Italy
We picked up our leased Peugeot at Charles de Gaulle Airport and headed south through Paris traffic. No one spoke except Victoria, the GPS, who enunciated directions in her refined British accent. She was unflappable, even when wrong, which was rare for most people, and especially for us. So far, she had managed to guide us through Mexico and Turkey, and would serve us well on the drive through France and for two months in Italy and on to England, Ireland, and Portugal. We were grateful for her company.
Victoria led us through the French countryside to Vézelay, in the Burgundy region, an ancient village famous for its tenth-century abbey. The landscape was so beautiful that it looked almost unreal. Graceful spires anchored charming villages, and cows grazed on tidy green pastures next to leafy vineyards. I gave myself a sore throat from all the “Ooohs and “Ahhs.” As always, poor Tim saw very little scenery, but thank God he did see—and dodge—all the crazy drivers, wandering livestock, and rattling horse-drawn carts filled with branches. We were elated by our good fortune—to be so free, healthy, and surrounded by natural beauty we could thoroughly enjoy.
When we arrived in Vézelay, the Hôtel de la Poste et du Lion d’Or looked as perfect as we imagined. It featured a mansard roof, French blue shutters, an old stone façade, and window boxes brimming with red geraniums beneath four large chimneys. We walked into the lobby to find more delights: luxurious carpets, antique furniture, paintings, and miles of shiny brass. “Vee are so ’appy to see you!” the pretty girl behind the desk chirped. “Your room vil be en the floor four. We do not ’ave an elevator, but there vill be one next year after zuh remodel.”
Our elation faded a bit. We had no interest in “next year,” since this year it was hot, the stairs were steep, we were tired, and we had brought far too much luggage to drag to the attic. We tried to negotiate with her for another room, but it didn’t work.
We had a problem. “Okay, here’s what we can do,” I said as we approached the car. “We’ll just reorganize right here. We don’t need much for one night, and if we try to drag all that stuff up those stairs, paramedics could be involved.”
“Do you really want to root around in suitcases in the parking lot, looking like hillbillies? Underwear and socks flying around?” Tim asked.
“Oh, get a grip, darling!” I teased. “I have no shame and we’ll never see any of these people again.”
Thus began our parking lot humiliation. We reorganized toiletries and undies, and shoved them into smaller bags. Other tourists were amused by the spectacle, but we barely noticed them. We dragged our odd assortment of luggage into the lobby, panting from the effort. A young man scowled at us as he lurked behind the desk. He did not offer to help but gestured to the girl instead. Apparently, the girl was not only the receptionist, but also the porter! She grabbed two of our bags and trotted up the stairs, encouraging us to follow. She remained perky all the way to our fourth-floor room. We were embarrassingly breathless.
After settling in, we walked up the picturesque little cobblestone street to join the other visitors in the medieval church. For three hundred years, worshippers have gathered here to start their pilgrimage to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela in Spain, one of the most important of all medieval pilgrimage centers. In 1190 Richard the Lion-Hearted and Philip II Augustus met there to leave for the Third Crusade, when European leaders tried to recover the Holy Land. Inside, nuns and priests were chanting, their harmonious voices floating up to the high stone arches. Within the building’s flickering candlelight, we could feel the presence of the millions of devout visitors who had celebrated their faith in this serene place. We were both utterly transfixed by the mystery and sanctity of the church.
All that beauty made us hungry, of course, so before meandering back to the little hotel, we stopped first for a break at a busy outdoor café. Tim needed a little downtime after his first European driving adventure of the year. Later, in the hotel dining room, the scowling chap from the front desk greeted us. Now, he manned the bar and acted as maitre d’. His attitude had not improved. Another young man, whom we had seen parking cars earlier, appeared with our menus.
Confused, we felt a Fawlty Towers theme emerging. The maid we had seen pushing her cleaning trolley earlier in the hallway bussed the tables. By now, we fully expected John Cleese to silly-walk across the room as Basil Fawlty and punch Manuel, the surly waiter. Instead, it was the pretty girl who had checked us in and carried our bags. She now served my escargot with puff pastry and a creamy little sauce, as well as Tim’s sublime foie gras. Our steaks were perfect, the vegetables well prepared, and the wine excellent.
