Across all of Italy, work has stopped. The tradition started in 18BC when Emperor Caesar Augustus set aside one day as an official day of rest. The month of August was later named for him, and over the centuries his day of rest, Ferragosto, August 15, morphed into a month-long holiday. Not everyone stops working, but not much gets done.
Last night, just before Paige’s birthday celebration, Ron learned that the suitcase is in airport lost and found, tagged as abandoned. We decide to make a day of exploring Florence. I put fresh batteries in the walkie-talkies so we can talk car-to-car. Sydney and Paige want to ride with us. Claudia clings to her mom, claiming her head hurts.
To pass time on the road, I teach the older girls Italian courtesy words such as hello, my pleasure, thank you, you’re welcome, and goodbye. They learn quickly. I move to colors, items in the car, then items outside the car like tree and grass. When Syd calls Claudia on the walkie-talkies and they start to giggle, I sense our Italian lesson has ended.
“Remember, walkie-talkies are not telephones,” I warn, “turn them off so you don’t use up the batteries.” They nod, but I doubt they’ll pay attention. When Sydney puts the walkie-talkie on the seat, I ask her to hand it to me. Of course, it’s still on. “Syd, you must remember to turn this off,” I scold.
“Sorry, Nana,” she replies reflexively.
Finally, we pull into the airport and park both cars along a road where other cars are parked. Ron, armed with baggage claim tickets, says he won’t be long. The girls play with the walkie-talkies while the rest of us wait. After a while, Claudia falls asleep.
Over an hour later, which seems like two, Ron appears grinning and pulling the suitcase. It is mammoth.
“All in?” Larry asks as Ron slams the hatch door. Larry’s eager to be in Florence after so much waiting. In honor of Paige’s birthday, we’ll visit the Pitti Palace. Paige loves princesses and anything to do with princesses, and the Pitti Palace is where some Florentine princesses lived.
In a shop window near the palace, I spy a pink tee shirt that says Principessa. I slip into the store, whispering to Larry that Paige must have it. The girls follow me. Instantly, Paige clutches her pink Principessa shirt, declaring that pink is her favorite color and this is her favorite ever shirt. Sydney chooses an Italian soccer shirt and Claudia finds one that simply says Firenze, “how Italians say Florence” she informs me. The girls leave the shop overjoyed and literally skip down the sidewalk for the remaining two blocks to the Pitti.
Luca Pitti, an ambitious Florentine banker, commissioned the massive, fortress-like home in 1458. The Pitti family rivalry with the Medici was legendary. Though Cosimo di Medici (the elder) was a friend and colleague of Luca Pitti, it was rumored that Luca directed his architect to make every window bigger than those in the Medici Palace. One hundred years later, Cosimo’s descendants bought the Pitti Palace as the home for ruling Florentine families, including four generations of Medici.
The girls are not so keen on visiting museum collections, so Larry takes them behind the palace to explore the extensive Boboli Gardens. When Ron, Paulla, and I arrive at our rendezvous spot, Sydney comes running down the hill yelling, “Daddy, Daddy, Gabba’s telling dumb jokes again.”
Larry’s laughing. The girls look disgusted. I wait to hear the offense, knowing it’ll be amusing, corny, and probably a pun.
Sydney, seemingly quite agitated, exclaims, “Gabba said Paige isn’t really a principessa… she’s a lion. Get it? He called Paige a liar!!”
I wonder if Sydney’s standing up for her sister, trying to get Gabba in trouble, or simply vying for attention. In Gabba’s defense, Paige’s hair is like a lion’s mane.
“Never mind,” says Ron, the ultimate peacekeeper, dismissing it with an amused smirk.
We hurry over the famous Ponte Vecchio — by order of Hitler the only Florentine bridge German WWII forces did not destroy. Larry wants everyone to see Basilica di Santa Croce, the church where Michelangelo and Galileo are entombed. Since it’s getting late, we race past gold shops on the bridge, through narrow streets, and across the wide piazza. Breathless, we learn the church is closed.
“Since we’ve come this far,” I say, “how ‘bout Vivoli, the best gelato in Florence… It’s close. Anyone want gelato?”
“YES!” Paige yells, only a fraction of a second faster than her sisters.
On the way, I tell the girls the reason to go to Vivoli is for cioccolato arancia, dark chocolate with candied orange peel. Vivoli makes milk chocolate, hazelnut chocolate, dark chocolate, chocolate with rice, coffee chocolate, chocolate chocolate-chip, but the best is with orange peel.
“No chocolate, Nana,” Claudia reminds me, looking up at her mom as I finish my enthusiastic soliloquy.
“Oops, sorry,” I say.
The girls choose two fruit flavors each, but are disappointed that the cups are smaller than in Cortona, and not mounded on top. I ask for two scoops of cioccolato arancia.
As we stroll back to the cars, I window shop. The clothes are exquisite. Living so close to Florence, I wonder why I shop anywhere else.
When Ron starts their car it sounds funny. Larry, a former auto mechanic, listens and agrees there may be a problem. The car lurches up the exit ramp, but Larry’s not sure if the problem is the car, driver, or very steep incline. Ron stops and comes back to tell us the transmission feels funny, but he thinks it’ll be okay once the car warms up. It’s over ninety degrees; I don’t think the engine is cold. Once on the streets, he gives us a thumbs-up to indicate all is okay. We find our way out of Florence with Larry in the lead. Claudia and Paige are with us. Sydney is with her folks this time.
We lose sight of them at the roundabout near the A1 entrance, so go around several times to let them catch up. When we don’t see them, we decide they must be ahead, so Larry takes his toll ticket and merges onto the A1. I try calling on the walkie-talkie, but they don’t answer.
Twenty minutes south of Florence, Larry says we should go back. He’s concerned they may have had car trouble, don’t have a cell phone, and don’t speak Italian. We take the next exit and go all the way back to the roundabout where we lost them. After circling several times, we give up again and re-enter the autostrada.
At the first Autogrill, Larry pulls into the parking lot to search for their car, just in case. I keep trying the walkie-talkie with no answer. The girls are bored, need a bathroom, and Paige insists she’s starving.
Paige doesn’t like anything she sees in the sandwich case, but reluctantly chooses a panino of mozzarella, prosciutto and a green tomato slice, agreeing to share with Claudia who declares she isn’t hungry at all. Back in the car, Paige asks me to take off the green thing and devours her half, proclaiming prosciutto her new favorite food. She asks Claudia for her half.
“No. No. No.” Claudia says firmly, shaking her head. Though she hasn’t taken a nibble and claims to have no hunger, she protects her half, clinching it with both hands. Paige begs. Claudia refuses. I try to talk Claudia into sharing half of her half. Nothing doing. Larry and I are amused and a little exasperated. Sisters!
The sun is low in the sky as we drive south. We’re concerned about Ron’s car, but don’t know what to do. About halfway home, Larry’s phone rings.
“Hey, where are you guys?” Ron says cheerfully.
“Still on the road… and you?” I say, putting Larry’s phone on speaker so he can hear.
“We’re in Cortona. Didn’t think I could find your house, so we’re having a Campari. I’m at Marco’s, using his phone. Can you meet us here?
“We’re still thirty minutes away. We went back looking for you,” Larry says. “We were afraid you had car trouble. Why didn’t you answer our calls?”
“Didn’t get any calls. Batteries must have been dead.”
“Why didn’t you stay with us?”
“We got ahead of you at the toll booth, but I thought you saw us, so didn’t wait.”
Larry shakes his head in dismay. “Okay. We’ll come to town. Just don’t go anywhere else without letting us know… please.”
He is not happy.
I’m glad they’re okay, but also annoyed we wasted so much time on the road. I do wish they had been more careful with the walkie-talkie batteries. I wish I was in Cortona sipping Campari!
By the time we park, both girls are wide-awake. We climb the steep street into town and find Ron, Paulla and Sydney in the piazza having a second drink and a snack.
“Y’all want a drink?” Ron asks.
Larry insists we go home. Ron pays their bill and all three girls go with their parents, probably sensing Larry’s upset.
Even with adult children, parents act like parents when something goes awry. I feel badly for Ron. Since he was a little boy, his greatest desire has been for everyone to be happy and he still tries to make life happen that way. Today, without his knowledge, it did not go so well.
As we approach home, the roads are wet. “Looks like it rained. Hope we have power,” I say jokingly, hoping to lighten Larry’s mood.
Inside the house I flip the switch, fully expecting lights. Pitch black. I find a flashlight for Larry, whose is still miffed. The girls wait upstairs in the dark, perched on the edge of the sectional sofa, now their beds. Larry goes downstairs to restart the main breaker.
On top of losing the kids, I don’t want a night without lights, water, or internet. I pray quietly.
Yes! Lights blaze, seeming brighter than ever after being in complete dark.
Ron drags the reclaimed suitcase into the house. The instant that bag is unzipped, Paige grabs her birthday packages and starts ripping off the paper. She “oohs” and “ahhs” with each gift. She puts on her fluffy pink birthday bathrobe and dances round and round while we sing “Happy Birthday to Pa-ige” in our most jubilant voices.
Spirits lifted, we decide to raid the refrigerator for leftovers. Claudia and Paige are thrilled to be allowed Nutella and banana sandwiches. Sydney insists on “real food” and devours most of the leftover steak. The adults are happy with a glass of wine, a few meat scraps and some cheese. Everyone enjoys another piece of Paige’s plum pie.
The girls take baths, put on their newly-found pajamas and encircle Larry, tugging on his shirt and begging for another story.
As Ron, Paulla and I clean up, Larry embellishes another Italian Folk Tale. When Contessa Claudina suddenly appears on horseback, riding backward and upside down, the girls giggle like crazy.
Amazing how quickly offenses, especially unintended ones, can fade when someone looks for fun.
Wearing her fancy pink robe with feathery trim and rhinestones down the front, Paige sashays down the stairs and into the living room, the first awake this morning.
“Who’s that gorgeous vision in pink?” Larry asks. Paige rubs her eyes, acting half-asleep.
“Do you want a kiddie cappuccino, Principessa Paige?”
She nods drowsily. He’s been making them kiddie cappuccini for years, steamed milk with chocolate rather than coffee.
This time he acts confused.
“You want me to put a kitty in your cup and stir it around?”
She pauses, then emphatically swings her head side to side. Uncombed, ultra-thick strawberry blond hair flies out, framing her head like that lion’s mane. Ever the dramatic, Paige rolls her enormous caramel eyes at me, then glares at her Gabba straight on and speaks slowly and deliberately.
“No, Gab-ba… a KID cappuccino.”
“You want me to put a baby goat in your cup?” he queries.
After another moment’s exasperation, she replies matter-of-factly, “No, Gabba, just steam milk and add chocolate… in a cup… to drink.”
Ron comes into the kitchen ready for breakfast and our next adventure. Today we’ll explore a fort on Lago Trasimeno, twenty minutes south of Cortona. While Larry makes drinks, I try to wake Sydney, but give up and take my shower.
With all three girls in the back seat of our SUV, we head to Castiglione del Lago, the biggest town on the biggest lake in central Italy. Larry tells a joke. In the rear-view mirror, I see the girls look at each other. There’s a long silence.
“Gabba, you just aren’t funny anymore,” Sydney says flatly.
Larry looks shocked. He has adored Syd since she was born, and she’s reciprocated as though he hung the moon. She has laughed at every joke, followed him around adoringly, revered his insights in countless museums, ridden tandem bikes, trained for a triathlon together, and enjoyed every moment of his attention — which he has happily lavished on her.
Not funny anymore is devastating.
After a pause with his eyes narrowed and lower lip protruding, Larry says softly, “I can’t believe you said that, Syd. Take it back…”
Sydney holds her ground. “Not funny,” she repeats and turns to look out the car window.
“Guess I need some new jokes,” he murmurs to me, rather pathetically.
The girls blurt guffaws like it’s a victory, but joy has left the car. Larry drives in silence, his lips tightly drawn. I don’t know if he’s pretending or is really upset, but I fear the latter. Being funny, especially in Sydney’s eyes, holds enormous value for him. With the one person we believe holds us in the highest regard, any cut seems deep.
Despite his wound, Larry and I chat amicably for the rest of the drive. When we arrive at the fort’s ticket office at two minutes after noon, the ticket agent says they closed at noon, an hour earlier than we expected.
Doesn’t everything close at one?
“Quando aperta?” I ask. When open?
“Tre ore,” in three hours she says, covering the gift shop trinkets with cloths.
After walking every street in the medieval town of Castiglione di Lago in less than an hour, everyone sits on bench under a tree to cool off.
Larry and I decide to explore a ceramic shop nearby. I’ve been searching for an antique ceramic bowl for the center of our dining room table. Paige asks to come along.
“Prego, bella,” the owner beckons Paige to come with him. She looks at me for approval. I nod.
“You choose,” he leans close and whispers to her in English, pointing to the case of tiny ceramic animals. “Any one you want.”
Paige looks at me again. When I nod, she chooses a tiny pink pig. Thrilled, she tells the owner it was her birthday and she is seven and she loves pink and pigs. I’m not sure who is happier, Paige or the owner.
With two more hours to kill, we look for a place for lunch and find a restaurant with a large courtyard overlooking the lake. The hostess offers us a table in the sun near an ivy-covered stone wall. Since it’s the only table available for seven, we take it. There is no breeze, the courtyard is crowded, and the stone wall radiates heat.
We sit and wait. And wait. Larry gets up to find a waiter to ask if we can have menus and water. He seems subdued, perhaps because of Syd’s declaration. Water finally arrives, plus soft drinks for the girls. Wine takes another ten minutes. When the waitress finally asks if we’re ready to order, the girls’ choices surprise me. I ask for something I think they’ll like in case they don’t like what they ordered. We roast for another thirty minutes before any food appears.
My dish is a disappointment and the girls love their strange choices. I learn my lesson one more time: ask for what I want, not what I think someone else wants. It applies to more than food.
Paige names her pig Principessa Pig Tiara Pink Smith. And, no, there is no shorter version. This is an important, titled pig in every way. In honor of Principessa Pig Tiara Pink Smith, we all order outrageous, piggy-esque desserts.
The girls beg for chocolate, but Paulla shakes her head.
“You only need to throw away a couple-hundred-dollars-worth of kids’ clothes before you start to hate chocolate,” she insists.
Her rule seems excessively strict since we’re sitting at a table rather than holding gelato cones but, as mother-in-law, I counsel but dare not override. I feel sorry for the girls and understand why they’re begging. The chocolate desserts sound divine. If I were alone with the girls, I’d give in like a good grandmother is supposed to do.
As we wait for our desserts, I notice Larry’s knees are peeling, surely from scrubbing the floor before David and Dale arrived. My heart pings. He truly is a great guy. I should be more appreciative. I reach to take his hand and remind myself to express my appreciation more often. I feel sad for him because of Syd’s remark. It’s easier to feel softhearted for the wounded.
After too much Tuscan sun, we hurry to explore Castello del Leone, Castle of the Lion. I’m fascinated to learn that the castle-fortress was designed in 1245 by Brother Elia, the Franciscan who lived in Cortona and led the order after Francis died. Castles and fortresses don’t seem religious or Franciscan to me, so I wonder if there is a story. Brother Elia was also the architect of the Chiesa San Francesco in Cortona and the grand Basilica di San Francesco in Assisi, both of which are churches, not fortresses.
The girls briskly walk — signs posted say no running — the narrow ramparts around the top and exclaim over spectacular views of Lake Trasimeno, Cortona, and beyond. The fortress has five sides and an open center, as if built around a star. A triangular tower dominates one corner and smaller towers mark others, each with the perfect vantage point to see oncoming invaders. These days, the park-like center is used for concerts, movies and community events.
By late afternoon we have resettled at home. I decide to go to Camucia again to pay for the plastic chairs, taking cash this time. Sonia, the owner, laughs, insisting it was not necessary to make a special trip only to pay. She now says the cost is forty-five euros for twelve chairs, a slight reduction. She doesn’t have change for my fifty-euro bill, so calls upstairs to her mother who drops five one-euro coins from the balcony overhead.
“Ah,” sighs Sonia, “piove denaro per lei.” It rains money for you.
Back home everyone says they aren’t hungry after our enormous lunch. But when I make zucchini risotto, not one rice kernel is left. Magically, we also finish off every crumb of Paige’s plum pie.
Larry still seems sad that Sydney said he isn’t funny anymore. She acts as though nothing is wrong and doesn’t recant, though I suspect she knows her Gabba’s feelings have been hurt. As we fall asleep, I reach to touch his shoulder, wanting to reconnect. He doesn’t respond.
