Driver’s Ed

May 15 ... I slip behind the wheel for our trip to Radicòfani for food and supplies. The fifteen-minute trip is a mini-adventure for me, by virtue of the fact that hill stops, or rather hill starts, present a real challenge to a rookie stick shift driver. In fact, I want to avoid them as much as possible, but we’re in Tuscany, La Toscana, which effectively translates from the Italian to mean beautiful, but oh so very hilly. But I want to help share the driving load. So off, and up, we go. Well almost. I stall three times at the lip where the dirt road from the farmhouse meets the paved road. Each time, the lip and Radicofani recede from view by a few feet. I’m touring Italy in retrograde. The fourth time isn’t exactly a charm, but it gets the job done. I’m Frankenstein behind the wheel. I rev the gas before taking my foot off the clutch, so at least this sounds like progress, and as I ease my foot off the clutch, the wheels spin, gravel flies, the car shoots forward like a dart, and suddenly, somehow, I’m over the lip and on the main road heading toward Radicòfani.

I celebrate while the ladies open their eyes and release their grips on the seat cushions. They must feel like all Tuscan mothers who drive with their children for the first time. There’s very little traffic, so my hope for perpetual motion is essentially granted. There are two stop signs along the way, one on an incline, but I take it as a suggestion on a roll.

There’s something to be said for springtime driving in the Val d’Orcia - words like enchanted, breathtaking, picturesque. Navigating the switchbacks as we climb, I glimpse the valley to my right, and it’s a sight to behold. A stunning green expanse of pastures and farmland rises and tumbles like the playful flocks of sheep that dot them.

Radicòfani is a small medieval hill town that sits atop a mount on the western side of the valley, crowned with the ruins of a fort so strategically placed, it must have shaken the resolve of any invader contemplating a siege. Thankfully, our demands are of a humbler sort. All we want of it is bread, cheese, fruit and dish soap. And we’re willing to pay for it.

Eliana has told us that there’s an alimentari grocer on the main road just outside the town walls. I see it as we approach, and am delighted that it’s on the flat. My glee fades. There’s nowhere to park. Eliana has also told us that there’s another alimentari within the walls, further up. Ah yes. 'within the walls' means very narrow cobblestoned streets, and up means, well, up, on those very narrow cobblestoned streets.

“Well Ladies, looks like we have to go in.”

"Are you sure we can drive through that tight squeeze of a gate, or is it for pedestrians?”

“Can the car even fit?”

“I hope there aren’t any pedestrians.”

"I hope there aren't any other cars."

“We need food. The food’s in and up there, so here we go!”

I guide the car through the opening in the great stone walls, feeling like a magician who’s just stuffed a blue whale into a top hat. We begin the ascent, with no intent of stopping, buzzing past “Boutique della Frutta” on the right, past “Fiori e Piante” on the left, a paneficio on the right, a macelleria on the left, making mental notes as they flash by that yes, what we need can indeed be found here. Up, ever up, the cobbles thrum beneath our wheels, past the curious residents who wouldn’t dare cross in front me, and then, the blessed summit appears in a blaze of sunlight.

I want to get out and plant a flag. I can’t, because immediately the street curves down the other side. The ladies, a bit wide-eyed, just want to get out.

Il Colombaio, The Dovecote

May 14, 2009 late afternoon...We fold ourselves into our car once more and follow Silvano back down to the main road. We cross and continue on the dirt track for about 1/8 mile, then take a right through an iron gate. And there, across a small packed gravel drive overlooking a steep drop to the lush green valley below, is Podere Il Colombaio, or Dovecote Farm in English, our home for the next week.

Walking ahead, Silvano pulls out a set of keys, works the lock, and swings open the door to the podere, a beautiful renovated stone farmhouse, roofed in the baked red clay tiles so widely and lovingly recognizeable in Italy and Spain.

My breath is gone even before I see inside, stolen by the view from the lawn. Steep but rolling hills tumble out below me in a 270 degree vista, dotted silver-green all over with olive groves, and punctuated at their tops by vigilant cypresses. Swallows swoop, dart and chirp around us, investigating the newcomers, doves coo from a tree somewhere ahead of me, and the air is warm and fresh. I take off my shoes, and the grass is a lush carpet under my feet. A rush of gratitude fills me, followed by giddy joy. “Oh, my,” I say softly. “God, You must have had a such a ball when you made Italy. You have really, REALLY pulled out the stops here.”