We mowed right through our meal, which was surprisingly as beautiful and delicious as any we had in Paris. “Boy, this was a fabulous meal,” Tim said. “But the way this hotel operates, I wouldn’t be surprised if the chef is also the head gardener or the electrician!”
Apparently, everyone had several jobs in this little country hotel. They certainly had a long, hot summer ahead of them.
The next morning, after an excellent breakfast, served by the same odd cast of characters, we dragged our hobo luggage to the Peugeot and instructed Victoria to take us away to the sea.
But first we had to climb the Alps, our gateway between France and Italy. If the Romans could push over the top in brutal winter weather to conquer ancient Gaul, we could go the other way in much warmer temperatures. Well, slightly warmer. We paused for several stop-and-gawk breaks, gasping at their majesty while digging through the car for jackets. As we drove on, there seemed to be ten thousand tunnels, along with plenty of rain. This was not an ideal situation for claustrophobic Tim. I turned to him and joked, “Hey, look at that. The French installed blue neon lights in the tunnels at regular distances. See…the idea is that if you stay a blue light length away from the car ahead, maybe you won’t cause a huge pile up and be asphyxiated in a ten-mile tunnel.”
He laughed. “Thanks for the great imagery, dear. What a comfort you are to me!”
The Italians do not hold to such strict safety rules. When we reached their side of the mountains, no blue lights appeared for those risk-taking macho guys. It was every man for himself, and some were in such a hurry that they actually passed each other inside the tunnels. I closed my eyes often and tried to control my impulse to scream. This was our introduction to the Italian way. They drive just as they speak—fast.
We were happy and relieved (and warmer!) when our spry little car delivered us safely through the mountains to Santa Margherita Ligure, a lovely Italian beach town about twenty miles southeast of Genoa, near Portofino. The sea sparkled below a comfortable balcony in our adorable room, and a little town glittered on the other side of the bay. Down below, rows and rows of precisely placed chaise lounges and umbrellas filled the beach. Uniformed servers tended sun worshippers, bringing drinks and towels on command. It was exactly what I’d always imagined an Italian beach resort would be. Thankfully, my darling Tim had stretched our budget so we could enjoy it in luxury. “Playing rich,” my mother would have called it.
By now, we’d grown accustomed to planning these mini-vacations between long stays, in the same spirit and for the same reason as a weekend getaway in the United States: to relax and recuperate. Even home-free people need a break from shopping, cooking, and doing the laundry, regardless of where they might be.
We spent one more vacation night in Livorno at an enormous, recently refurbished hotel, a complete departure from the places in which we’d stayed. It featured what seemed like miles of marble hallways, and gorgeous rooms with high ceilings and lavish bathrooms, but its most unusual feature was a glass infinity swimming pool on top of the building. What a rare treat: to swim while looking out across the Mediterranean. Our sunset dinner on the rooftop terrace offered the perfect conclusion for our little holiday.
As you probably know by now, Tim and I don’t quarrel much. However, the next day, Florence’s hysterical traffic brought out the worst in both of us. Roundabouts and lights control the traffic flow, and sometimes, they offer four or more possible routes at each exit of a traffic circle. Being in the wrong lane can prove disastrous, because most of the streets are one-way; there is no such thing as driving around the block to start over. In a more modern city, one would make three right turns, come back to the original street, and turn in the opposite direction. That would do it. Not so in ancient cities because the streets wind in and around one another until the tourist is hopelessly, helplessly LOST. Florence is so crowded that on many streets, cars are parked with wheels halfway onto the sidewalks, leaving barely enough room for a very small vehicle to drive down the middle. Sometimes, our side mirror clicked with a parked car as we crept by. Nerve-racking, to say the least.