In the middle of the night I awaken to an unfamiliar noise. There’s no moonlight. I listen again and hear nothing. I get up to look out the bedroom window and jump when a shadow crosses our bedroom wall. I whip around, but nothing is there. Perhaps someone is outside the bathroom window. I remember Francesco’s warning about thieves. The shadow moves again. Then I laugh out loud, realizing I have been frightened by my own shadow cast by the teeny light on the thermostat.
Sometimes we jump at shadows, whether it’s a light on the bedroom wall or a beloved grand-daughter’s tease about not being funny anymore. Hopefully, all of tonight’s shadows will have passed when morning comes.
Yesterday Larry and I spent the day in Rome, leaving Ron and family to explore Cortona. Close friends from Chicago were coming through Rome for one day and asked if we would join them. Ron insisted we go. He had no idea how important it would be.
Over lunch, Jim gave Larry pages of jokes. Jim is a master of kids’ jokes and Larry had shared his heartbreak that Sydney didn’t think he was funny anymore. The boys read them aloud over pasta, secondo, and dessert, laughing their heads off while Kathleen and I chatted about our children, grandchildren, mutual friends, their holiday cruise and our move to Italy. I wondered how long it would take Larry to use a joke or two with Sydney, and I hoped she found them as funny as our grown-up husbands did.
In addition to being a kid-humor aficionado, Jim is an acclaimed architect who did his early study in Rome. Walking with him through winding streets, we learned new facts about the Eternal City that we thought we knew well. For example, in the Pantheon, my favorite building in Rome, Jim told us the oculus in the center of the dome not only lets in light, it’s a tension ring that helps hold up the massive concrete dome. It was the largest dome in the world when it was built in 126AD and is among the largest today, nearly two thousand years later. Jim reminded us the great Roman contribution to architecture was not columns, bricks or arches, it was the invention of concrete.
At the Trevi Fountain, I was able to share a story our friends didn’t know. When the fountain — perhaps the most famous in the world — was carved beginning in 1732, the artist Nicolo Salvi added an urn that still seems out of place. We’ve heard two versions. One is that the owner of a nearby barber shop complained one too many times that the fountain was ugly, so Salvi added the urn to block the barber’s view forever. The second, related but from a different perspective, is that Salvi added the urn to block the barbershop’s ugly sign from detracting from the beauty of his fountain. Maybe both are true. The urn is easy to spot because it is static, unlike the rest of Oceanus’ thunderous and majestic conquering of the waters.
We bid goodbye to our friends late afternoon and headed home, turning our thoughts to a second trip to Florence with the kids. We arrived home in time to hear about their fun day in Cortona, eat a snack and fall into bed.
Like yesterday in Rome, this morning I rush to get dressed for another day of walking. I’d prefer to wear my comfortable sandals, repaired after the fox chewed the strap. However, we’ve been warned that Italian clerks, especially in Rome, Milan and Florence, look first at your feet. If you wear good shoes, you get good service. If not, you take your chances. I decide on prettier but less comfortable shoes for our day exploring Florence.
To my amazement, Ron and Paulla get themselves and three sleeping girls cleaned, dressed, and fed in one hour. We pile into one car for the short ride to the Camucia station. Larry translates the rules on the ticket machine and says he’s pretty sure children under twelve ride for free, saying we should all play dumb if he’s wrong.
Each girl begs to slide the tickets into the yellow box to stamp them. Italian trains work on a semi-honor system. A ticket is good for any day or time. Then, just before boarding, we put the ticket into the box to stamp it with the time and date. On the train, if the conductor finds us without a ticket or if our tickets are not validated, the fine is steep. Larry hands Paige the tickets to slide into the stamp machine, another birthday privilege.
We’re seven in a glassed-walled compartment for eight. It’s still early morning. Paige wants to sleep, so pulls up an armrest to make a bed and asks me to pull down the window shade. I’d like to sleep too, so reach for the shade. Larry frowns disapprovingly, which means he wants the shade up so he can read.
“Whoever is older should get to choose,” Paige declares when I shrug, caught between pleasing my granddaughter and myself, or appeasing my husband.
“Are you younger than Gabba?” she persists. I’m sure she already knows.
“What do you think?” I whisper, trying not to bother Larry while he reads.
“Tell me, Nana. Who-is-older?”
I point to myself and silently mouth, “I am.”
“How much?” she says, this time more softly.
“Twenty years.” Sometimes an exaggeration is easier than the truth.
Paige rolls her eyes, feigning annoyance.
“Does that mean you always get your way? The oldest usually does,” she says.
“No, it means I’m smart enough to give him his way.”
“Really???” she asks, looking stupefied.
“Truth is truth,” I tell her, as I glance at Larry. He looks over the top of his glasses, not charmed. We’ve interrupted his reading. I leave the shade open for him.
The conductor comes, punches our tickets, and doesn’t mention the girls.
Larry gives up reading and starts to explain our day. First, he says, we’ll visit the Basilica di Santa Maria Novella near the train station, to see some of Florence’s most important art. We’ll have lunch early since no one had breakfast and then we’ll go to another church, Santa Maria della Carmine. He wants everyone to watch their short film, the perfect foundation for exploring Renaissance art in Florence, he says. Lastly, since it’s Sunday, we’ll visit the Duomo and attend the once-a-week English-language Mass. Then we can have gelato.
No one comments. I feel tired.
The train becomes crowded as we near Florence. Paige has to relinquish her second seat to a baby-faced man of maybe twenty. He stares at his phone. Paige shifts in her seat and watches him. Claudia reads. Sydney writes in her journal, as do I. When we reach the station, passengers are standing like sardines in the aisles.
Larry reaches for my hand in the underground passage. He’s beaming. He loves Florence and is excited to share it with his granddaughters. I smile up at him. I love Florence, too, and appreciate his warm connection.
We enter the nearby church of Santa Maria Novella through a small cloister shaded by a grove of ancient hemlock trees. Set into the wall beside the stone path are gravestone. In the early Renaissance, when this church was built, walking through the graveyard into the church was commonplace, symbolic of passing from death into life. It still seems appropriate today.
Inside the sanctuary, hanging high overhead near the center of the room and dominating the enormous space, is a crucifix painted by Giotto around 1300.
“Do you know what this represents?” Larry asks the girls, hovering around him.
Sydney’s eager to tell everyone what she knows. “Jews killed Jesus. They nailed him to a cross and then soldiers put a sword in his side. See, there’s blood spurting out… it’s all over his feet.” She points up at the blood.
Larry puts his arm around her shoulders and gently says, “Syd, this is important, so listen closely. Some Jews were against Jesus, but everyone there participated in killing him… Jews, Christians, Palestinians, Romans, everyone. People just like us. They either called for Jesus to be crucified or, maybe worse, they were quiet and didn’t stand up for him. It’s not right to say Jews killed Jesus.”
Sydney frowns a little, tilting her head to one side as she considers this new idea. I also think she didn’t like being corrected by her Gabba, even gently.
Larry points to Jesus’ face, noting his long delicate nose, wavy reddish hair and warm expression of compassion. He says Giotto painted Jesus looking downward because he knew this large crucifix would hang high overhead and he wanted Jesus to be looking at the worshippers. Even his halo is slightly raised, three-dimensional, as though Jesus’ head is inclined toward those below. Giotto, Larry says with admiration, is often called the Father of the Renaissance.
Today, seven hundred years later, Jesus seems to look down on me the same way — warmly, compassionately. When Larry and the girls move on, I linger one more moment under Giotto’s masterful depiction and Jesus’ reassuring gaze.
When I catch up, they’re sitting on the steps of a chapel at the front. The church is full of tourists, but still feels reverent.
“Okay,” Larry whispers, leaning toward the girls. “Let’s look at this crucifix. It was carved a hundred years after Giotto painted the one you just saw. What’s different? Look closely.”
The girls are surprisingly articulate. They say he looks natural. His arms and legs are the right length, his muscles are strong, his body looks round and heavy, and his expression seems real. Without knowing it, they have identified the artistic elements that define the Renaissance, when the human ideal was elevated.
Seeing Larry as grandfather-teacher delights me. He adores these girls and they adore him. He tells them this crucifix is by Filippo Brunelleschi, who was more an architect than a sculptor. After enough, the girls stand to move on.
Near Brunelleschi’s crucifix is the Tornabuoni chapel by Ghirlandaio, the Florentine master who taught the young Michelangelo how to paint frescoes. The girls ask Gabba to explain scene after scene, using the frescoes as they were meant to be used: as teaching tools. This cycle is about the life of Mary, the mother of Jesus.
Larry points to a woman in a gold dress and says she is Ludovica Tornabuoni, the daughter of Giovanni Tornabuoni, the donor. He asks the girls why an artist would paint the donor’s family members into an event, the birth of Jesus’ mother, that happened centuries before the family was even alive. When Sydney says to get more money, her sisters nod. Larry agrees, and explains that during the Renaissance wealthy people paid for art in churches as a way to contribute to the community, honor God, and have their families remembered through history. Seven hundred years later, Ludovica is still known because of this painting.
When Larry sees Paige fidget and shuffle, he says, “Let’s go see one of my favorite paintings of all time. Then we’ll have lunch.” To announce that something will end soon typically extends the audience’s attention span, at least a little. Toward the back of the church, we stop at a gray and pink fresco. It’s one of my favorites too, a concept rather than a story. I’m curious to see the girls’ reaction.
Larry stands and stares at it with reverence. Then he leans down and softly tells the girls why it’s important. I think he’s talking mostly to Sydney, but the other two listen attentively. They seem to want to know too.
He tells them the artist, Masaccio, was only twenty-five years old when he painted this, the first painting in the Renaissance to follow the rules for perspective. He asks if they see how all the lines get closer together toward one point. When they nod, he says Masaccio’s friend Brunelleschi, the architect who carved the life-like crucifix they saw earlier, had just written guidelines for linear perspective in art, and the painter Masaccio followed his friend’s rules.
Then Larry explains how this painting also breaks the rules for perspective. “See how everyone in the painting fits into the space, except God? God seems to be out of perspective, sort of floating. Do you see?”
They all nod. I hope they really do see it.
Larry pauses, then adds, “I think Masaccio wanted to say that God is everywhere — not limited by time or space. Masaccio was brilliant. He worked in Florence one hundred years after Giotto and people said he was Giotto reborn. But Masaccio took painting to a whole new level, beyond Giotto.”
“What’s that?” asks Claudia, eyes widening as she points to a smaller painting below, at just her level.
“Oh, I’m glad you saw that, Claudia,” Larry says. “Kinda creepy, isn’t it? The skeleton’s banner is in Latin. It says, ‘I once was what you are, and what I am you will be.’ The two frescos together teach that everyone will die, but that faith in the Holy Trinity — Father, Son and Holy Spirit, all in the painting above — allows us to overcome death with life in heaven.”
When they don’t react, I add a side story. “That skeleton was covered up for almost four hundred years by an altar table. Can you imagine moving a table and finding that skeleton?
When still no one responds, I say, “Wanna have some fun?” Claudia looks up and smiles.
“Okay. Walk with me and watch the stair that’s painted under the skeleton. Be sure to keep your eyes on it.”
Claudia walks beside me and stares at the stair.
“It moves! It moves!” she exclaims, a little too loudly. Then everyone tries it. Painted in perfect perspective, the stair appears to shift position to face us no matter where we stand. Claudia walks back and forth a few more times.
Sydney asks me if they can have money to light a candle. I hand each girl a euro and am touched to see them take turns, dropping their coin into the box, then lighting their candle from a sister’s flame.
I’m curious about their prayers, but prayers deserve to remain private.
As we leave, Paige asks, a little too loudly, “Why is that woman wearing a paper bag?”
I turn and see a woman in a paper poncho.
“It’s to cover her shoulders,” I whisper, explaining that in Italy women are modest in churches, as a sign of respect. I point to the sign near the door with symbols for no shorts, no sleeveless shirts, and no mini-skirts, and tell Paige that the ticket agent gave the lady the poncho to cover her shoulders so she could come inside.”
Paige looks baffled, as bare shoulders and shorts are commonplace in churches in the heat of San Antonio, where she lives.
Outside, we rest on benches in the nearby piazza and talk about the church facade, the oldest of the great basilicas in Florence. Paige and Claudia chase pigeons while Sydney sits with the adults.
When we walk past Hotel Tornabuoni Beacci on our way to lunch, I want to say hello to Angelo, the manager who has become a friend. Larry wants to get to the restaurant before there’s a line. To me, it’s as important to share the people we know in Florence with the girls as it is to share the art or food. But he walks ahead and I hurry to catch up.
When we get to the restaurant, Il Latini, a popular restaurant that doesn’t take reservations, we’re shocked there’s no line. Then we see the sign: Chiuso a 15 Agosto, closed until August 15. Who’d have imagined such an in-demand restaurant would close in the height of tourist season?
Larry suggests we go to Santa Maria del Carmine first and find lunch afterward.
Chiesa Santa Maria del Carmine is south of the Arno River, a hike for little legs. We head immediately to the bathroom since the girls say they can’t wait. I remember it as the worst in Florence. Indeed, as we get closer, I can smell it, as odious as the vilest camp latrine. Claudia wrinkles her nose, frowns, and says she’ll hold it. I warn her it’ll be thirty minutes since it’s time for the film to start. She says that’s okay.
In the small theater we find seats and set our headphones for English. The film tells us that in 1422, when the famous Brancacci Chapel was being frescoed, Florence’s artistic masters — Masaccio, Donatello, Brunelleschi — were the best the world had ever seen in their fields of painting, sculpture and architecture. In 1771, a fire consumed the church, but the revered chapel survived the flames, an event Florentines declared a miracle.
Fighting sleep since I’ve seen the film many times, I glance over at the girls and Ron. All are glued to the screen.
After the film, the girls say they’re desperate. Shockingly, the bathroom is clean inside and smells better than outside.
Our fifteen minutes allowed in the chapel pass quickly. Many art experts consider this collection of frescoes the earliest masterwork of the Renaissance, referring to this tiny space as the Sistine Chapel of Florence, though painted nearly one hundred years earlier.
My favorite scene, if anyone can call a tragedy their favorite, is Masaccio’s depiction of the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden. As I stare up into their faces, I can hear Eve’s anguished scream and feel Adam’s shame.
Suddenly, we’re ushered out. Everyone’s famished, since it’s nearly two. In a nearby piazza in the sunshine, we order pasta, pizzas, and salads. Probably too much food, but it matches our appetites.
Skies soon darken and the wind picks up. The umbrella shading us starts to sway. Guests try to hold down placemats and napkins as they fly off the tables. Suddenly, rain pelts everything. Grabbing belongings, we run inside. Re-seated at a table near the window, we enjoy a long leisurely lunch while a summer shower washes the piazza. Claudia, now full, naps with her head in her mother’s lap and the older girls cozy up next to their dad.
The sun reappears about the time we leave, but rain persists. With simultaneous showers and sunshine, I hope for a rainbow. When we cross the Arno River, Ron wants to stop for the classic family photo with Ponte Vecchio in the background. Sadly, without a rainbow.
Nearing Hotel Tornabuoni again, I ask the girls, “How’d you like to meet some of my favorite people in Florence?”
Claudia and Paige say, “Yes!!” in unison.
The three of us hold hands and skip up the middle of the pedestrian-only street, leaving the others behind. Times like these I love being a grandmother more than anything on earth. One cost of our move to Italy is being unable to do the grandmother-thing. But our grandchildren live in Portland, San Diego and San Antonio, so far from Chicago that I wouldn’t see them often even if we had remained. My joy makes me hold tighter to my granddaughters’ hands, relishing this moment.
We skip between monumental doors that look like medieval castle doors into the hotel. I hope the people we know are working today. Angelo is the manager and Patrizia, his wife, handles administration. Gino covers the front desk. We first visited Hotel Tornabuoni Beacci 1997. In 2002 it became our home in Florence when, as Larry’s fiftieth birthday gift from me, we stayed three weeks while studying art and Italian. We’re still treated like family.
“Ci sono Angelo, Patrizia o Gino oggi?” I ask the unfamiliar lady at the front desk. Are Angelo, Patrizia and Gino here today?
“Patricia’s on holiday and Gino’s off today. But Angelo’s here. I’ll see if I can find him,” she replies in flawless English to my stilted Italian.
We wait in the rooftop garden, one of the loveliest in Florence. Angelo finds us and chats with the girls like they’re all princesses. He asks if he can get anything to make us more comfortable: coffee, water, a place to rest? We say we only came to say hello, which pleases him enormously. The girls are their most charming. As we leave, each girl shakes Angelo’s hand and gives him a kiss on each cheek. His cherub face blushes bright pink.
Outside, Paige announces, “Angelo’s adorable. He even looks like an angel!”