Picking up my shoes I join my friends Cynthia, Priscilla, and Trish, as Silvano shows us around like a proud papa'. We step inside and enter a small foyer/sitting room. The interior is rustic, and immediately comfortable, an homage to its early life as farmhouse and barn. The floor is tiled in wide polished brick-hued stone, and the room is appointed with a low wooden table, and two small sofas.

Through the foyer we step into the kitchen lit by a sunny window on the right. On the left, there’s a stone sink with wooden dish drain above, counter space with a small microwave oven, and a four-burner gas stove. Directly across the room from us is a raised kitchen fireplace. Its mantle is adorned with carpentry implements and a wooden pizza paddle. Under the fireplace are two stone cubbies for kindling. To the right stands a white fridge/freezer combo, flanked by a large wooden credenza and hutch that hold dishes, glassware and other cookware. The kitchen table centers the scene, and on it sits glass bottles of olive oil (La Palazzina’s own), vinegar, and a welcome basket of homemade goodies courtesy of Eliana: a jar of homemade pear jam, and bags of chocolate and chocolate chip cookies. Festooning these are mini servings of Nutella and breakfast toasts. Red and white country patterned linens adorn the table, windows, mantle and brighten the spaces below the sink and stove.


“It’s a working fireplace,” Silvano says gesturing toward the hearth laid with kindling and newspaper. “The apartment is heated, but you’re welcome to use the fireplace. It will add nice atmosphere, and take the chill out of the kitchen as the night cools down.” Each of us knows instinctively that we’ll take him up on his recommendation.

Stepping up from the fireplace, Silvano shows us the farm apartment’s three bedrooms and two bathrooms, flicking on the interior and exterior lights as he goes from room to room. Bright lights have never been part and parcel of Tuscan farm life, and the fixtures at Il Colombaio bear that out, but they’re sufficient for our needs. After all, we’re here to be part of the landscape.

Trish and I will share the smaller room with two twin beds. Priscilla and Cynthia should each have their own rooms, out of respect for Priscilla’s status as the group’s 74-year-old matriarch, and recognizing Cynthia’s unspoken need for respite from her stressed and sleep-deprived life back home. Raising her youngest son David has taken a toll. He’s a handsome 18-year-old suffering from severe physical and developmental disabilities caused by autism and epilepsy. One of the few things that has not burned down to the quick is Cynthia’s boundless love for David, nor his for her, and he’s never far from her mind. Well, here really, how can he be? You see, at home, ever present is David’s love for pesto, second only to his love for his mother, and here we are in the birthplace of that culinary delight. Basil plants across the whole of Italy must surely now be invoking David Keefe’s name in worship.

The tour complete, Silvano departs with a two-handed wave and a renewed invitation to dinner. We leave the studded wooden door ajar, welcoming in the air, the late afternoon light, and bird song as we unpack, poke about the house, and freshen up before dinner. At one point, gathered in the kitchen, we look at each other and squeal out as one, “Aaaghhhhh! We’re here!!!!!”

Gracious Hosts

May 14, 2009 late afternoon... The tension of our quest to find this place
begins to melt away, and we slowly refocus on the beauty of our surroundings. We’ve made it. To this little heaven called Tuscany. If I’m dreaming, per carità, don’t wake me.

A few minutes later, as we’re sipping and nibbling, we hear Eliana calling in the background, “Ugo!” “Ugo!” She’s calling the dog, who is in no rush to heed his master’s voice and make an appearance. A cat peeks around the corner, though, and Cynthia stands and follows it around the side of the villa. Eliana is there, leaving a bowl of water on the stoop near the door, and as she straightens up she wipes her hands on the front of her apron.