This idiosyncrasy is not peculiar to Florence, or to Italy. Many European cities were founded a thousand or more years ago, and most were developed from the ring pattern, in which the church or cathedral was at its center and all roads radiated from that central circle expanding outward, in all directions, like the rays of the sun leaving their source. That was the intent, anyway. It looks simple on a map, but when driving at eye level in those cities it’s nearly impossible to detect any plan at all.
Under these adverse conditions, my job was to program Victoria, look at her map, and keep an eye out for the correct turning lane to alert Tim. His job was to execute whatever upcoming, death-defying maneuver was needed to deliver us to our destination without killing anybody. Both of us were so nervous that naturally our conversations got snappy.
“Hey!” he shouted that first day as I hemmed over which way to go. “Do we go down through that little tunnel or NOT?”
I scrambled to read the GPS map, which the bright sun had obliterated. “Hang on, the sun has washed out the map. I can’t tell.”
“An answer this week would be fine,” he responded flatly.
“Hold your horses, bub. She doesn’t show a tunnel at all, but I think that instead of taking that little off ramp, you’d better just get in there with them,” I replied in an equally unfriendly tone.
Of course, he ignored me and took the off ramp. For his efforts, we had to double back, drive half a mile through heavy traffic, double back again, and get across three fast-moving, crowded lanes circling a big monument to some big-deal general. All of this allowed him to again push his way into that tunnel road. And all of which did nothing for our souring moods.
“Oh great,” he moaned, once he settled into the lane. “It’s petering out here and I don’t know what to do now.”
“Make a legal U-turn as soon as possible and proceed to Via Nazionale,” Victoria said calmly. I glared at her. Making a U-turn in Florence holds the same likelihood as me becoming the editor of the New York Times. We finally ignored Victoria’s high-brow yammering, pulled over, and dragged out a paper map. Between the map and a re-booted Victoria, we finally made it through the center of the city and drove toward the hill where we would be living.
Once we were on course, I dared to glance at the city. Sun-baked red tile topped all the stucco buildings in their faded pink, ochre, and tan. Along the wide boulevards, venerable trees canopied massive bronze generals eternally riding their steeds and classical marble Roman deities intertwining with sculptured angels. We passed shops offering fine jewelry and silk scarves, and almost every block boasted an enticing gelato shop. At little sidewalk cafés, people downed cups of espresso and munched on their afternoon pastries.
A loud car horn blast interrupted my tourist observations…and was the last straw for the agitated Tim. After shouting an obscenity and favoring the offender with the international hand signal of displeasure, Tim’s glare suddenly softened and he said, “Wow! Look at this. There’s the gas station Martha mentioned and that little deli where we are supposed to turn. I think we’ve made it.”
In retrospect, I have no idea how we managed to reach our new home that day. As if getting through Florence wasn’t beastly enough, a hairpin turn confronted us at the bottom of our road every time we returned from an outing. It was so sharp that, during our entire stay, Tim managed to make it in one try only twice. The other hundred or so times, he stopped, backed up, and started from another angle, while keeping a sharp eye for oncoming vehicles and scooters from both directions. Or should I say, onrushing. Before making the next turn, a blind corner, Tim hit the horn to prevent someone from screaming down the impossibly narrow street and killing everyone involved. Italians, like the Irish, drive as if they are certain of a happy afterlife (and I’m sure many of them are).
When we arrived, there to greet us were ecstatic dogs, our host Francesco and hostess Martha, the gardener, the maid, and a neighbor who was passing by. All of them helped us drag our suitcases up a steep hill to our gate. Suddenly, it felt like we had walked into a scene from Under the Tuscan Sun.
Likewise, the apartment was HUGE by our standards. We were accustomed by then to living in apartments that were five hundred square feet or less. This place was at least a thousand square feet! Every room offered postcard views of vineyards, villas, churches, orchards, and neat rows of Italian cypress bordering verdant fields. In the center of the valley, Florence’s Duomo gleamed. On the terrace we had an outdoor fireplace, a deep sink, and a serving countertop for entertaining. Our arrangement also included use of the pool on the next level up, so we could splash around and take in the view at the same time. Perfezione!