Larry urges us to hurry. He wants us all to explore the Duomo before Mass. Claudia walks with me. She’s been a trooper. Her four-year-old legs take several steps to my one, but I think she’s less tired than I am. I feel happy, having introduced the girls to Angelo.
Paulla wants to shop while Larry and Sydney explore the Duomo. Claudia and Paige ask me if they can pet the horses.
“Quanto costa?” I ask a carriage driver, how much, thinking a buggy ride in Florence would make a spectacular memory.
“Cinquanta euro.” Fifty euros, about seventy dollars.
“Troppo, too much,” I say sadly.
The driver is most kind, showing the girls the soft part between the horse’s nostrils and how to pet it. Claudia, who has a collection of over two hundred toy horses and wants a real one “more than anything,” jerks her tiny hand away each time she almost touches its fuzzy nose.
When the horse snorts, whinnies and shakes its head, Claudia jumps way back.
“Did that scare you?” I ask, chuckling.
“No,” she declares.
Larry and Sydney find us, announcing that the English Mass is not in the Duomo, but in the nearby Misericordia Chapel. The girls endure the service without a fuss, possibly because we promised them gelato after Mass.
On our way to the train, they find a large gelateria with dozens of flavors and beg to stop. We ask for tastes to choose. The clerk looks perturbed and the tastes are pea-sized. When I ask to try a second flavor, he insists, “Solo uno,” only one.
“But we’re buying seven cones,” I say, frowning.
The cashier, who seems to know when to break the rules, gestures to the clerk, who reluctantly serves me a miniscule taste of peach. When the grumpy clerk fills my cup, he flattens the top, though he mounds all the others. I feel punished for my second taste. The gelato is good, but I’ll never visit this gelateria again.
Typically, in a foreign culture, when not treated kindly I wonder if I’m doing something wrong. But today at this grand gelateria, I’m certain the server was being rude.
On the train ride home, all-knowing Paige tells Claudia that she, Claudia, will grow up to be a woman.
“No!” Claudia says, frowning, “I’m going to stay with being a girl.”
“Why?” I ask.
As though it’s the most obvious truth ever, Claudia replies, “Because girls get all the fun and women get all the work.” I think about my heavy handbag full of everyone’s extra gear and have to agree.
The next train stop is Camucia-Cortona. As we walk from the train to our car, I say I’m too tired to lift a spatula to cook dinner. The girls ask if we can have dinner in town, jumping up and down. Do they ever tire?
“How ‘bout Dardano?” Ron asks to everyone’s delight, especially his.
I’m glad we can invest in the lives of our children and grandchildren, even as adults and even though we live far away. They were wonderfully engaged in Florence and I hope they will remember the art and history we discussed. I’m certain they’ll remember the stinky bathroom, cherub-faced Angelo, and the fuzzy-nosed horse. Experiences are always more memorable than facts.
To share our love of Italy with our children and grandchildren, even the small stuff, is part of our dream and perhaps the most important reason for moving here. I reach to touch Larry’s hand and he squeezes mine in return, sharing my joy from a memorable, happy day.
It’s been two packed days since we went to Florence. Yesterday afternoon, after exploring Siena, Sydney asked if we could go to La Bucaccia for dinner, saying she hasn’t seen Francesca at all, and that her family has never met her. Syd and Francesca met when we brought Sydney to Cortona on vacation. The girls were only six. Despite no common language, they had formed a lovely little-girl friendship.
Last night at La Bucaccia, Romano seemed shocked to see Sydney, now a young lady of nine. He extended his hand in a grown-up gesture and Sydney responded by shaking it with dignified formality. Then he enfolded her. Unprepared for such a warm embrace, she stiffened a little and turned her head to the side to breathe.
After Sydney introduced her parents and sisters, everyone courteously said hello, and Romano seated us at the large central table. Larry ordered all our favorites. Sydney and Francesca sat at one end of the table, giggling and drawing pictures, chatting in three languages: English, Italian, and the Spanish that they both had studied in elementary school. They were oblivious to the rest of us as we devoured course after course. Claudia fell asleep during our second pasta, her head in her mother’s lap. Paige’s chin was on the table after our first dessert, but her big eyes watched the room as Romano served warm biscotti with Vin Santo, and finally grappa for the adults. Romano seemed reluctant for us to leave.
Sydney and Francesca, full of energy, chattered on.
For me, the best part of the meal was not the food, though Ron declared it the best meal of his entire life, but watching Francesca and Sydney rekindle their friendship. I hope it will be an important lifetime friendship for both of them. Before we left, Sydney asked if she could come back and help serve lunch. When all the parents agreed, the girls hugged like sisters.
I fell asleep feeling grateful for God’s design that humans need food to survive. So many of life’s richest memories are made lingering over a meal.
* * *
It’s early morning again and I’m tired, but still smiling about last night. Sitting in the wicker chair, sipping a much-needed cappuccino, I write in my journal about our dinner. The hillside is hushed and dense white fog has filled the base of the valley. Suddenly, a single crystal ray breaks over the ridge, like a beacon over a cotton lake. As the sun rises and warms the valley, the lake vaporizes into nothingness.
Today, Ron and Paulla will take the younger girls to Rome, leaving Sydney with us for two days. We have agreed that each of the girls would have a special time alone with us. Syd, impossible to awaken, is still sleeping. Ron runs up the stairs to kiss her goodbye and comes downstairs chuckling. “She’ll be out for a while,” he muses.
While Sydney sleeps and Larry takes a run, I sit in my black silk robe on the front slab and enjoy my second cappuccino in luxurious solitude. The little black squirrel munches away, dropping cone remnants that look like teeny apple cores. Songbirds warble as though singing just for me. I look into the cypress tree, hoping to see a crested lark, the lodola, but can only hear their elaborate, happy melodies.
Two trucks rumble along the gravel road on the hill across the stream and up to the house at the end of the road. Bulldozers have started excavating a massive hole on the level below the house. For over a year, our neighbors listened to our construction, so it seems only fair that we now listen to theirs.
Back inside and reloading the dishwasher, in perpetual use since the kids arrived, I’m perplexed that nothing sparkles. Today, our glasses look cloudier than ever. When I take the tablet out for the next load, I notice the picture on the box doesn’t look like a dishwasher. The claim is Lavatrice vive di piu. Using the dictionary, I translate: the washing machine lives longer. Suddenly I realize I’ve been using de-calcification tablets for a clothes washer instead of detergent for a dishwasher.
The Miele technician left a sample, which I pull out. Pictured on the front is a sparkling stemmed glass. I pour his powder into the cup and refill the brilliante container. I hope no permanent damage has been done to our glasses or to the innocent dishwasher.
I still have time to launder my black delicates. Standing at the washing machine, I lift my nightgown over my head and add it to the load, re-wrapping my silk robe back around my naked body. Deciphering the Italian washing machine controls yet again, I realize I’ve been washing all my clothes, including blacks and delicates, at ninety degrees centigrade, only ten degrees short of boiling. I search for a cooler setting or a word that looks like delicate.
What an enlightening morning! I’ve been decalcifying our dishes and cooking my lingerie.
As I push the flashing ‘start’ button, a woman’s voice calls. “Poh-stah, buon giorno, poh-stah.” I tie my robe quickly. Uncertain it’s tied securely I hold the front to keep it together. Our post-lady is dressed, coiffed, perfectly made-up, and working. I’m naked under my silk robe, have wild hair, no make-up, and flip-flops on my feet. Maintaining a sliver of dignity, I don’t tell her about my nakedness, the dishwasher decalcifier, or my cooked delicates. Besides, I’d never be able to explain it in Italian.
She smiles and hands me two bills and a fat envelope. We laugh over sempre fatture, always bills. The fat envelope is stuffed with photos from Dale which I’ll enjoy later. To show the post-lady where our new postbox has been installed, I walk with her up the dirt ramp to the driveway, still clutching the front of my robe. During our entire conversation, she does not let her gaze drop from my eyes and I wonder how much is exposed. When she turns toward her official postal car, I look down to make sure my robe is closed. It is, just barely.
By the time Larry returns, I’m dressed for the day. But Sydney is still asleep.
“Syd,” he says, walking upstairs, “what time did you tell Francesca you’d be there?”
“Tehn,” Sydney drawls softly, sounding like the Texas girl she is.
“Syd! It’s nine-thirty. Up! Up!”
“Okay, okay.” Her bare feet plod across the floor. In fifteen minutes, she’s ready.
“Don’t you want to eat something before you leave?” I ask.
“Still full from last night. I can get something at the restaurant,” she calls cheerily as she follows Larry out the front door. “Aren’t you coming, Nana?”
“Why not?” I say, grab my bag and run to catch up. I don’t remember her eating one bite last night.
At Romano’s insistence, Larry and I enjoy cappuccini at their outdoor tables. Romano offers an artful plate of homemade cheese and fresh fig marmellata. We ask him to sit with us, at least for a moment. The girls are at the next table, drawing pictures and labeling them with Italian and English words.
“Professoressa d’italiano,” Romano says, gesturing to Francesca as he pulls up a seat, and “Professoressa d’inglese,” motioning to Sydney. Agostina joins us, gracious as always. She shines with joy. It’s her nature to be positive but it seems beyond nature. Joy must be her life choice.
The girls ignore us, engaged in their exchange.
When Larry suggests we come back in two hours, Romano holds up four fingers. “I first take the girls to the garden for vegetables for today’s menu, then they help make pasta before guests come for lunch. They will have fun.”
We agree, four hours. That gives us time to go to the bank in Arezzo, an errand we’ve been putting off since the kids arrived, and to do a few things at home.
On the way to Arezzo, I ask Larry if he thinks we’re leaving Sydney too long.
“Romano’s happy for a companion for Francesca,” he assures me. “Syd’s having a great time. This is good for all of them… and for us. I like time with just you.”
Back home after our drive to Arezzo, the dishwasher is beeping. I grin when I unload it… sparkling glasses… shiny dishes… spotless flatware. Now I should re-wash everything in the cabinets to remove the cloudy film.
When I tell Larry about my dishwasher fiasco and cooked lingerie, he laughs and hugs me like I’m a little girl. It feels good. We’ve had a nice time alone together, even running errands.
Two o’clock approaches. He says I should pick up Sydney when I go into town to exchange my shirts, and that I should bring Francesca back to see where Sydney lives while she’s in Cortona. I’m baffled. I hadn’t planned to drive to town, exchange the shirts, or have a guest today. Our house is in disarray, with open suitcases and piles of clothes, sheets and blankets everywhere, unfit for even a nine-year-old guest. I don’t need to exchange the shirts right away and am not comfortable driving or trying to negotiate in Italian without his help.
As I start to protest, I reconsider. I did have over an hour alone this morning while he ran and he did take me to the grocery super-store in Arezzo without complaint. I decide I can go alone. Sometimes we choose to do something, not because we want to but because it seems fair. In relationships, some voluntary give and take can be the pressure valve that keeps everything in harmony.
I negotiate the steep curves without a problem, much to my surprise. Gripping the steering wheel the entire way and praying not to meet another car, I let out a long sigh of relief when I reach town. The parking lot is jammed. I wait, then negotiate my best three-point turn and back the monster SUV into a spot abandoned by a Fiat. I have to crawl over the console and get out the passenger’s side. I consider re-centering the car when I look at the SUV’s angle, but both drivers can open their doors, so I leave it. Nothing like a giant car in a small car culture.
Entering through the Bifora, a double-arch opening in Cortona’s city wall, I hurry up Via Ghibellina, the steepest street in town. The Bifora, built by Etruscans over two thousand years ago using enormous stones, is reportedly the only double-arch Etruscan portal existing in the world today. I wonder how Etruscans cut those giant stones or put them into position at the top of this hill. There are many things about my new town that remain mysteries.
With my shoulders forward for leverage as I climb, I see Sydney talking with guests sitting at an outside table. It’s two thirty, so lunch is winding down.
When she sees me, I hear, “Excuse me, please. Gotta go.” I suspect she was chatting rather than taking an order. Inside, Agostina greets me with kisses. I ask if I may take the girls for gelato while I run an errand. She seems to understand, but doesn’t agree or disagree, so I’m not sure it’s okay. Romano joins us and I ask him in English. He speaks with Agostina and they seem delighted.
“Pranzo e finito. Va bene per fare una passeggiata.” Lunch is over. It is good to take a stroll, Romano says warmly.
“Aspetti,” wait, he says and opens the cash register. He takes my hand, unfurls it palm up, then fills it with coins.
“Per gelato,” he says, grinning.
Eight euros. I give four to each girl. It’ll buy the biggest gelato of their lives.
In the town center, Sydney tries to convince me to let them go to the gelateria on their own and meet me in the piazza later. I tell her I’ll leave them at the gelateria while I go to the store across the street. They can buy gelato on their own, but must stay there until I return.
They nod and giggle, as if it was worth a try. At the gelateria, I linger for a moment, watching through the window. They ask for tastes. When another family comes in, Sydney motions that they should go first. I decide the girls are happy, safe and, importantly, polite, so I quit spying and go to exchange my shirts.
Using my best Italian, I try to tell the clerk that two weeks ago I bought these shirts and want to…. Sensing my struggle, she says, “Scambia?” Yes, I nod, exchange. I try on several more shirts and find two I like, but nothing goes with my new dark olive linen drawstring pants.
Fearing I’ve been gone too long, I point to the girls and say I’ll be right back. “Mia nipote,” my granddaughter, I say proudly.
The girls are perched on stools shaped like giant cones, carefully licking three scoops each in enormous waffle cones. I examine their shirts… not a drip.
“You doin’ okay?” I ask. “I need ten more minutes.”
Sydney turns to me, “Take your time, Nana. We’re doin’ very well, thanks.”
She turns back to Francesca, continuing their chat in English, Italian and Spanish. I tap her on the shoulder and point to the store across the street to make sure she knows where I am. She nods without looking up.
What a pleasure to be in a small town in Italy where nine-year-old girls can experience independence. I would never allow them unescorted out of our building in Chicago. Not because our neighborhood is unsafe or because kids are less responsible there, but because Chicago is a city. Cortona is a community.
While I was gone, the clerk found a lime green tunic that is charming with the olive pants. I don’t need three more linen shirts, but in the end, it’s more important to nurture a new relationship than to worry about spending a little more.
When I try to pay the difference, she tells me it’s niente, nothing. I insist I must pay. I calculate that I owe her eighteen euros and hand her a twenty. She refuses, saying they are now on sale. She insists my Italian is buonissimo, very good. I laugh, flattered but knowing the truth. I finally give-in, say, “Grazie, grazie, troppo gentile,” too kind, and leave feeling treated beyond generously and eager to shop here again.
On our walk back to La Bucaccia, I quietly ask Syd if she’d like for Francesca to come home with us for a visit. Sydney nods and whispers to Francesca, whose face brightens into a huge grin. I remind them we must ask Francesca’s parents first.
Romano and Agostina agree as long as she’s back by six. The girls jump up and down, run down the steep hill, climb into the back seat and buckle in, with me as chauffeur.
As I drive the SUV up the access road and around the sharp uphill turn, the engine grinds and wheels spin. I glance at the girls in the rear-view mirror. Francesca looks pale. At the top of the second curve, when the car bumps over the bedrock, I see Francesco put her hand over her mouth.
“Va bene?” I ask, it goes okay?
Francesca nods, then puts her head in her lap.
As I turn into our driveway, our car startles an old woman waddling toward our house. She scurries into the woods, swaying side to side, and peers out from behind a tree. I stop and call out, “Buonasera!”
I’ve seen the same woman gathering roadside plants. She seems harmless, in fact, quite dear. She looks up and half raises her hand in a timid greeting. Behind her is a big shiny sickle. At her feet, a bundle of greens.
She stays hidden until we pass. In the rear-view mirror, I watch her emerge from the woods, turn and walk away from us.
Francesca still has her head between her knees when I stop. Instantly, she hops out and moves her hand from her mouth in a wide arc, the universal sign for throwing up. Our road and my driving made the poor girl sick. I feel terrible, but am not surprised. We trudge over mud and rubble to get to the house. She must wonder if we are crazy.
Francesca’s color returns while Sydney shows her around. The girls inspect a wall of grass seeds the ants made along the concrete slab and chat with Larry. They play the piano. Francesca is intrigued by some Mardi Gras beads from Paige’s birthday decorations, so Larry gives the girls matching strands of green beads.
About five-thirty, we decide to walk to town, rather than get back in the car. As we walk down the driveway, I’m surprised to see the old woman in our olive grove hacking away. Francesca jumps up and down.
“La mia amica!” My friend! Francesca runs down a dirt ramp toward the woman, who looks up, shocked. Then she recognizes Francesca, grins and holds out her arms.