“That’s Mariola,” she tells us, pointing to the friendly feline wreathing around Cynthia’s ankles. “She’s very sweet. She and another cat just had kittens a week ago. Mariola had one, and Bella, the other cat, had four.” Eliana comes down the steps and reaches to open the roof of a small dog house, currently in use as the maternity ward. Peering up at us are Bella, a tortie like Mariola, and five kittens nursing with great enthusiasm. At least Bella is peering up at us. The kittens barely have their eyes open. Cynthia picks up one, and Bella meowls in protest. Having left the babysitting duties to Bella, Mariola begins to purr loudly.

“What is the Italian verb for that sound?” I ask Eliana.

“Fare la fusa. And in English?” she asks.

“Purr.”“Purr,” she imitates me, and with effort adds an impressively emphasized American rrr to the end. “Brava,” I congratulate her, and she beams.

Ugo, or Hugo, chooses this moment to come trotting up from the olive groves below. He looks like a miniature Rottweiler, and is about the size of an American football. “There you are, you vagabond,” chastises Eliana. “Where have you been this time?” Ugo’s not telling. He just sits and looks up at her with big brown moon pie eyes. Eliana clucks her tongue at him and shakes her head.

“Allora,” she says, looking up at us and smiling. “Are you feeling a bit recovered?”

“Yes, thanks so much.”“I’m glad. You’re probably eager to settle in and get your bearings. Let me call Silvano, so he can come and bring you to the apartment.” Silvano is her husband, Silvano Mamprin, manager of La Palazzina.

In just a few minutes, Silvano pulls in up in a Subaru wagon, gets out of the car and gives us a hearty welcome in English. He’s Venetian by birth, but a few years back he emigrated south to Tuscany. With pale blue eyes, fair skin, and stocky build, he’s expressive, extroverted, and enthusiastically sincere in his welcome. He speaks fluent English with an accent that is equal parts Italian and British. After exchanging pleasantries, and happy to see that Eliana has taken such good care of us already, he says, “So, now, I’ll take you to the apartment, Il Colombaio; it’s just down the road. Take your time settling in, and we’d like to invite you to dinner tonight back here at the house. How does 7:30 sound?” Like a healing elixir for weary souls.

Worth the Wait

Looking out the car window, I see Google Earth in living color. Looking at the map, I see a bread crumb’s distance from Radicòfani. The accent over the “o” in the town’s name signals the pronunciation Radi-CO-fa-nee. We’ve circled nearly the entire Val d’Orcia into Southern Tuscany. And now, following a small sign off the serpentine main road, down a dirt and gravel track lined with cypress trees and spiky yellow broom, and then bending left into a circular crushed gravel drive bordered by terra cotta pots overflowing with red geraniums, we pull up to Fattoria La Palazzina, Locanda Agrituristica.

La Palazzina gracefully adorns this crenelated landscape. It’s a beautiful villa and farm estate transformed into an agritourism destination. Its light yellow stucco exterior, with wrought iron lattice work over the arched windows, make it noble, warm, and inviting. It boasts eleven guest rooms, delicious traditional Tuscan cuisine, including its own olive oil, and stunning 300 degree views of the valley. And what a valley. The Val d’Orcia is a UNESCO World Heritage site that delights the senses with undulating hills bubbling up portions of the wide green valley, swaths of olive groves, vineyards, magpies, darting swallows, alpine choughs soaring on thermals, and towns rising like sentinels on distant hillside promontories.

The villa’s driveway cozies up to a wide patio tiled in terra cotta and dotted with cafe tables with umbrellas. It’s about 5 pm, and still quite warm in the May sunshine. Unfolding our bodies from the car, long pressed and pinched like origami cranes after hours of travel, we cross the terrazza to the impressive wooden front door, a veritable portone.

Before we can knock the wide door swings open and we’re greeted by Eliana, chef at La Palazzina. She’s been expecting us. Slim, her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she’s sporting chef’s clogs and a long white apron. We’ve pulled her from the kitchen. It’s obvious from her face that she’s been working hard, but it doesn’t show in her welcome. Her voice and smile are warm and friendly. Eliana doesn’t speak English, so I slip once more into my role as interpreter. She guides us to the terrace and offers us “Tea? Juice? Water? Biscotti? Tea and cookies, we say eagerly. As Eliana excuses herself to prepare our refreshment, we sit, happy to have Tuscan earth firmly beneath our feet at a full stop, zero kilometers per hour.

http://www.fattorialapalazzina.net/villa-tuscany-la-palazzina.htmlhttp

The Magi Live in Sarteano

May 14, 2009 mid-afternoon...I blink myself back to reality in time to hear one of the elderly women asking where we were from. “America,” I reply, smiling, and then thank them profusely as I turn back toward the car. She calls after me and asks if Italy is really as beautiful as foreigners say it is. I say yes, Italy is a paradise, and the people, the best. In fact, in many ways, Americans have much to learn from the Italian culture.

