Three hundred miles away, in a dusty field in Tuscany, Paolo straightened up and arched his back, then leaned on the rake he had been scraping across the hardened earth at his feet. He took off his weather-beaten Washington Nationals baseball cap, stained from sweat and dusty from . work, and fanned the muggy air to stir even a bit of breeze on his face.
It was mid-September, usually a time of some relief in the vineyard since the harvest was mostly completed, and Paolo was helping his father, Dito, clean the rows of vines to prepare them for their winter sleep. The pickers had moved on to other vineyard rows, and Dito had already arranged contracts to sell their grapes to surrounding wineries; that left father and son alone in the stillness of the vineyard to put everything in order for