Francesca slips on some gravel, almost falls, and yells “Aiutami!” Help me!
“Stop!” I yell. Francesca freezes. I walk down the ramp, take her hand and walk with her the rest of the way. Once Francesca is on flat ground, she pulls me along faster than I want to go, eager to greet her friend.
Francesca throws her arms around the forager, who looks confused to see her young friend here. The woman is tiny and hunched over, not much taller than Francesca. She has keen dark eyes, straggly gray hair, a beaming grin, and one tooth. Her skin, leathery from the sun, makes it impossible to tell her age. Twigs and sticky seedpods decorate her blue sweater, her apron pockets are stuffed, and her huge roll of foraged plants rests beside her right foot. She squeezes Francesca close and caresses her hair.
Larry and Sydney catch up and we all look at one another in an awkward moment.
In Italian, Larry tells the woman we moved here da Chicago. The forager tells us she likes our house. I ask che cose, what things she has picked, but she either doesn’t understand or doesn’t want to tell me. In her bundle, I recognize Queen Anne’s lace, the pink blossoms of wild sweet peas, fennel clusters, blue-star borage, and lots of mystery greens.
After we say goodbye and start up the ramp, I glance back and see her reach with the tip of the sickle and deftly roll the bundle, wider than she is, under her arm.
Foragers are common in our area. It seems anything growing along a road is available for public consumption. However, I am surprised to see her on our property.
We turn right, uphill toward the rocky trail. Francesca tells us her friend lives near their restaurant and she has known her all her life. I look back and see the gleaner emerge from our driveway and turn down the access road.
On the Roman road over Cortona’s hilltop, Francesca is fast, her long, young legs accustomed to steep climbs. All that’s left of the original two-thousand-year-old road are giant, thick, flat stones fitted close together, now overgrown with weeds. At the top, we pick wild blackberries for a snack. On a natural stone throne, the girls sit tall like royalty. A bowl of dog food beside the trail seems an odd thing to find in the forest. Near the end are more bowls, this time with cats nibbling away. They scatter as we approach.
Soon we arrive at the Basilica di Santa Margherita, the church dedicated to Cortona’s patron saint. Francesca asks us if she can show Sydney something inside, takes Syd’s hand and pulls her into the sanctuary.
Larry and I, giving the girls their privacy, visit our favorite side chapel with the names of the six-hundred Cortonesi lost in WWI, and a large fresco of Santa Margherita interceding on behalf of the soldiers’ widows and orphans. I realize that in 1920, when the painting was unveiled, viewers would have recognized their neighbors, family and friends in the fallen soldiers’ faces.
Across the sanctuary, the girls are kneeling side by side, praying together in front of the ancient wooden crucified Jesus, the one Margherita was praying before when she heard Jesus speak to her. I want to take a photo but it seems an intrusion. They rise and each light a candle, perhaps contributing their remaining gelato money. I wonder what is on their young hearts and hope it is all joy.
Outside the cathedral, the girls reclaim the long sticks they picked up on our walk. Syd ties her belongings in a plastic bag, hangs it on the end, and puts it over her shoulder like a hobo. Francesca does the same.
On our way downhill into Cortona, we hear a couple in an upstairs apartment having a ferocious argument. The girls look up, grab onto each other and giggle.
Francesca tells Sydney that she is her “amica migliore,” best friend.
Francesca seems to know everyone in Cortona and introduces Sydney to each person they see. Larry and I stay far enough behind to supervise without interfering. They stop to pet two pugs, a spaniel, two spotless white toy poodles, a Doberman and several mutts, all on leashes held by their owners. Sydney concludes Cortona is a dog town, adding, “That’s cool!”
I’m glad Sydney can experience the ease with which Francesca greets everyone by name, including the dogs, and introduces her new best friend to so many of her old friends. It’s the perfect demonstration of the value of living in a small town for all of one’s life, even a young life. Americans rarely have this experience. I hope that Sydney grasps its uniqueness.
At La Bucaccia, while Sydney chats with Romano in a very grown-up way, I see Francesca in the kitchen wrapped in Agostina’s arms, mom kissing her daughter’s hair. I think what a tender exchange after such a short time away and then realize Francesca is crying. I approach them to make sure it’s not something that happened on our trip, like my driving. Agostina explains that Francesca says Sydney is leaving tomorrow and she won’t see her again. I reassure them that we’re only going to Florence for the day. Sydney can come visit on Thursday. Francesca recovers instantly, a huge smile across her tear-stained face.
As we leave, Sydney respectfully asks Romano if she can help serve dinner sometime. He takes her chin in his hands and kisses her forehead. “Bella, bella. Grazie, bella.”
We say goodbye and Sydney promises to call. On our walk home through the Parterre, rain starts, then stops, then starts again and we run the rest of the way, laughing and getting soaked. At home, with the rickety grill pulled under the eve, Larry starts the charcoal.
Syd goes upstairs after dinner to get ready for bed without a word from us. She seems to know we have a big day ahead. At Syd’s request, tomorrow we’ll visit the famous Uffizi Gallery.
“Gaab-baaaa,” she screams. “Come here NOW!! There’s a monster scorpion in the tub.”
Larry runs upstairs; I follow. Sure enough. It’s over two inches long, has a hard, black shell and strong pinchers, and is flicking the stinger on its curled tail. We understand Tuscan scorpions are only deadly in August, after their venom intensifies all summer. But this is August. I ask Larry to get a shoe. So much for putting insects outside.
“There’s never only one,” Sydney insists, based on her Texas scorpion experience. She retreats to the sitting room, perches on her makeshift bed, and clutches her knees in her arms.
“I don’t know if I can sleep,” she whimpers, getting up to shake out the sheets and toss all the cushions aside to check underneath. I help her remake her bed, shaking the blanket as well, but she refuses to get in.
“You need to try to sleep, sweetheart,” Gabba urges her. “You said you wanted to catch the early train, remember.”
In ten minutes, Sydney is comatose.
I breathe a long sigh as I look at my exceptional granddaughter, recalling Francesca’s tears over saying goodbye to her new best friend. Saying goodbye to Dale was sad for me. Maybe children and adults are not so different after all. At least not young girls and grown women.
I reflect on the good day this has been, not only because we’ve had Sydney all to ourselves, but also because things have gone so well between Larry and me. We have another day tomorrow with Syd. We’ll catch a very early train and visit the Uffizi, the important art museum in Florence. It’ll be a beyond-great day for Larry because he loves sharing art with others and Sydney is his favorite audience. She typically hangs on his every word and engages fully in exploring the art. I hope it’ll be a day where they reunite, washing away the lingering sadness from her comment that her Gabba is not funny anymore.
In fact, this has not only been a good day, it’s been a great week. Larry loves being a grandpa and has devoted this week to the girls, rising extra early to study so he can be free all day. Our tensions have eased. He’s more patient and kinder; I’m less sensitive and defensive. It feels like we’re helpmates again, rather than competitors.
I hope this change will persist once the kids are gone, but suspect we will struggle. Patterns are hard to break and our summer pattern has been persistent tension with one another. Other changes are likely to occur as we sort out life in our new homeland — some good, some not so good. It is always work to make a marriage work. The stresses of this summer have taken their toll but tonight I feel happy and hopeful, like the work is worth it.
Yesterday, Sydney, Larry and I took the earliest train to Florence and then stood in line for over an hour to enter the Galleria Uffizi. Sydney was patient beyond measure. Then we spent four more hours going through each room discussing every Annunciazione that Sydney and Larry could find. When Larry suggested they chose a theme, I was so relieved. Otherwise the Uffizi could have taken days, especially with these two.
Over lunch in Piazza Signoria, Sydney surprised us, saying, if we didn’t mind, that she really wanted to take the next train home and help serve dinner at La Bucaccia with Francesca. Romano and Agostina were delighted and Larry offered to take me out for a relaxing dinner for two. By the time we three were back at Lodolina, and Ron, Paulla and the younger girls had returned from their two days in Rome, it was midnight.
This morning, I’m making a much-needed second cappuccino when Paulla comes in and asks if we’re still going to Assisi today.
“Sure, if everyone’s up for it,” I reply, lifting an empty cup to offer her one. “But there’s no rush. It’s a half-day trip and we have nothing else planned.”
Paulla nods, affirmative for the cappuccino, and says she’s grateful not to rush today.
Lingering over our coffees, we chat about the chaos of Rome, especially in summer, their crazy adventure, and I tell her about Sydney’s two days with us.
The drive to Assisi is uneventful. All three girls want to ride with their parents, which gives Larry and me time to talk. We chat about highlights of the kids’ visit, plan our upcoming romantic holiday in Verona, and laugh that our new lawn looks like florescent emerald fur.
On our steep walk up to the famous Basilica di San Francesco from the parking lot, I explain to Sydney and Paige that Francis was born during the Middle Ages to a wealthy family in the town we’re now visiting, Assisi. That’s why he’s called Francis of Assisi. As a gregarious and charming young man, Francis had a vision of Jesus telling him to rebuild his church and serve the poor. When he renounced his wealth and dedicated himself to Christian service, his father was furious. The legend is that Francis took off his fancy clothes, returned them to his father, and walked away naked.
“That’s pretty cool,” Paige says, as we enter the massive front doors.
In the Upper Church, encircling the entire sanctuary, are twenty-eight scenes illustrating stories from Francis’ life. These unsigned frescoes are attributed to Giotto, but Larry tells the girls that art experts periodically debate who painted them and they should decide for themselves. Sydney says they look like the paintings by Giotto in the Uffizi to her. I smile, seeing Larry’s delight with his young protégé.
Larry explains each story, kneeling with the girls gathered around him. One fresco shows the story I told the girls. In another, Francis gives his cloak to a poor man. In still another, he’s preaching to the birds. Near the end, Francis receives the stigmata — wounds like those in Jesus’s hands and feet, caused by the nails attaching Jesus to the cross.
Sydney says the perspective is bad and Larry reminds her that Giotto painted a hundred years before Brunelleschi wrote about perspective. She nods.
I want to take a photo of Larry with the girls. It’s a tender scene, but photos aren’t allowed in this church. Ron, Paulla and I sit in nearby pews, watching and listening.
Larry softly tells the girls that Francis challenged the Roman Catholic Church at a time when many leaders were corrupt and the Church needed reform. Unlike the Pope and Bishops who lived lavishly, Francis refused to own anything and insisted that monks in his order do the same. His teachings about simplicity, service, and love — emulating Jesus — were so powerful that tens of thousands of people listened to Francis, then more closely followed Jesus’ teachings.
“Silenzio,” a stern voice says over a loud speaker, temporarily quieting the voices of visitors. Signs throughout say this Basilica is place for prayer and worship. Every few minutes, we hear “Silenzio… silenzio.” There is a hush. Soon the chatter escalates. Then, again, “Silenzio… silenzio.”
Francis was officially canonized only two years after his death in 1226, a remarkably speedy sainthood, and the Basilica construction began almost immediately. It was finished within twenty-five years, surely a record for such a gigantic medieval structure. It remains one of the most important pilgrimage sites in the world and visitors, millions each year, are of every race, age, and, probably, most creeds.
We climb down the stairs to the Lower Church, then descend another level into the crypt. In this small room, people kneel around the stone wall encasing Francis’ tomb. They kiss the railing and lay gifts against it. His burial place was kept secret for nearly six hundred years, re-discovered only in 1818. The girls are soon ready to move on.
Our final stop is a chapel in the Lower Church painted by Simone Martini, the same artist who painted an annunciation Larry and Sydney especially liked in the Uffizi. Larry sits on a pew with the girls, explaining scenes from the life of Jesus. An official approaches, calling for “silenzio.” He looks at Larry and the girls then nods, encouraging Larry to continue his quiet instruction.
Pointing to the fourth scene, Larry whispers to the girls, “That’s the circumcision of Jesus.”
Paige frowns, bolts upright and blurts loudly, “Gabba! What’s circumcision?!?”
Larry looks at Ron, as if to say, what do you want me to do?
Ron whispers, with a lopsided grin, “It’s okay… you can tell them.” He turns to me, saying playfully, “Let’s see what he does with this one.”
Larry raises his eyebrows and half-grins at Ron, who is now choking back laughter.
Larry starts in a very low voice. “Well… boys have a part that girls don’t have.”
The girls nod. That much they know.
“Circumcision is when a small piece gets cuts off.”
They all scrunch up their faces in disgust.
“Oh, yuk!” Paige says, again in a shockingly loud voice.
“Shhhh,” Paulla warns.
Ron tries to help. “Not all of it gets cut off, just a piece they don’t need.”
The girls look more aghast. Paige jumps up for emphasis. I mention to Larry that this may be better discussed at home.
Over the speaker the priest reminds us, “See-lehn-zee-o… silenzio.”
Claudia, fighting sleep, begs to go home and insists on being carried.
Outside, big raindrops plop on the warm stone, making polka dots that instantly evaporate. We all run to the car as the drops quicken into a serious downpour.
The instant Ron buckles Claudia into her car seat, her head bobs forward and she’s out. The girls ride with their parents.
By the time we merge onto the super-highway, our vision is blurred by the deluge. A red Smart Car zooms past, too fast and too close. What is most irritating about driving in Italy is not getting lost, which happens all the time and can be fun, or cars going too fast, which is typical, or even being passed in dangerous situations, also far too common. What is most irritating is being passed by a toy.
At Lodolina, fifty miles away, skies are clear. Ron and Larry carry the littlest girls inside. Paulla tries to wake Sydney, but she won’t budge. Ron says he’ll come back for her.
Paulla tucks the girls into bed without dinner and I make spaghetti carbonara for the adults. While the boys clean up, she and I sit on the front slab and sip limoncello, watch for falling stars, and giggle over Paige blurting, “Gabba, what’s circumcision?”
Today’s innocence captured that fleeting moment between childhood and adulthood in which Paige could ask an embarrassing question with no embarrassment whatsoever. But I wonder if she was so innocent. Sometimes kids know more than they let on, or than we adults give them credit for knowing.
Birds sing and the squirrel’s half-cones clatter to the ground. Still in bed, I try to pick out the song of the lark with its melodic, crystalline flutes and trills, then stretch lazily, letting this morning’s cacophony of birdsongs envelope me as I ease back into the pillow for five more minutes.
Ron is unloading the dishwasher when I come downstairs. Plates gleam and glasses sparkle. Dishwasher detergent, rather than decalcifier, does make a difference. I laugh at myself.
Soon Paige swishes down the stairs, a vision of pink. She twirls into the kitchen to be admired in her birthday robe.
“Good morning beautiful, I need a hug,” Ron says, pulling Paige into his arms.
“Don’t touch my hair,” she warns, then melts into her daddy’s embrace.
She’s excited to spend the whole day with Nana and Gabba, without sisters or parents. Today is Paige’s special day.
After a perfunctory goodbye to her family, on their way to Pinocchio Park near Florence, she turns to me and says, “Nana, ants have taken over the bathroom.”
“Are you serious… or exaggerating a little?” I wonder why she didn’t divulge this problem earlier.
“Serious.” Her enormous caramel eyes are sincere. I head upstairs.
Paige is not overstating. In the girls’ bathroom, trails of ants are everywhere, even on the ceiling. Dirty clothes are strewn about with who-knows-what on them. I pick up each garment, shake off the ants, and put it in a plastic bag for laundry. Then I saturate the floors, walls, and ceiling with ant spray, holding my breath and trying to stay out of the mist. Outside, I spray the base of the stone walls. I close the door behind me.
After getting myself ready, I find Paige downstairs with Larry. She’s sitting in a wicker chair, pretty as a picture, waiting patiently while he reads.
“You weren’t kidding, Paige! Thanks for telling me. But from now on we’re going to put dirty clothes in the plastic bag so they don’t attract ants. Got it?”
“Did you kill them all?” she asks, without acknowledging my request.
“Maybe not every one, but zillions!” I answer.
“Good,” she replies. I tell her to use our bathroom this morning.
When I ask what she wants to do on her special day, she says, “Things Sydney has never done.”
Larry and I exchange a look. It must be hard to be the middle daughter.
Together we plan a day of things Sydney hasn’t done. Paige is a bundle of energy, excited at each suggestion, even ones I fear could be boring.
After her favorite breakfast of pancakes with homemade syrup and a kid cappuccino, we drive to Castiglion Fiorentino to visit Francesco’s studio, the art museum, and the ruins of an ancient fortress — none of which Sydney has seen.
For the entire ride, Paige charms us with chatter. She tells us what she likes to cook and all the reasons she loves pink. She complains about her sisters and how they won’t let her go into their rooms. She says whatever comes to her mind, because she has no competition for our attention and no one will correct her.