“But,” said the man, moving next to the women, “We’re poor.”

“Actually, no, you’re not. It’s the Americans who are poor. Italy knows secrets to life, and we need to come here often for lessons.”

“Lessons? Please do not patronize us,” he chides pleasantly.

“Believe me, I’m not. That’s the last thing I’m about. I’m completely sincere. I’m not saying that you should be happy to be poor. I’m not referring to economics, or politics, or stereotypes. I mean to say that in my own country, I see the values and trends that popular culture holds up as praiseworthy, good business, and entertaining. I see something skewed, storto. Work so hard you have no life outside of it. Hurry. Adopt stress as a virtue. Look for the quick answer, the low-hanging fruit. And then, to escape from it, worship athletes, actors and inane reality shows. It’s warped, like music played out of tune and rhythm, with no thought for composer or conductor. I know that here in Italy you’re surrounded by the same things; but, somehow, Italy as a whole, is still more in tune, connecting people to the world around them more authentically than what I experience in the States.”

“Give me an example,” he persists, placing a hand on my shoulder with friendly emphasis. One of the women nods eagerly, another puts down her bags. The third adjusts her sweater on her shoulders and smiles encouragingly.

“This conversation,” I want to say, and do, but only in my head. “You think nothing of entering into a philosophical discussion with a perfect stranger who just tumbled out of a car looking for directions along this quiet road. You don’t know my plans or my motives. What matters to you is that I’m here, and you are curious about me. I’m astonished, in the best sort of way. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re the Little Prince, all grown up.“

Aloud, I say to him, “Well, having lived here once for a few years, my small experience of Italy is that the division of a day into tight time schedules and itineraries is not a valued practice. Strict agendas are frowned on, in favor of savoring the moment, respecting the rhythm of the day and the company you keep. Am I right?”

“You are,” he nods, and pauses, gathering his thoughts. Then he takes my hand. I feel my shoulders relax. “The experience is what matters most, whether it’s business or a gathering of friends,” he explains. “The schedule obeys the experience, not the other way around. That’s why there are no quick goodbyes in Italy,” he says, and chuckles. The women nod in agreement, e si' , adjusting their grip on their shopping bags. He goes on, “This is not just the result of some socialized government policies, but of the long connection that Italy has to the land, to its resources, its creative spirit, and to family. And probably due to resilience in the face of the privations of war. And this is what you love about Italy?”

“Yes, absolutely.” I say. “With deep respect for the sum total of everything that makes Italy, Tuscany, Sarteano, you, precisely what you are today. That, and the natural beauty of every region of the country. If I die here, or say, in Umbria, no one need be concerned about bringing me back to America. I say, let everyone come here to honor my memory; stay a while. The trip will do them a world of good.” They smile at this. Davvero.

"Umbria is nice," the gentle man says, grinning now, "but forgive us if we advise in favor of Tuscany." We all laugh. I’m moved by the conversation, honored to be part of it.

Sadly too though, I'm overcome with fatigue, and feeling faintly light headed. I'm exhibiting early signs of Foreign Speaker's Aphasia. And, I've almost forgotten about the Ladies. They've been waiting, and probably think we have to head to Sicily and back for all the time it’s taken me to get directions.

Reluctantly, I tell these three wise women and man that I must leave. I thank them for being the ones to set the correct tempo for an Italian concerto. We embrace heartily, and our group drives off, eager to experience the masterwork of Italy, following its regional melodies, from the composer’s original score.