Francesco, who is an attorney in Florence, invited us to a dinner party the next night downstairs at his and Martha’s apartment. When he left us, we rounded up cool drinks and nibbles that Martha had thoughtfully provided as a welcome gift. “Now, this is terrific!” Tim exclaimed. “We have two whole months here, so we can really settle in and enjoy ourselves. We can write in the morning and then get out for a while in the afternoon and see some things. I’ll bet I can make some headway on my book while we’re here, and you’ll have plenty of time to finish the Wall Street Journal article and get it submitted. Then, later in the day, we can come home, have a swim, prepare a simple dinner, and dine on the terrace.”
He’s a very organized person, thank God. Somebody needs to figure it all out. I admired his enthusiasm.
“Simple is the operative word here,” I replied. “After a month in Paris and four days on the road, I could skip some dinners altogether.”
But in the meantime, I took a big sip of Chianti and reached for some fresh-herbed goat cheese slathered on homemade bread, topped off with some sun-dried tomatoes.
Martha, our hostess, was the half-sister of a dear friend back in Los Angeles. They shared the same father, but Martha was 100 percent Italian in every possible way. This beautiful, dynamic woman wore her silver hair in an appealing, messy bun and dressed in floaty, soft outfits perfectly suited to the climate. Through the years, when Martha had come to visit her half-brother in California, who was a composer and a very dear friend of Guy’s and mine, we grew to know each other very well. Tim and I had stayed at Martha’s country house, the castle Porciano in the Casentino Valley about an hour outside of Florence (yes, I did just say she lives in a castle) the previous year, but this time we wanted a Florence experience, so she gave us a discounted rate for the apartment while its regular tenants were away. Our situation seemed ideal, and we settled back in our terrace chairs to watch the pink evening sky fade while the twinkling lights of the city came alive.
The next day, Martha drove us to Esselunga, a major supermarket. In typical Italian fashion, she used landmarks to help us remember the route. “See that clump of cypress at the end of the median?” She veered suddenly to avoid a Vespa carrying an Italian family of four. “That’s where you go around the circle so you can turn left up that street. And look,” she continued, merrily waving one hand at a long terra-cotta building with a tile roof, as if that near-collision with the Vespa never existed. “At the end of this building, when you see that very large pine tree, you’ll turn right.”
Our heads were spinning trying to remember it all. Let me tell you: there are probably five thousand pine trees and six thousand cypress clumps in every neighborhood of Florence. Also, every building is some shade of terra-cotta with a tile roof. Martha did her best to teach us, but we proved poor students. For a long time, the true location of Esselunga remained as elusive as Bigfoot. We knew that each time we struck out for a shopping expedition, we would get lost at least once, sometimes more. As the Italians say, così è la vita, such is life!
***
That night, we arrived at the dinner party, where twelve people of five nationalities were gathered on Martha and Francesco’s terrace. Everyone was multilingual—except us. Did we just land in a Bon Appétit magazine photo spread? You know the kind: lots of glamorous, intelligent-looking people lounging around a colorful table, candlelight glowing…and, for added measure, authentic Tuscan food and good wine in abundance. The sophisticated Europeans were kind to us less fortunate mortals and translated so we could participate. The surrounding hillsides echoed with stories told in several languages and accompanied with laughter (which sounds the same, whether it’s in Italian, French, English, or Croatian).
As the conversation rippled along, Tim mentioned how anxious we were to get into the wonderful city of Florence again. Imagine our surprise when the guests, and even Martha and Francesco, unanimously lamented its sad condition.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “We were here for a few days just eighteen months ago, and it was just as captivating as it has always been! The piazzas, the wonderful sculpture, the sophisticated stores, the unparalleled art and architecture…how can that have changed?”
“That’s what we want to warn you about, so you won’t be so disappointed,” one of the guests, Alta Macadam, a travel writer who has edited over forty Blue Guide to Italy books, said. “Our city has taken some terrible economic hits, so Florence has suffered badly recently. There isn’t enough funding to keep everything in good order. It’s breaking our hearts.”