At Francesco’s studio, Paige is fascinated by every building model and sample of wood, tile, stone and iron. She’s especially taken with the teapots Francesco designed for a German china manufacturer, asking him questions non-stop.
Castiglion Fiorentino is smaller than Cortona, but a similar walled medieval hilltown with Etruscan roots. In the city center we search for Chiesa di San Angelo, once a church and now the Pinacoteca museum. When we finally find the door, the ticket agent says they close in thirty minutes, adding that the museum is only open in the mornings. Thirty minutes may be plenty for Paige.
The collection is mostly religious art, with a few surprising treasures. I’m drawn to an enameled silver bust of a young blond girl with a jewel-encrusted crown with genuine rubies, sapphires, emeralds and pearls.
“There’s your Princess, Princess Paige. She’s here to greet you on your special day.”
Paige’s smile radiates. She gets as close to the glass case as she can without pressing her nose on it. I read the card aloud, explaining the princess is Saint Ursula, daughter of the King of Britain during the fourteenth century. She was martyred along with seven thousand virgins to save the town of Cologne.
Paige backs up, wrinkles her nose and walks to the next case.
She points to a Gothic crucifix. “That’s like the Giotto one in Florence.”
“Good eye, Paige,” Larry says.
Soon the museum official seems to be fidgeting as if he’s eager to leave, so I walk toward the door, motioning Paige to follow. It’s twelve-twenty-five, almost time.
“No, no… you must stay as long as you like,” he insists.
We’ve seen most of what’s there, so we thank him and make our exit. Before lunch, we want to climb to the fortezza at the peak of the hill.
Not much is left of the fort. The placard says it was built in 1367 to protect townspeople from invaders from Arezzo and Florence. It became a convent two centuries later, then a prison. Now only a few precarious walls and a bell-clock-watch tower remain. Near the tower, I find a four-leaf clover for Paige, which delights her. Something, she notes, I have never done for Sydney.
Since Sydney hasn’t been to Castiglion Fiorentino, we’re free to choose any place we want for lunch and select a trattoria near the city wall, a favorite of Francesco’s.
When the waitress asks about drinks, Paige says, “Coca-cola, medium.” The owner, amused by this decisive little girl, answers “Subito!” Right away. It arrives in a Coke-bottle shaped glass nearly as big as Paige’s head.
“I wonder how big the grande is,” Paige says under her breath, obviously pleased.
She orders ravioli with salsa rosa, a tomato sauce with cream. Larry asks for affettati misti, assorted sliced dried meats including prosciutto and salami, and sliced tomatoes. I choose tacchino alla griglia, grilled turkey and insalata verde, a green salad. Larry and I are being careful; this has been a plumping summer.
Larry seems agitated. When I finally ask what’s up, he says he’s concerned that in Francesco’s office he used the wrong Italian word and implied that a friend of Francesco’s was ingenuous when he meant encouraging.
“Francesco acted strange,” he says. “I should’ve been more careful and less cute.”
“You can tell him what you meant instead of what you said. He’ll understand. He knows you wouldn’t insult anyone on purpose.”
I’m glad I asked and relieved to know Larry’s upset was not caused by me. It’s usually better to ask than to assume, since we typically assume the worst.
Paige is staring at a TV overhead. It’s a soccer match and every Italian man in the room is watching.
“Have you ever played soccer?” Larry asks.
“Yes,” she mumbles between big bites.
‘Did you like it?”
“Not s’much,” she says, swallowing hard.
“Why?” he probes.
“Because they make us play on the hottest days. When it’s cool and breezy, they say, ‘We’ll wait.’ But on the hottest day, they say, ‘Time to play soccer!’ We live in San Antonio! Hot is hot!”
Paige consumes most of her lunch before Larry and I make dents in ours.
While Larry pays the bill, Paige and I wait outside. The elderly couple sitting near us walks out and the woman gently pinches Paige’s cheeks, saying, “Bellissima, bellissima.”
“Grazie,” I say. Paige winces at the pinch, but beams at the compliment.
Nearing Cortona, Larry and Paige tell me to drop them in town so they can explore some more, saying they’ll walk home. I’m quite sure they’re conspiring to find gelato.
When they finally arrive at Lodolina, Paige complains that Gabba ate all her gelato. Larry says she gave him almost nothing. She then begs him to walk to Palazzone, insisting that he promised. He resists, saying he promised before she walked him all over Cortona. She insists, saying it is a matter of keeping his word.
“If you want to walk some more, you can walk in front of the car when we go to dinner,” he teases.
I offer to walk with Paige to Palazzone, if he’ll drive Rita to the bus when she’s finished for the day. Larry says he needs to handle a few things, so can’t help with Rita or Paige. That means both are up to me. I decide to take Rita so she isn’t late. Paige says she wants to stay home.
As I approach the first curve on the access road, an old, turquoise jeep-like Fiat, straight from Out of Africa, suddenly rounds the curve and startles me. There’s no room to pass and the Fiat keeps coming, so I start backing up. As I inch backward, the Fiat presses forward.
I back all the way to our driveway, over a hundred yards, where there’s a space wide enough to pass. Suddenly, Larry and Paige appear from our driveway. I guess the Princess charmed him into walking to Palazzone after all.
Larry waves to the driver of the Fiat, then points to me and says, “My wife, Victoria.”
I say “Un momento” to Rita and get out to say hello. It would be rude to drive away. The driver has a warm smile, grand presence, and is wearing an orange linen dress and funky blue jacket. When she gets out, I see she’s taller than Larry. Finally, I meet Belinda, our neighbor up the hill.
“I’ve been wanting to come by to say hello,” she says with a strong English accent. “I gave your husband a note a few days ago because your phone doesn’t work. I hope you’ll come next week for a drink. Lyndall, who lives at Palazzone, also wants to meet you. We’ll make it a party.”
“I did get your note and it’ll be a pleasure,” I say, “but right now I must take our housekeeper to catch her bus.”
Turning to Larry, I ask, “Are you two walking to Palazzone?’ He nods and Paige grins.
I drive faster than I’m comfortable driving down the hill and take the dirt shortcut to the lower, wider road to town.
“Alla bus o alla tua casa?” To the bus or to your house? I ask Rita as we get close.
“Bus,” she says. It sounds like “boose,” rhymes with “loose.” She climbs down from the SUV and runs to catch her boose.
Turning onto our access road, I see Larry and Paige picking blackberries and stop to ask about their visit to Palazzone.
“We got kicked out,” Paige says.
“It’s beautiful inside, Vic. Just beautiful,” Larry says. “It’s built around a courtyard with an old well. I wanted to see the frescoes, but only caught a glimpse of the courtyard before we were told to leave.”
I ask if they want a ride, but Paige quickly says they want to pick more berries.
Sadly, she comes home with a blackberry stain on her beige and pink flowered skirt. After using several products with only modest success, I pour boiling water over the remaining shadow until there’s not even a hint remaining. Paige heaves a huge sigh when I show her and hugs me hard. She says it’s her favorite skirt and now her mom won’t be mad.
For dinner, we head up the mountain road to Portole, definitely somewhere Sydney has never been. Larry drives too fast for me and I feel queasy.
“Please, slow down. I’m getting car sick.”
“Are you really sick or just afraid?” Larry asks, sounding irritated.
“Both,” I answer. “What’s the difference? Either way, you should be willing to slow down if I ask. Without getting irritated.”
I turn around and Paige’s eyes are enormous. She seems to agree. Hairpins and switchbacks are much worse in the daylight for someone prone to motion sickness, especially with a phobia of going over the edge.
He drives more slowly, for which I’m grateful, but he does not seem happy.
The restaurant at the hamlet of Portole is plain yet pleasant, with acoustic tile ceilings and florescent lights. We understand the food is great. We’re the only guests, but it’s early. Just inside the front door is an antique wooden bar and perched on top is a stuffed blonde fox catching a bird. The fox is barely larger than a cat. I motion to Larry, saying our shoe thief must look like that.
An energetic man introduces himself as Franco, the owner. Larry tells Franco that today is Paige’s special day. She’s away from her parents and two sisters, alone with her grandparents for the first time ever. Franco ushers us to a table and almost immediately a waitress brings menus and tells us today’s specials. She also says that if there’s something Paige would like, even if not on the menu, to ask, since she understands that today is Paige’s special day. Larry translates. Paige beams.
“I would like only pasta and dessert,” she proclaims.
Eventually, Paige agrees to share grilled chicken and vegetables with Larry and me, in addition to her personal pasta selections. Paige’s normally good appetite is the heartiest ever, even after the ravioli lunch. She munches on my grilled zucca, an Italian squash that looks like pumpkin but isn’t sweet, and says she likes it.
What she loves is her orzo, a pasta shaped like large grains of rice. Gabba wants a taste. She agrees to one bite, but then Larry won’t keep his spoon out of it.
“Gabba, you’re gobbling – it’s MINE.”
He looks wounded. She doesn’t relent, making up names for him… “Gabba, Grabba, Grubba, Gobble.”
I think it’s clever; Larry feigns offence. On Larry’s phone, we look up various given names. Paige means assistant. Sydney means wide field. Learning that Claudia’s name means lame, Paige bangs the table with her fist and throws her head back, and laughs as though it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Larry holds her fists, so she tries to bang her forehead on the table. The restaurant is quite full by now and I fear we’re making an ugly American spectacle, so say, “Shhhh,” which makes Paige laugh even harder.
With our permission, she orders two desserts, tiramisu and a sponge cake rolled around whipped cream, coconut and mint. Larry and I beg for a taste, but are allowed barely a morsel of either. Now I know the truth about how much gelato Larry was given earlier today. Almost nothing.
Paige scrapes the tiramisu plate until it looks like she licked it, though she didn’t, and asks us if she please could have another serving. Since she has cleaned her plate at every meal all day, we agree. Besides, it’s a grandparent’s right to be indulgent — within reason, of course.
When the waitress sadly informs her that she just ate the last serving, Paige looks crushed.
Then the waitress, who we think may be Franco’s daughter, brings the tiramisu pan from the kitchen, suggesting Paige can scrape the bottom. It has lots of left-behind tiramisu and Paige is thrilled.
“I don’t think we’ll need to wash this,” the waitress teases when she picks it up, inspecting the nearly spotless pan.
“My special day is the best day ever!” Paige exclaims and tells the waitress all she did. The waitress seems interested, though I’m not sure how much English she understands. Paige’s excitement alone would hold anyone’s attention.
I need to go to the ladies’ room. Paige says she does too.
She points inside a stall, saying, “Look, Nana, there’s a big one and a little one, even in the restaurant.”
When I don’t respond, she persists. “What’s the little one for? Is it a sink?”
“No. It’s a bidet, not a sink,” I reply, intending no further discussion.
“Can I wash my hands in it?”
“No, that’s not what it’s for.”
“What is it for?”
“To wash your bottom, if you need to.”
“Can I?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t have time and you don’t have a dirty bottom.”
My hands washed in the big sink, I’m ready to leave. But Paige is still in the stall.
“Are you okay, Paigie?” I call softly, chuckling under my breath.
“Yes. Fine.”
“I’m going out to sit with Gabba, okay?”
“Okay,” she says. “Be there soon.”
Larry and I wait for a long time. Just as I start to go check on Paige, she arrives with a not-so-innocent smile. I suspect she has a very clean bottom.
Ron and family return home well after eleven. Claudia and Sydney have Pinocchio noses, painted faces and are giggling uproariously. None of the girls seem tired. I’m exhausted, ready to brush my teeth and crash.
“Italians are seriously into Pinocchio,” says Ron, “And there are parts of the story Americans don’t tell their kids.”
As Larry tucks the girls in their beds upstairs, I hear Paige telling her sisters about her special day in glowing detail. She doesn’t mention the little sink.
Lights off downstairs, I drag my weary body up the stairs and into my bed, thinking how grateful I am that we can share Italy with our grandchildren. It teaches them the world is bigger than Texas or America. As they become comfortable with one new culture, I hope they’ll find other cultures more approachable and interesting. Perhaps I won’t have given up grand-mothering with this move to a foreign land, as I believed. Perhaps we have expanded the worlds we will explore together.
We have a late start this morning and no workers. The silence seems erie, almost loud. Larry sits in a wicker chair on the front concrete slab, surveying waves of new florescent emerald grass. Randomly across the lawn, anthills have risen where the ants have collected grass seed. The cones look like green-fur party hats.
Today, Larry has two lap blankets wrapped around his body. It has gone from unbearably hot to downright chilly, unusual for August. Perhaps the day will become idyllic, but this morning is shivery.
I decide to work in the living room with my computer plugged in, as the battery is low. The moment I start typing, my screen dims. Larry says in a here-we-go-again tone, “The electricity just went out. Must be nine o’clock.”
I head upstairs for a cold sponge bath, using as little water as possible and catching any extra in a bowl. Without power to the well pump we don’t have any water, let alone hot water. And seven people need to get dressed.
Calling down from the top of the stairs, I say, “Larry, come look what I just killed in our bedroom. It’s the biggest scorpion we’ve seen all summer. It was crawling up the wall above your open suitcase. We should start shaking out our shoes before we put them on.” I recall something in a novel about scorpions hiding in shoes. Or in suitcases under the clothes, I think.
Without showers, lights, coffee or hairdryers, seven of us manage to get ready and out the door in record time. The girls are excited to explore the famous Il Parco dei Mostri, Monster Park, near Bomarzo, about two hours south on the A1.
Monster Park is an ancient forest of gargantuan, fantastical sculptures carved from natural rock formations. Prince Francesco Orsini commissioned the park in the 1560’s to “vent his heart” after the death of his wife, Giulia Farnese. Prince Orsini’s fantasy is officially called Sacro Bosco, Sacred Woods, and it’s stated objective was to astonish.
We pile into two cars. Sydney and Claudia ride with us. Paige chooses her parents, saying she missed them on her special day. Three minutes into our trip, at the bottom of our S-curve, a huge insect splats against the windshield.
“Do you know the last thing that went through that bug’s mind?” Larry asks Sydney and Claudia.
They know it’s a joke, but don’t know the answer, so try to look bored.
After a minute’s silence, Larry says, “His butt.”
Stifled chuckles are followed by a long pause. Then Sydney asks, “Gabba, did Mr. Jim tell you that joke?”
“Syd! What a thing to say!’”
She repeats, deadpan, “Did Mr. Jim tell you that joke?”
Larry is silent. His mouth curves downward, lower lip protrudes and eyes narrow. He leans a little toward the mirror, to make sure they see his pitiful pout.
The girls giggle and I turn my head to the window, trying not to grin too broadly.
But Syd doesn’t take back her question and Larry doesn’t answer. In fact, it was true. It was one of the kid-jokes Jim gave Larry when we saw them in Rome.
We ride in silence. The air in the car feels heavier after Sydney dismisses Larry’s joke, one he hoped would regain his status as funny. We had such a nice day with Sydney in Florence, but it seems the spell is broken again.
Barreling south on the A1, we pass more fields of faded stalks and drooping faces. There is no gold in the sunflowers this summer, color or income. I’m sad for the sunflowers, sadder for the farmers, and sadder yet for Larry who seems crestfallen.
Despite the tension, the sunny day is perfect for a road trip. Larry turns on the radio. He ignores any effort I make to connect with him. Surely, he’s not that upset because the girls teased him about his joke.
Under my breath, hoping the girls can’t hear, I say, “I don’t understand your mood.”
“I’m not in a mood.”
“Then why are you ignoring me? I’m trying to connect and you’re ignoring me.”
“I’m just enjoying the music.”
“Are you mad because we laughed at you?”
“Of course not.”
I’m not so sure, but don’t want to doubt his word so give up.
Finally, I whisper, “Why must I be the one to make all the effort at getting along?”
After a few more moments, he whispers, a little playfully, “Because you’re the girl and that’s your job.”
“It’s not a job I want or accept,” I whisper back, looking straight ahead. By this time, I’m annoyed. This interaction seems ridiculous.
The girls start grumbling about Gabba’s music and then my job becomes negotiating a truce between the grandfather, who is enjoying an opera, and the sisters who say they hate opera and can we please change the channel. When I ask what kind of music they like, Larry turns off the radio.
We approach Orvieto, about an hour into our drive.
“Tell Ron about Orvieto,” Larry says.
“What do you want me to tell him?” I ask, getting out the walkie-talkies and wondering what he has in mind.
He frowns and says, “Just tell them why it’s so important.” I have the feeling whatever I say, it won’t be what he wants them to know.
I push the walkie-talkie switch on.
“Larry wants you to look at Orvieto,” I say when they answer. “It’s ahead on the right.”