Ring Around Radicòfani

May 14, 2009 afternoon...It's springtime in Tuscany, and we’ve been winding up and down scenic mountain roads for the better part, no, the longer part, of three hours now. We are clearly lost. The views are breathtaking, but in all, it’s an experience better appreciated without the hangover effects of jetlag. With Cynthia heroically behind the wheel of the rental car – a diesel thank God, so we’ll go forever without worrying over the fuel gauge - we're traveling south of Siena to a magical region known as the Val d'Orcia, or in English, the Orcia Valley. I’m acting as interpreter for the Ladies, and so far, I’ve sought direction from three sources in the town of Sarteano; an elderly gentleman in Sarteano; a young woman at the bus station further along in Sarteano; and a group of three elderly women and a man outside of Sarteano. Like a living oracle, they declare as one that since we’d long missed the direct road to the town of Radicòfani, the only route left to follow is the long way around the valley, by way of San Casciano dei Bagni.

I hang my head in the silent desperation of every weary traveler. We’ve endured a trans-Atlantic flight, a long early morning layover in Paris at an outpost terminal decorated in garish lime green hues, and then the final flight to Florence. Now, south of Siena and well into an unanticipated circumnavigation of the valley, the breathtaking scenery is taking a decidedly psychotropic turn. I begin to imagine myself a traveler on the Silk Road lost in the Tien Shan mountains with winter at my heels. Dear God, the camels are dying, we have no water, show us the way!

My Herald Plays the Kazoo

Arriving in Italy by air via Florence is a delight. It’s a Renaissance artist’s welcome wagon. The light bathes the landscape just so, conjuring red tiled roof mosaics above marble facades, or a corpulent dome hinting at Brunelleschi’s marvel waiting in the heart of the city. Flying in I imagine a kind of time travel that will have me touch down in Michelangelo’s courtyard. Or better yet, stepping off the jetway to da Vinci’s beaming approval at how well his flying machine designs turned out.

Instead, on terra firma, the airport is a provincial and rather bland locale. No swaths of rich fabrics grace the entrance, no priceless frescoes adorn the walls. Just a small terminal, two crowded baggage carousels and a long line at the rest room. Not even a passport stamp. No. Am I not in Italy, the country where the thumpathumpa of a stamp legitimizes even the most mundane civil transaction? Official crests and heraldic standards flourish here. How can Italia refrain from setting her seal upon any foreigner the moment her borders are traversed? I crave one designed by Zeffirelli, Ferragamo and Bernini. Someone stamps my foot instead, reaching for luggage. No matter, I'm greeted by helpful and efficient rental car agents, and to a jet-lagged traveler, that's a fashionable welcome in any culture.


We're a mother-daughter quartet on this trip; the matriarch Priscilla; her daughter Cynthia, whom I've known since nursery school; daughter-in-law Trish; and I, a daughter and sister by association of years. We are bound for southern Tuscany, and later, Venice. Treasures lie beyond the Florence air terminal, and our loyal steed awaits, a clean diesel-powered Ford crossover. That's Lamborghini in Italian.

First Thoughts

In the month prior to my return to Italy this year, and every day there, my thoughts strayed and settled on Alberto, the friend whom circumstances once obliged me leave behind in Italy. Deep indeed is the memory of that precious friendship, intricate and strong the stitches in the bond I shared with him. A native of Italy's Veneto region, he was, and I am confident still is, a man possessing a heart as pure, as strong, as humble, as perceptive, and as kind as I have ever known. When I last saw my friend in 1994, I knew our parting would likely never see a reunion. I left him, and Italy sorrowful, but not in vain. I knew that my heart was made for Italy, that my life was meant for Italy, and that my voice would find its deepest range in Italy. I just didn't know how, didn't know when, and certainly didn't know why. I was packing my bags for home, filling them with Alberto and the Italy he held within him, storing up for the dry season ahead.

Fifteen years on, I am happy and privileged knowing that twelve days in 2009 Italy can be lived joyfully and thoughtfully enough to conjure memories of that blessed friendship. Happy and privileged to know that twelve days lived well can bridge 365 days x 15 in a snap, and reveal to suspecting souls a new wealth of cultural and personal epiphanies.

For reasons I hope you will discover in the reading, I dedicate this journal of Italy to Alberto, wherever he may be. His birthday is August 7, a day dedicated to San Casciano, a happy coincidence I realized only after the fact.

Avanti!