitted only if…"). English frames it from the user’s point of view ("you must walk your bike").   

We ran into this cultural sign difference when trying to check ZTL (zona traffico limitato) hours in Bergamo. The rules and hours were frustratingly not written from the perspective of someone simply trying to find out when they can drive into the upper city.

Other examples:

- Accesso consentito ai soli autorizzati* → "Authorized personnel only"

- È vietato fumare → "No smoking"  

- Transito vietato ai veicoli a motore → "No motor vehicles"

In each case, Italian uses a full verbal construction, while English compresses it into a noun phrase or imperative.