I hold the walkie-talkie toward his face. He makes a motion that I should talk. When I don’t, he leans in and says, “Orvieto is where popes would flee when they needed protection from invaders or were fed up with the Romans. It has a perfect natural fortification. Can you see it?”
“I wish we had time to stop,” he adds as we pass the historical city perched above a sheer cliff, and suggests we come back, saying it’s worth a full day.
I add “over and out,” and that we’ll see them at Monster Park.
“Over and out,” comes the reply.
The girls are fussing again. I give them the evil grandmother eye which says,“cut-it-out-or-I’ll-have-to-ask-your-grandfather-to-stop-and-you-don’t-want-that-to-happen.” They become quiet. There is too much tension in this car for me.
A driver in a white van pulls close behind our SUV and flashes his lights. Larry touches his brakes as a counter-move. It does not daunt the aggressive driver who hugs our tail even more closely and continues to flash his brights, trying to force Larry into the right lane even though Larry’s going plenty fast and the right lane is full of trucks. Larry passes the entire line of lorries at a reasonable speed making it impossible for the other driver to pass at all. As Larry eases into the right lane ahead of the trucks, the white van zooms past faster than we dare calculate.
Soon after the autostrada drama, in unison the girls say, “There it is!!” I look up and see the sign for Bomarzo, our exit.
“There it really is,” Claudia exclaims a couple minutes later, when she sees the sign for Il Parco dei Mostri, Park of the Monsters.
We drive into a weedy, nearly-empty parking lot and climb out of our cars. Claudia needs to use the toilet “right now” and I’m relieved to see one at the edge of the lot.
It’s not the cleanest. There’s one room with three stalls and no gender signs. The floor is covered with wet mud. No one wants to go first. Shamelessly, I say I will because I can’t wait much longer. Only one stall has a door. Of course, there is no paper. With my favorite white pants down around my knees, held tightly above the wet, slimy floor, I straddle the toilet and reach my hand under the stall door to accept Paulla’s gift of tissues.
When I turn on the faucet to wash my hands, water pours onto my feet. I flip it off immediately.
Claudia’s still outside. “Mommy,” she pleads, “There’s yucky all over! Do I have to go here?”
Ron tries to reassure her, “There’s no pipe under the sink, Claudia. It’s just water from the sink… not what you think. It’s okay, you can come in.”
Paulla hands Claudia tissues, gives her the tiniest push, and adds that we don’t know where there’ll be another bathroom.
“You wait,” I whisper to Paulla, “There’ll be spotless bathrooms right by the entrance.”
Everyone who needs a toilet decides to use this one. Of course, when we enter the main building, the sign on the first door beyond the ticket booth says WC. Paulla and I smile at each other, say nothing, and quickly walk toward the park.
For three hours we explore grotesque stone monsters. Most are overgrown by masses of twisted vines, dense moss and lichen, and drooping tree branches. The forest seems like it’s been here since time began. While the girls climb and crawl over sea creatures, elephants, and horrific beasts with bulging eyes and massive open mouths, some leading to inner chambers, I take photos.
About two o’clock, we’re famished and head back to the main building for lunch in the cafeteria. When we get there, the workers are closing the hot food bins, not at all interested in seven more customers though there’s plenty of food. Larry tries to convince them to stay open, but they are unmoved. We buy soft drinks and bags of salty snacks, sit behind the building at a not-so-clean table and have a junk food lunch before our ride back to Lodolina.
This time, Paige and Claudia want to ride with us.
“So! Was that fun? Did you like Monster Park?” I ask as we drive out of the parking lot.
“YES!!” was the enthusiastic reply.
To judge how much they loved it, I ask if they’d rather have gone to a swimming pool.
“YES!!” they exclaim without hesitation. Kids are so predictable.
Now that I planted that idea, Paige begs to go to the pool when we get home. I say there’s no time, but maybe we will before they leave Cortona. I suddenly feel sad, knowing we’re near the end of their visit.
For tonight, Larry and I have tickets to take the older girls to a classical piano concert at Teatro Signorelli. It’s part of the Tuscan Sun Festival and will be quite a sophisticated evening for our young ladies.
We all get dressed up. Sydney tells me she wants to ask her mother if she can wear Paulla’s new scarf. I say it’s too old for her and that she might get it dirty. Syd considers my warning, nods and puts on her best dress with a little jacket. She looks beautiful and appropriate for nine.
Then Paige asks her mom if she can wear the new scarf and Paulla lets her. I wish I had kept quiet, but do think both girls are too young to be wrapped like a diva in their mother’s expensive new silk shawl.
Paige looks like a princess, as she probably intended. Sydney, who’d never want to be as prissy as a princess, looks lovely and a little dressing up makes her seem older and surprisingly elegant. I feel dowdy beside these beauties, though I’m wearing my best skirt and top, silk wrap, and favorite high heels. All black, of course.
“We have a box,” Larry tells the girls.
Paige frowns, “Like cardboard?”
“No, we have seats in our own private room, called a box. You’ll see,” he assures her.
Paige turns to smile at the mirror one last time.
The plan is for all of us to go to Lilli’s for dinner on Teatro Signorelli’s terrace, the same restaurant where we watched the World Cup. Then Larry and I’ll take Paige and Sydney inside to the concert. At the restaurant, Lilli offers us menus, but we ask her to bring us what is especially good tonight. She’s a fabulous cook and has never disappointed us. In fact, some say she’s the best cook in Cortona. But with so many great cuoci, it’s hard to elevate only one.
Lilli first brings thinly sliced prosciutto e melone which Paige deems the best ever. The platter would have been plenty for seven if Paige hadn’t eaten half of it. Also, as a starter, Lilli brings a plate of pecorino cheeses with an exotic Vin Santo jam she made herself. At that point I could’ve been satisfied for a pre-theater meal, but we all manage to eat every morsel of penne pasta with roasted yellow pepper and arugula sauce. Every plate is clean; every tummy full. Even Ron, our carnivore, says he’s stuffed.
The final bell rings, so we rush inside, asking Lilli if we can pay at intermission. She waves us on. From our box we have a perfect view of the full stage. The girls sit up straight, like young royalty. Paige grins from ear to ear, then hangs way over the edge of the rail to watch people below. Sydney, a bit more reserved and lady-like, looks around the theater, studying the historical details. She asks Gabba questions which he answers, leaning toward her and speaking softly, reveling in every moment.
Cortona’s opera house has not changed since the 1850s when it first opened. From the box we look up at a bright turquoise ceiling with white carved swirls and gold-gilt highlights. Vermillion silk brocade still covers the walls, and the red velvet seats and dark wood-plank floors look original. I imagine a debut of one of Verdi’s masterpieces with lush costumes and bejewel audiences. The seats and floor could use an update, but I do love sitting in so much history.
Lights dim. An elderly man with snow-white hair walks onto the stage. The girls look at each other, skeptically. The stage floor is dramatically black and the shiny black piano is one of the longest I’ve ever seen. The maestro sits, adjusts his position, and pauses. He doesn’t acknowledge the audience despite persistent applause, but keeps his head bowed. Then he lifts his hands above the keys and a hush comes over the theater.
Joaquín Achúcarro, the highly acclaimed Spanish pianist, starts with a Mozart sonata in F major. Paige shifts her weight, getting settled in. Sydney sits upright and relaxed, as if she has been attending concerts all her life. At the end of the sonata, the audience claps, not wildly but with respect.
The pianist pauses, then begins a Bach-Busoni toccata. I watch his long elegant fingers move lightning fast. His pedal foot flutters like a butterfly. I know it requires real pressure to hold or damper a note; his footwork would be challenging for a much younger man. I’m delighted we’re high enough to see all his movements. With each selection, the audience becomes more fixated.
When Achúcarro finishes for an intermission, the applause is relentless. He bows deeply, bending low for an extended time. He looks at the audience with directness, then surprise when the applause continues. My hands hurt, but I cannot stop. He bows several more times, finally holds up his hands in request for silence, and leaves the stage.
After a flitter more applause, the house lights go up and the girls quickly request a bathroom. Except for early moments of skepticism, they have been spellbound.
We walk outside onto the terrace and overhear astonished gushing about the performance. Most people are speaking Italian. Several admire our dressed-up granddaughters. Syd and Paige are perfectly behaved and we’re proud to be with them. We don’t see other children, but I’m glad we brought ours. I hope someday all three girls will share my love of piano and learn to play.
The maestro begins again with Chopin, my favorite. Twenty-four preludes tumble out of the long piano as if they were etched on the soundboard. He plays the entire concert without a score.
After the last note, the audience stands instantly, as if one body, and the thunderous applause could crack the ceiling. Achúcarro accepts a bouquet of sunflowers and daisies, which seems far too modest for the concert we just witnessed.
After a seemingly endless ovation, he again raises his hands for quiet, returns to the piano and plays a fifteen-minute encore using only his left hand.
As his fingers slow… all I can think is, “Oh, please don’t stop.”
Everyone exits the theater in silence. People shake their heads in amazement. We are bonded, knowing we have witnessed a uniquely masterful performance.
I wonder if Sydney and Paige, who sat motionless in the box for two and a half hours, will remember this concert for as long as I will.
Once home, covers shaken out for scorpions and girls safely in bed, I pull our covers all the way back, remembering the monster over the bed this morning and the one Syd encountered on her special day. Nothing. I shake the summer blanket out, in case there’s something lurking in the softness.
I drift to sleep with melodies from the concert lingering in my brain and new resolve to work harder at my piano. I also hope the concert has inspired my granddaughters to start lessons. One is never too young.
A great joy being a grandparent is seeing each grandchild become their own unique person, and to imagine you’ve played some small part in their dreams.
(What I didn’t know that night is that Sydney will start piano lessons a few months after returning from Italy and in time will aspire to become a concert pianist. And, that Claudia will show interest because her big sister plays so well, and start to learn. Perhaps a tiny seed was planted that night when the silver-haired maestro enchanted us with his mastery and passion. There is no measure to the power of inspiration. One evening can inspire a lifetime. And, one generation can inspire generations to come.)
The days with Ron and the kids have flown. Tomorrow they return to Texas. Today we’ll walk to Cortona for a last lunch in town, and this evening we’ll go to the Sagra di Bistecca, Cortona’s annual festival celebrating Chianina beef.
It’s a lazy morning after last night’s concert. The girls are still sleeping. Ron’s been up for a while, made his own cappuccino, and is in the living room answering emails. Larry and I join him, all quietly working. When Paulla comes in from the guesthouse, her opening line gets our full attention.
“Did Ron tell you about his encounter last night?”
“Here?” I ask.
Paulla teases, “Go ahead, Ron, tell them.”
Ron frowns at her, then confesses.
“I needed something out of the car, so I went out about midnight. When I got to the car, something snorted. It was right next to me! Enormous. I jumped and screamed, then ran to our room. It ran the other way, squealing all the way down the hill. I think it was more scared than I was.”
“Ron was white and gasping for air,” Paulla teases. “He slammed the door and had his back against it, like something might get in.”
“Surely a boar,” Larry chuckles.
“A big one,” Ron adds to justify his fear.
Paulla is merciless, continuing to embellish how scared he was. I ask if it had tusks. Ron said he didn’t stick around long enough to tell. We’re all in hysterics, even Ron. Finally, swallowing laughter and with more compassion, Paulla says, “Would’ve scared me too,” which sends us into greater fits of laughter.
Paulla can’t wait tell the girls, now filing down the stairs in their pajamas, awakened by all our laughter.
After Sydney and Paige make fun of their father, re-enacting the scene and his reaction, Ron says, “Enough.” He announces he wants to scramble eggs for our last breakfast and we all head to the kitchen. Larry makes kid cappuccinos, Paulla slices saltless Tuscan bread for toast and jam, and I dice peaches, nectarines, apples and white melon for macedonia, fruit salad. Ron’s eggs, a dozen of them, are so delicious we could’ve eaten two dozen.
There’s a prevailing sadness, but we refuse to let it ruin our last day.
I glance at emails before we head out. My mother wrote that Joyce died this morning. It seems only days ago she told me Joyce had cancer. Mom’s note was matter-of-fact. Hard to know how she’s taking it, but I suspect stoically on the outside with deep pain inside. She always says death is part of life, but it doesn’t make each loss of a deeply-loved friend any easier.
It’s times like this that I feel the farthest away. I can’t even call her, since it’s nighttime in Missouri.
While Larry and I are getting dressed, I tell him that Joyce died.
“I’m sorry. She was an important friend for your mother,” he says. After a long pause, he gets a bit choked up and adds, “Vic, please don’t die.”
I feel tears come from deep inside me… tears for Mom, for Joyce’s daughter, and for Larry who can be so tender with me. I know a deep loss is only possible when there has been a deep love. I’m heartbroken for my mother’s loss and thankful for her long friendship with Joyce. I’ll call her before we go to the Sagra this evening. Seven hours difference and a house full of company make finding the right time difficult.
Today we’ll walk the Roman road to town, something no one but Sydney has done. On the trail the girls are delighted to find black and white striped porcupine quills, about a dozen of them. They ask if I’ll carry them. We find prickly pear cactus with plump red fruit. I carefully pull one off and rub it in the grass to take off the tiny thorns. Once it’s safe, I show the girls how to make lipstick with it. They all want to try. I’m dripping wet from the sun and exertion, but feel so happy.
Near the top, I find a time to walk alone with Sydney, out of hearing of others. Paulla had asked if I would have a chat with Sydney about being nicer to her sisters, a problem that is starting to emerge. Normal for Syd’s age, but upsetting to the younger girls. Paige had mentioned it on her special day. I promised Paulla I would try to find a time, knowing advice is sometimes more easily accepted if it doesn’t come from your mother.
“So, Syd, you’re nine,” I venture. “At nine you can start to think about what kind of person you want to be when you grow up.”
Sydney looks ahead without replying, but doesn’t walk away.
“Tell me… who do you admire?” I ask.
“Well, I like my teacher. She’s smart and she lets me help her.”
“Is she mean or kind?”
“Oh, she’s nice… really nice,” Syd says, nonchalantly.
“So, do you ever think about what kind of person you want to be?”
“Not really.”
“Do you want to be like your teacher?”
“I guess.”
“Well, you know you can decide if you want to be nice and kind, or if you want to be not so nice, right? Nine is a good age to start deciding if you want to be a kind person or not.”
No reply. I think she’s catching on faster than I anticipated and would rather not engage. I haven’t asked how she wants to treat her sisters, but that’s the real issue.
“Sometimes I notice you get irritated with your sisters and try to tell them what to do. Is that what your teacher’d do? Does she get irritated and criticize you, or try to help?”
“I only try to help them,” Sydney insists, catching my gist immediately. “Paige never knows the right thing to do. And she does stuff that’s so dumb. Claudia understands more. But she can never make up her mind.”
“Syd, you are very smart. So I think you know when you’re really helping, or when you’re just trying to make one of them look bad or yourself look better. We all like people who make us feel good about ourselves, and we don’t like people who make fun of us. I know you can be very kind, even to your sisters. It’s all about choosing what kind of person you want to be, no matter what.”
Pheasants fly up from the grass directly in front of us. The girls squeal and run ahead. Sydney uses the commotion to walk ahead with her dad and out of our conversation.
My grandmotherly advice may be over for today, but I am confident Sydney got my point and will think about it.
“Look, smoke from the grills,” Larry stops at the crest of the hill and points down to the park where gray puffs are billowing up. To cook enough steaks for the thousands who will attend the Sagra this weekend, it takes a long line of enormous grills and truckloads of wood. The cooks start the fires early in the day so by evening the coals are perfect.
From the Basilica di Santa Margherita, we walk downhill toward Cortona. Larry stops at each of the fourteen Stations of the Cross, semi-abstract mosaics by Gino Severini, the famous twentieth century artist from Cortona. The girls stay very close to their Gabba, learning and laughing together. He must be in heaven.
In town, Ron and family say last goodbyes to Marco and to Romano’s family, and we head to Trattoria Dardano for one final lunch. No one eats much, as we had a huge breakfast and are saving our appetites for tonight’s steak feast.
Back at home, all the girls — Claudia, Paige, Sydney, Paulla and me — sit in the big leather chairs and chat, with Claudia on Paulla’s lap. Ron sits on the floor, using the raised hearth as his computer stand. It feels good to be together.
Claudia makes a tiny stuffed animal fly over her head and I hear a soft, high-pitched story, but the words aren’t audible.
“What’s that?” I whisper to Paulla, not wanting to interrupt the older girls’ chatter.
“Claudia’s new bat,” she says. “Last night, while y’all were at the concert, I went into a store to look for headbands for the girls and Claudia saw these teeny beanie babies. For some reason, she loved the bat. She found a corner, curled up to wait for me, made the bat fly over her head, and whispered imaginary stories. When I paid for the headbands, she asked for the bat. It was seven euros, so I said no. She was sad, but didn’t make a fuss. The owner said she’d never seen anyone have so much fun with those animals… and gave it to Claudia as a gift.”
Everyone agrees that people in Cortona have been exceptionally generous, way beyond kind, which makes me even fonder of our new hometown.
Thinking Mom should be home and awake, I try to call. The phone rings and rings. I leave a message that I’ll call later this evening. I hate this distance.
For our last dinner, we walk back up the hill to the Parterre for the Sagra. At least a thousand people have arrived before us. Plastic tables are everywhere, fully occupied. We wait in a long line to buy tickets and then watch a dozen grillers flip enormous slabs of steak over red-hot coals, taking them off just as soon as they are nicely seared. We spread out, searching for a table for seven. Finally, a family gets up and Larry, Sydney, Paige and I move in. A server brings us four bottles of water, two bottles of red wine, seven rolls of plastic utensils wrapped in paper napkins, and a stack of plastic cups.
Paulla and Claudia arrive with plates of contorni, side dishes of Tuscan beans and sliced tomatoes, but the grillers are way behind on steaks so Ron is waiting.
Local musicians regale us with traditional Italian songs. People sing along or dance on the gravel paths. Crowds are not my favorite, but this feels like an authentic Italian festival and I’m glad we’re here. It is the perfect final evening.
Paige and Claudia both need to go to the bathroom now, so I go with them to the new facility, made of fieldstone to look old. The line is long and moves slowly. Before each use, the next person must put a euro in the box, which triggers an automatic bathroom washdown. I’m afraid the new hygienic system will take longer than the girls can wait. I ask them if we can all go in together to save time and money.
“No,” they say in unison, horrified. Seems every young lady, regardless of age, needs her privacy.
Sydney and Larry are holding our table when we return. Ron and Paulla finally arrive, loaded with seven plates of Chianina beef slabs so rare that blood drips over the edges. Not even with our voracious Ron, will we finish all this meat.
In the end, we consume all the water, wine, and every bite of beans, tomatoes and steak. The dessert is a fresh peach, rock hard and green. Since they’re not yet edible, seven peaches go into my handbag for the walk home.
Ron and Sydney walk ahead and by the time we’re home, Syd has showered and is in bed. Everyone must take their shower tonight, since there won’t be time before they leave tomorrow morning.
After we say buona notte to everyone, I try again to reach Mom but she still doesn’t answer. I send her another email, my heart aching.
Resting my head on my pillow, I feel forlorn. Joyce’s death was a huge loss for Mom and I wish I could talk with her. I prepare myself for another loss tomorrow when Ron, Paulla and the girls leave. Perhaps sleep will ease my sorrow. Things so often seem worse at night.
By moonlight, I look at my nightstand clock. Three-thirty. Too early to get up, even today. The kids leave at five to drive to Rome for their flight. I drift off again.
When I pull on my black silk robe an hour later, Larry is already up. I see a flashlight coming down the ramp from the guesthouse and quietly open the door.
“Morning, Ron… ready to go?” I whisper.
“Yep, car’s loaded and Paulla’s doing the final check.”
In a startlingly loud voice, he calls, “Morning, girls. Time to wake up! You can stay in your PJ’s. Car’s loaded. Just brush your teeth and bring your backpacks.”
No one stirs. “Com’ on, com’ on. Up! Now!”
Claudia and Paige sit up, rub their eyes, and groggily move toward the bathroom, then pick up their backpacks and stumble out the door. Thankfully, Sydney is not far behind. I check for little girl things under the sofas and hurry to the driveway for my last goodbyes. Their Fiat hatchback is stacked to the ceiling and bags are under everyone’s feet except Ron’s.
“You’ll have to hold your own backpack,” Ron replies when Paige lifts hers up to him. “You can use it for a pillow. But first… say goodbye.”
Paige turns to hug me. Sydney hugs Larry. Claudia waits. I give each granddaughter a long tight hug, a kiss on each cheek, another on their forehead, and one more last hug. “I love you and will miss you,” I whisper to each.
Paulla and I embrace for a long time.
“It’s been a joy to be with you. I’ll miss you all,” I say softly, holding her hands as we part.
“Thank you for everything, especially for listening to me and for your wise advice. I’ll miss you, too.”
Ron gives me a strong, quick hug. “Thanks for everything. It was great.” Ever the responsible dad, he’s eager to get on the road.
Larry exchanges similar embraces, kisses and loving words with everyone. Claudia turns back and hugs his legs one last time, then climbs into the car. My eyes brim.
Larry and I stand in the driveway, both in bathrobes, holding hands and watching through tears as they drive away. When we can’t see car lights any longer, he says, “Would you like a cappuccino… or to go back to bed?”
“Let’s see if we can sleep a little more, okay?”
He puts his arm around my shoulders as we turn, walk to the house, and fall back to sleep.
After breakfast, easier for two but less fun, we walk to town. People ask where our grandchildren are since they’ve become such a part of our presence. We go the Post Office to pay a tax, then stop at La Bucaccia to relay a last goodbye from Sydney, but Francesca isn’t there. Agostina says she misses Sydney. So do I.
We have lunch and dinner at home, still working on leftovers, then get dressed for another Tuscan Sun concert. Tonight, we’ll go alone.
Before the concert, I reach Mom. As I expected, she says death is part of life. Of course she’ll miss Joyce, she says, but she’s glad they had forty years as best friends. She’ll try to remember their good times — that’s what counts. Though Mom is brave and positive, the sadness in her voice breaks my heart. At eighty-six, she has endured many losses, but losing Joyce is among the biggest.
Walking to town for tonight’s concert, I still cannot shake the heaviness. In the Parterre, a few tables and chairs remain from last night’s bistecca festival. The park feels emptier than usual, perhaps because I feel emptier. I sit on a bench to change from walking shoes to suede pumps. Perhaps if I look a little festive, I’ll feel more festive.
Tonight’s concert is Lang Lang, the famous pianist, Nina Kotova, a Russian cellist married to the founder of the Tuscan Sun Festival, and Dmitri Hvorostovsky, a Russian baritone. As we enter the theater, a young Asian beauty in a turquoise mermaid dress passes me. I wonder if she’s someone important.
We have the same box, but tonight strangers fill the other seats.
On the black expanse, a red and gold throne-like chair commands center stage. The long black grand piano sits behind it. As the lights dim, Lang Lang and Nina Kotova enter, acknowledge the applause, and take their seats. It feels strange that Ms. Kotova sits in the position of honor on the throne, while Lang Lang is at the piano as though he accompanies her.
Nina finishes her cello repertoire with Rachmaninoff. Impeccably-performed but a little stiff, the melancholy music matches my mood.
Lang Lang and Nina take five curtain calls following their duets. The theater is sold out. I feel disconnected, yet the rest of the audience seems electrified.
Once the applause dies down, Nina’s throne is removed and a youthful, white-haired idol dressed in form-fitting black shirt and trousers walks on stage and positions himself in the curve of the piano. He shifts his weight, expands his chest, and adjusts himself with small stretches and postures. He must be the Russian baritone.
“Which do you think he works on most, his voice or his body?” I murmur to Larry. “He must sing four hours a day and spend four in the gym!”
Dmitri seems to know he is strikingly handsome. Despite his early posturing that makes me suspicious of his talent, his performance is spellbinding and I applaud until my hands hurt. For a moment, as often happens when a distraction is absorbing, I am lifted out of my malaise.
During intermission, people lean out of their boxes and chat with people in other boxes and on the main floor. I imagine the era when Teatro Signorelli was first opened and everyone in the audience knew one another. Cortona is still a small town and tonight’s glitter and camaraderie seems to harken back to an earlier epoch.
Tonight more than ever, I long to be chatting over the rail with friends. I feel isolated from loved ones except Larry. I wonder again if we made the right choice to move so far from our interesting, full life in Chicago, surrounded by friends and family. I know friends and family in the USA will remain a part of our lives as we follow this dream. We’ll just fit differently than before. And I know someday we will develop friendships here. But when?
I am swept away, absorbed in the incredible piano solos by Lang Lang, which command long applause and a spellbinding encore. I almost float out of the theater.
Back at the Parterre, now without any trace of last night’s bistecca festival, I take off my pretty heels and put on walking shoes for the downhill climb.
It has been a long and melancholy day. Despite the mesmerizing performances of Lang Lang, Dmitri, and Nina, tender farewells with the kids and sweet interaction with Larry, I feel detached. What I need in Cortona is to be part of something beyond Larry and me — a community of people who share everyday life and care about one another. But tonight we were at the concert alone.
Another morning. The house feels empty, in striking contrast to the previous fourteen mornings when I awoke filled with anticipation of new adventures with my precious granddaughters.
Francesco and the alarm installer arrive about nine. While Max works, Francesco wants to hear all about our visit with Ron and family. We haven’t seen Francesco since the day our lawn was seeded two weeks ago. I voice the usual complaints about seven mouths to feed three times a day, loads and loads of laundry and delays to get anywhere, but mostly describe our joyful times together.
Francesco laughs out loud when I tell about Paige yelling, “Gabba, what’s circumcision?” and Ron’s encounter with the world’s largest cinghiale.
“Guests are a great work and a great joy,” Francesco muses. “When they are gone, the joy remains, but not the work.”
I remind him that tomorrow Larry and I head to Verona. The weekend package we bought at a charity auction in Chicago a year ago is about to expire. We’ve seen the sights in Verona several times, but have never been to an opera in the famous arena. Francesco tells us the Roman amphitheater, where the operas are held under the stars, is larger than the Coliseum in Rome.
Max finishes installing the alarm by noon. The house seems desolate after they leave. Our bags packed for Verona by evening, we leave for an aperitivo at Belinda’s. I’m both nervous and excited to meet our neighbors.
We’re first to arrive. Belinda’s home is rustic, authentic. From her terrace we can see the back of Palazzone and its majestic tower, the wide Chiana Valley and mountains beyond. Five mix-matched chairs and a little table are arranged on the front terrace. I wonder who else is coming.
Offering a quick tour, Belinda says the house has electricity and water, but no heat. It’s wonderfully homey inside with a gigantic fireplace, big sofas and a long wooden dining table in the main room. Upstairs rooms were added at different times, she says. Fragrant peach roses the size of saucers cling to a side wall and purple wisteria clusters hang over the front door. Belinda planted the roses, she tells us, but the wisteria was already there.
Cornelia soon arrives. She’s Swiss, married to an Italian, but Alfredo can’t come because he’s still at work. Last is Lyndall, the Contessa who lives in the grand tower of Palazzone. Belinda pours cold Prosecco and offers a tray of crostini, including fegatini, the Tuscan chicken liver that Larry and I both like so much. Everyone is warm, friendly, without pretense, and the conversation is easy.
Our neighbors are especially curious about us and our renovation. We try to describe what we’ve done, insisting they must come see it.
We’re all foreigners, but the others have lived here a long time. Lyndall, who is English, came to Italy as a young woman, then met the Count and stayed. That was sixty years ago. Belinda, also from England, has come for the summer and again in fall for the olive harvest for decades. Cornelia left Switzerland as a young woman looking for adventure, fell in love and stayed to raise a family. They speak multiple languages, as well as Italian and English.
Our hillside animals seem a favorite topic and I share my stories about the little black squirrel who feasts in the cipressi and the fox who loves shoes. Lyndall lights up. “I know that fox! She stole my shoes, too. I’m delighted she’s still alive…. There were three in the litter. The mother must have been killed soon after they were born. When they were little, the three ran in a pack. Then one summer there were only two. In recent summers, I haven’t seen a fox at all. I feared they all might be dead by now.”
“One evening,” she continues, “a couple summers ago, we were eating here, at Belinda’s. A fox came up on the terrace and let us touch her. Then she darted away. That was the last time I saw her. Must be the one who ruined your shoe.” Lyndall’s eyes twinkle as she speaks.
I can imagine the little blond fox gingerly stepping up on Belinda’s stone terrace, which looks straight out of a storybook, to sniff the humans. I tell our neighbors I’ve named her Imelda.
When sunset casts a coral blush on our faces, everyone reluctantly says it’s time to say goodbye. I suggest they come to Lodolina for an aperitivo next week, after we return from Verona and before we leave for a month in Chicago. Everyone seems enthusiastic. Belinda says she’s curious to try Donatella’s new restaurant at the swimming pool, so maybe we could go there for dinner. It seems our neighbors have been friends for a very long time, care for one another and other neighbors, and are deeply woven into the Cortona community.
Larry and I linger with Belinda after the others have left, saying we feel fortunate to have such interesting, kind people as neighbors. Belinda agrees and adds she’s happy we’ve moved to our hillside. I feel my heart expand with gratitude.
Instead of going home, Larry and I walk up the hill and into town for dinner at La Loggetta. Lara, owner and wife of the chef, seats us at the perfect table overlooking the piazza. Candles flicker, creating an aura of intimacy and romance. I feel a special kinship with Lara because she shares my daughter’s name, uncommon for Italians, and we both like rubies, our mutual July birthstone.
Our Chianti Riserva arrives. Larry and I toast one another. I savor the orecchiette al fumo I’ve been dreaming of all day and galletto alle diavola, a small, flattened, grilled half-rooster. Larry says his zuppa pomodoro, fresh tomato soup with lots of basil, and grilled Cinta Senese, a special pork grown near Siena, are the best he’s had all summer.
Tonight we take our time, chatting about the kids’ and hoping their flight is smooth. We share dreams for our weekend in Verona and the rest of the summer, only a few more weeks. Refusing dessert, we’ll have a limoncello at home, sitting on our front terrace.
On our stroll through town, we realize we don’t have flashlights. We stop to chat with Ivan at his tabaccheria and artisan shop and I mention we forgot flashlights, confessing some fear of climbing down the rocky path in the dark.
“The path is not the problem, pigs are the problem,” Ivan says. “You must take a stick and beat the bushes. Be loud. Sing. Stomp. Scare them and they will run. Just be careful not to get between a mother and her babies. If you do, she’ll attack.”
“Oh, that’s reassuring,” I say.
“I wish I had a torch to give to you,” he says, truly concerned. Then, laughing, “If a pig charges, climb a tree.”
With stick in hand, halfway down the trail I hear something. I stomp and beat the rocks. The sound stops. I half expect to see a pair of small, close-set eyes staring at me from above a long, hairy snout with curved white tusks.
“What are you doing?” Larry says, chuckling at my antics.
“I thought I heard something.”
“You didn’t hear anything.”
“Yes, I did! Were you listening? Shhh… just listen.”
Nothing moves, of course. Near the bottom of the path, Larry walks ahead, turns and jumps at me, making a wild, snorting sound. I freeze and stumble, nearly falling.
“Really, Vic, there’s nothing here,” he assures me, and walks back up to take my hand.
“That wasn’t funny,” I say, my heart pounding.
By the time we reach our driveway, my apprehension has subsided and I remember the sheets, still on the clothesline.
“You set up our limoncello and I’ll get the sheets,” Larry offers.
I thank him, not eager to climb in the dark to the spot where Ron encountered the cinghiale. While Larry gathers sheets, I put cushions on the wicker chairs, set out two stemmed glasses for limoncello, and light candles on the temporary terracotta-block table.
We linger long into the night, chatting and watching shooting stars. I’ve seen more shooting stars this summer than in my entire life. House lights across the valley go out one by one, leaving only sulfur-colored safety lights that stay on all night. Fog creeps in and covers the valley with a blanket of milky white. Overhead, the stars seem the brightest of the summer.
“Look, did you see that one?” Larry whispers.
I nod, in peaceful awe, and make a wish. When making a wish, one we believe could come true, we are touched by new hope — that essential emotion that spurs humans forward. A falling star, a wish, new hope for tomorrow.
Sipping my coffee in silence, I long for little-girl voices asking for kiddie cappuccinos. Life has an easier rhythm without guests, but it has less, well… life. Larry, up early and finished studying, is dressed for a bike ride.
“It’s the perfect morning for photos,” he says. “With the orange fences and yellow scavatore finally gone, I should get some nice house shots from the road above.”
“From that far away the yard might look solid green, without the party-hat anthills. What time do you want to leave for Verona?” I ask.
“No hurry. We just need to get there for the opera. Maybe noon?”
I nod, grateful not to rush after the relentless activity of the past two weeks.
Larry comes back exhilarated by his bike ride, pleased with his photos, and eager to get on the road. After Pane Nero scones and the last of the girls’ pear juice, we carry our bags to the car. The drive to Verona should be three and a half hours.
While Larry drives the A1, I doze off and on, my head against the window. We hit traffic around Florence, and then breeze past Bologna on our way to Modena. I try to catch a glimpse of Modena, the home of aceto balsamico, balsamic vinegar. I can’t see a thing from the highway and make a mental note that Modena could be a road trip for next summer.
Bologna north to Verona is as flat as an Illinois cornfield. We pass acres of sunflowers with green leaves and golden petals. Either farmers in the north can afford to irrigate or there has been more rain here. Even on vibrant plants, the sunflower faces turn down as the season is waning.
“It was hard to leave Lodolina today,” I say, turning toward Larry. “I wonder if we should’ve stayed home and enjoyed the quiet. Soon September will be here and the workers will be back. Then we leave for Chicago.”
“It’s the perfect time. I love taking you away from distractions for a little holiday in Italy’s most romantic town. We’ll have a great time.”
I hope he’s right and not just trying to convince himself. Perhaps our get-away to Romeo and Juliet’s town will restore some intimacy in our marriage, now that the kids are gone.
We ride in silence. Not the silence of tension when your mind is churning, but the silence of comfort. The silence when someone’s words are not as important as their presence. I drift off again, relaxed and calm.
“We had a great time with the kids, didn’t we?” Larry asks, rousting me out of my daze. “You were wonderful with them. I loved watching you cook with the girls.”
“I think everyone had a great time. I’m glad we had some special time with each one, even Claudia. That was my favorite… our time alone with each granddaughter. I think Ron and Paulla had fun, too. But then, Ron always has fun… and makes sure everyone else has fun.”
Larry nods, lost in happy memories. He seems to have relaxed, too, even driving the A1. He smiles and I wonder what moment he’s just recalled.
“This’ll be a great weekend, Vic. Even the drive doesn’t seem so bad … except when you were sleeping,” he adds, a half-serious reminder that I failed my wifely duty of attentive companionship.
“Almost there,” he says, exiting the autostrada for the road to our hotel.
La Magioca Relais is a pleasant surprise. It’s a country villa, not grand but cozy. Dark green ivy engulfs most of the building and white roses are everywhere.
The woman at the desk asks for our passports. Larry explains that since it was only a car trip inside Italy, we didn’t bring them. She says all hotels in Italy now require passports, “by law.” She can’t accept any other form of identification.
After an uncomfortable silence, I ask Larry, “Don’t we have scans on the computer?”
“You’re right! Good thinking.” He turns to the woman and asks, “If you can see the passport photo and know it’s us, can you just copy the number?”
“We need to photocopy the whole first page,” she insists.
“What if you print them?” he asks, “I have a memory stick. We’ll put the passports on it and you can make printed copies for your files.”
Once she’s printed our passports, she cheerfully checks us in and hands us keys.
Our room is on the top floor, like an attic with slanted ceilings and a window alcove. At least it’s large and comfortable. Looking out over the back yard, I see a pool and scattered lounge chairs. More white flowers, mostly oleander and roses, create private sitting areas for guests. Not one person is in the garden.
As I turn on the shower and hang our opera attire in the bathroom to de-wrinkle, Larry says, “Let’s go to town early, explore Verona and find our gate for the opera, so we know where to go. We’re on our own for dinner tonight, right?”
“Unless you want to take a nap,” he adds playfully. “We are on vacation, you know.”
“If we do that, we may never wake up. Aren’t you tired from driving?”
“I’m okay,” he says, flashing me an exaggerated pout of disappointment.
In the car, I ask, as one of us always does, “Do you have the tickets?”
Larry gasps. That means he has them. It’s an old exchange between us. One asks the other if they have the tickets, and the other acts like they forgot.
Arriving in the historic town center, my only thought is Verona is magical. Unlike steep Cortona, Verona is flat with cobblestone streets, Roman artifacts, and architecture spanning centuries: Romanesque, medieval, Renaissance, Gothic, Baroque, even modern. The hub of city life is Piazza delle Erbe. During the Roman Empire the piazza was the public forum and, for centuries, it has hosted a daily market for fruits, vegetables, and herbs — hence the name. Today, offerings also include meats, cheeses, candies, dried fruits, clothing, household goods, flowers, and souvenirs.
On one corner of the bustling piazza is a landmark brick tower, Torre Gardello, also called Torre delle Ore, tower of the hours, because of an enormous ancient clock on one of its faces.
Between Piazze delle Erbe and L’Arena, the Roman amphitheater where operas are performed, is Via Giuseppe Massini, one the best shopping streets in all of Italy, or so we’re told. Shops are still closed for lunch when we arrive, so we stroll hand-in-hand down one side and up the other, peering into windows of Armani, Gucci, Prada, Mont Blanc, and Fendi. Pricey antique dealers and jewelry shops line side streets. Larry hopes to find a new pair of reading glasses, so we stop at every eyeglass store window, trying to see inside.
After stores reopen, Larry tries on a few sunglasses, but we learn readers, as the clerk calls them, are sold in the farmacia, pharmacy, not in eyeglass stores.
Unable to find glasses and uninterested in other shopping, Larry suggests we find our gate for the opera then get an early dinner, perhaps overlooking Piazza Bra, the piazza adjacent to the two-thousand-year-old amphitheater. As soon as I agree, he picks up his pace and I must walk quickly to keep up.
Suddenly L’Arena di Verona comes into view. It looks like a movie set, more majestic as we get closer. I can’t wait to go inside.
Piazza Bra, in front of the arena, is strewn with pink rose petals.
“Do you think those are for us?” I ask Larry.
“What?”
“The rose petals. Do you think they’re for us?”
“Sure, darling.”
“I want them to be for us,” I say, knowing an earlier wedding is probably the truth.
Larry stops abruptly, turns toward me, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me as if I was his bride and we were just pronounced man and wife.
“Now, my darling,” he asks, tenderly holding my face, “shall we find our gate?”
I bob my head up and down and say, “I’d go anywhere with you.”
We find gate sixty-one easily, then walk through three rows of arches and climb some stone steps, but can’t get inside. That thrill must wait.
For dinner, our hotel clerk suggested Trattoria Giovanni Rana on Piazza Bra. At the restaurant, we’re escorted to the perfect table with a view of the L’Arena. We share tagliatelle with Giovanni’s secret ragù and, my choice, their eggplant parmesan. I want to experiment with eggplant parmesan and the menu claims theirs is world famous.
Over dinner, we reminisce about the highlights of our summer. We both treasured our time with the kids, and agree the pinnacle was Italy winning the World Cup. For me, another magical moment was my birthday lunch at Lodolina with Dale and David when we sat in plastic chairs and ate leftovers with Francesco’s sunflowers as our centerpiece. Larry says he loved mornings, sitting on the terrace, studying and looking into the valley as the sun came up.
We chat about the short time we have left. I want to spend more time at Lodolina. Larry agrees. He wants to study. I want to cook and write… maybe even play my piano and work on Italian, both neglected so far. I still must learn to drive. We don’t mention our stresses. This weekend is for enjoying Verona and one another.
Eventually, it’s time for Tosca. As we stroll, I take Larry’s arm, which I know he likes. He slows so our steps are in sync, looks down at me with an appreciative smile, and squeezes my arm against his firm body.
Vendors are selling blow-up cushions, drinks and souvenirs. Since my bottom is nicely padded and Larry never buys anything frivolous, I shake my head in refusal as a hawker approaches. For anyone sitting on the higher seats, which I understand are stone, a cushion could be essential.
Lights glow from inside the amphitheater, creating a heightened sense of anticipation. It’s eight-thirty; curtain time is nine o’clock.
Stepping into the vast interior is unforgettable. This ancient arena is larger than I imagined, though I know it seats twenty thousand. The stage must be three times as wide as a normal one. Candles flicker across the entire stage front. Gigantic sets are in place, lifeless and in shadow. Opera-goers are everywhere, searching for their seats. It’s a different universe than the street below.
Our seats are halfway forward on the first level. As I look up, the highest rows blend into the darkening sky, almost out of view. Larry tells me we’re in the third section. I ask to see the tickets, but he shakes his head.
“Just stay with me, darling. Don’t wander off.”
He points to two seats in the center of a row and motions for me to go there. I ask the people already seated to excuse us, please, climb across, and settle in.
After about five minutes, a man with two officials claims we are in his seats. Larry shows one official our tickets. Pointing, he says our tickets are in this row, but in the side, not the center section. I say nothing, just climb back over the same people. It was a simple error, but embarrassing. Our new seats are not bad, but not as good as the wrong seats. The stage seems far away.
I ask Larry if we can buy a program for the synopsis, but he doesn’t want to. We’ve seen Tosca before, but it’s hard to remember each opera’s plot — except that in most every opera a lover is found, then lost, and someone dies.
“Do you remember the story?” I ask.
“We can figure it out as it goes,” he says. “It’s more fun. Reading the synopsis ruins the suspense.”
“I like to know what I’m watching, especially when I can’t understand the words. I doubt we’re getting English subtitles tonight,” I tease, but not in jest.
With almost no overture, the singing begins.
The acoustics are astounding. It amazes me that opera singers can fill a closed opera house without microphones, but to fill a roofless amphitheater — one of the largest in the world — with full, clear sound like we are hearing is a wholly different level of voice projection.
Within minutes, the audience erupts in wild bravos for the tenor’s first aria.
It takes concentration to understand, but, thankfully, the story does come back to me as the action unfolds and I’m drawn into the drama.
Paramedics, real ones, run quietly down our aisle as Tosca sings and weeps. They return, carrying someone in an orange sling-like stretcher. No one in the audience seems to notice except me.
A cannon booms. The audience jumps. Something bad is about to happen, then does. By the end of the first act, Tosca is convinced of her lover’s infidelity and the evil police chief vows to have his way with her. Tosca runs off to confront her lover, the chief orders her followed, and then he joins a church choir in prayer.
Almost instantly, over two hundred lavishly costumed performers are on stage and forty thousand hands express thunderous appreciation. Feet stomp and booming voices roar, “Bravo, bravissimo, braviiiisssimo.” After numerous rounds of bows, the stadium lights come on and vendors are in the aisles, poised for intermission orders.
Sitting next to me is a lovely girl in her twenties with long black wavy hair. She’s wearing all white — a spandex cropped halter-top with a low-slung leather belt and ruffled mini-skirt. Her bronzed mid-section, unusually muscular, is bare. She’s with older adults, her parents I suspect, although I’m surprised anyone would dress so scantily accompanied by parents. The water boy at the end of our row cannot stop staring.
Larry wants to see the orchestra pit, so we work our way down to the front. The set is being transformed as we descend. An oversized painting leans against what looks like a cave and another painting is half off the stage. Propped against a strange edifice and growing diagonally out of the floor is a gigantic gold sword. The set does not make sense and it seems more confusing close up.
From the front, I look up at twenty thousand people. Most are standing, milling about. Especially in upper sections, viewers have spread out picnics. Aromas of salami, prosciutto and red wine waft through the air. I’m glad we had a satisfying dinner.
Larry gives me a little twirling gesture, a signal to go back. It takes a while to weave our way through the crowd in the aisle. The lights flicker, people put their food baskets away and resettle for the next two acts.
Tosca delivers a passionate aria and the audience instantly goes berserk. Opera has reached a new level of intensity for me. I’m accustomed to more formal audiences, rather than this pounding, whistling, screaming frenzy.
I look up. Stars glitter overhead like pinholes in an indigo dome. The temperature, quite hot today, has cooled. Ladies don scarves or light wraps. The bronzed girl sitting next to us lifts her shapely arms and pulls a white beaded sweater over her white spandex halter. My cornflower blue linen tunic and silk pants seem perfect, even if not fancy or seductive.
This opera is enthralling. Tosca’s lover sings another show-stopping aria. The crowd unleashes with bravo, bravissimo from every direction. The tenor looks at the conductor, who must have given him the nod. Someone from back stage brings him a glass of water, and then he sings the same aria again — even more brilliantly! By this time, every opera-goer is on his or her feet screaming and clapping, including me.
The orchestra begins and the audience sits, as if on cue. Tosca’s tragedy is completed when she stabs the vile police chief with his own knife, watches her lover — with whom she’s finally reunited — killed by a firing squad she convinced him would shoot without bullets, and leaps to her death from the wall of Castel Sant’Angelo. The lovers and opera are finiti.
After what seems like thirty minutes of uproar and curtain calls, we find our way out of the Roman amphitheater onto the street. Energized and exhausted, we drive to the hotel and fall euphorically into bed.
The next morning, as light creeps into the hotel room, I lift my head to look out the window. The view, so lovely yesterday, is now obscured by boards, as though they’re preparing for construction. I hear a television in another room. I lie there, slightly disoriented, recalling Tosca’s leap to her death and the wild ovation.
“Do we have to be anywhere today?” Larry asks lazily as he turns over and gently strokes my shoulder and neck.
“Not ‘til afternoon. The garden tour’s at four,” I whisper, curling up against him and pulling his arm around me.
We take our time getting ready, enjoying the luxury of a real day off, and go downstairs for breakfast. After lingering on the terrace with a second cappuccino, we decide to go back to town to sightsee, starting with our favorite Verona church, the Basilica di San Zeno.
Larry is fascinated by the statue near the entry of San Zeno, a fourth-century African bishop who grins at us and holds a fishing pole. It’s painted marble, carved in the twelfth century, but feels more modern. We read that San Zeno was devoted to children. In Africa, he helped with their schoolwork, taught them about faith, and was their loved and trusted counselor. He visited Verona and decided to stay, living a monastic life and serving local children. Eventually, he was elected Bishop of Verona and died here in 380.
According to legend, the secret marriage of Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet took place in the crypt of this church where the remains of San Zeno were already buried. Though less known than some larger cathedrals, the building is one of the finest examples of Romanesque architecture in Italy. To me, it feels like being inside a living organism because every floor, wall, and column are made of Rossa Verona, a fleshy, salmon-colored local marble.
Andrea Mantegna’s famous triptych hangs over the main altar. This masterpiece was stolen by Napoleon’s soldiers in 1797 and taken to France. The primary paintings were returned, but not the predella, a row of smaller paintings below the main canvases. One, a crucifixion scene, is in the Louvre, and two others are in the museum in Tours. Copies replace the stolen pieces, so the altarpiece seems complete. I stare at it for a long time, mesmerized.
Larry says our parking ticket is about to expire, so we should go.
On the way out of the church I walk, perhaps a little too slowly, through an antique silver market in the church piazza. Larry dislikes antique markets, claiming it’s all junk. I find silver-filigreed crystal glasses that would be perfect for limoncello and an oval fluted bowl. I know I’m pressing my luck simply by looking, but decide I want to buy both.
By now, Larry is pacing.
“Do you like this, sweetheart? I’d like to buy it… and the glasses.” I hold the bowl toward him so he can see it, hoping he’ll encourage me.
“Do we need it?”
“Need?” I ask, amused. “No one needs silver. But I like it and would use it.”
“Come on, Vic. We’ll get a ticket. I’ll go to the car. If you want them, buy them. But just decide.”
I don’t think it’s fair that we spent an hour looking for eyeglasses for him, but can’t look for ten minutes at something I want. He knows we need serving pieces. Maybe not a silver bowl or those particular glasses, but they’re lovely and not so expensive.
Reluctantly, I say, “Grazie, no” to the dealer and leave with Larry, disappointed and a tad annoyed.
Our SUV, thankfully, does not have a ticket.
I say nothing for about a mile. But I stew. As we pass over the Adige River, I speak up. Otherwise, I’ll stew all day.
“I’m kicking myself for not buying that bowl.”
“Do you want to go back?”
I hesitate, not sure if his question is sincere or sarcastic, as in surely you don’t want to go back. After a couple seconds, I say, “Yes, I do.” Adding, “Thank you.”
I try to decipher his mood, but he looks straight ahead, expressionless, both hands on the wheel.
“How much are you willing to spend?” he asks after turning around.
“I don’t know. The dealer said ‘trenta’.”
“I heard that. I asked how much you’d spend for it.”
Not wanting to start a rift when he’s being nice enough to take me back, I say, “Venti.”
Larry finds his way back through one-way streets and pulls up to the curb. The market is closing, so I hurry.
On the way to the dealer with my fluted bowl, I pass another dealer who is slashing prices. On each item is a card with two markdowns. I pick up a tray, which was one-eighty, then one hundred, now fifty. I put it down when I see the dealer with my bowl is almost packed up.
I describe the fluted bowl to him. He remembers it, but doesn’t know where it is. My hope plummets when I look at the boxes behind him.
The woman in the next booth says in English, “He’ll find it. We do anything for the sale.”
“I don’t recall the price,” I say, looking innocent and hoping for a lower one at the end of the day.
“Trenta,” he says.
Hoping body language counts for bargaining, I wince and shift my weight,