Dejan Atanackovic, a Serbian who was teaching visual arts to New York University students in their study abroad program and also rented an apartment on the villa’s grounds, concurred. “You know what Florence is like today? It’s turned into a big Renaissance Disneyland, in my opinion, and a dirty one, at that. The average tourist spends four and a half hours to see a city that has the greatest art collection of any city of its size in the world. But the city doesn’t have enough money to clean the streets and care for its homeless. It’s shocking and sad.” The others shook their heads in agreement.
“It’s the cruise ships,” his friend from Croatia commented. “The people come into the city on buses or on day trips from places like Venice or Rome, have a piece of pizza and some gelato, stand in line for hours to see the David, and then get back on their buses, leaving tons of trash but little cash behind them in their wake.” We knew what he meant. We had privately thought about that the previous year when we saw the seemingly endless lines of “boat people” waiting to see Michelangelo’s magnificent statue of David at the Accademia Gallery. It didn’t look like our idea of fun. A woman at the far end of the table, who taught art history in Venice, tossed in a few remarks about the similarities of the tourist problems in that much-visited city.
As the dishes were cleared away and coffee was served, a deep discussion between Dejan and the Croatian about the nature of reality riveted everyone at the table. I must admit that my tired brain was having a little trouble following those brilliant remarks. It was a fascinating group.
Later that night, as we sat on our own (private!) terrace, wearing our jammies and eau du mosquito repellent, we replayed the evening. “Nights like this make me understand why we’re leading this crazy life,” Tim said. “I haven’t heard such smart dinner conversation in a long time: a Serbian educator and a Croatian statistician discussing whether mathematical equations and probabilities can be used to prove or disprove whether just thinking of something means that it can occur? I couldn’t believe how he tinkered with the wording of the question until he expressed it in a way that ‘yes’ could be the answer. It was a pretty good party trick.”
I sipped my wine. “Yes, you’re right. I kept looking around the table, overhearing bits and pieces of such interesting conversations. Did you get to speak with the boat builder who made a transatlantic voyage single-handedly in a sailboat? What a triumph! But hearing about Florence’s decline was discouraging.”
Tim poured the last drop of Chianti. “Well, I think we’d better go see for ourselves in the next day or so, after we get our pantry set up.”
***
The next morning, we adhered to our model routine, and went out to get groceries. We sat in the car on a tiny street outside the villa, waiting for the temperature to cool from what felt like 150 degrees while we prepared ourselves mentally for taking up the gauntlet and facing Italian traffic again. I tapped instructions into Victoria. After taking a few deep breaths to summon his courage, Tim started down the hill to Avenue Bolognese (which Victoria pronounced BOWL AGH KNEES). He negotiated hairpins and blind corners with the courage of Mario Andretti, the famous race car driver. Once again, Tim’s skill at getting us where we needed to be made me gaze at him in wonder. He even remained semi-calm when scooter drivers whizzed within inches of our car and sped off into the traffic. (Not quiet, mind you, but calm.)
We reached the Esselunga Market in spite of Victoria, who seemed to be having a bad day, and despite our inability to find Martha’s cypress tree or other landmarks. In other words, we ended up just following our instincts, something we could probably benefit from doing more often. Esselunga is like all large supermarkets, but with a decidedly Italian sensibility. In other words, it’s confusing and crowded with people in a hurry who don’t appreciate looky-loos who slow them down.
We quickly discovered that grocery shopping at Esselunga is a contact sport that requires skill and determination. Here’s the drill for produce shopping in an Italian supermarket: a machine in the middle of the area dispenses flimsy plastic gloves and bags. The shopper snaps on a little plastic glove, grabs several plastic bags, and then makes his or her choices. Squeezing is not allowed. One must look, choose items, and plop them in the bag using a gloved hand only. Quickly, please.
For the first few visits, I kept my cart alongside me, which resulted in some pushing and shoving from other shoppers. At first, it annoyed me no end. I never thought of the Italians as being rude! Tim usually (and wisely) stayed on the sidelines in overcrowded situations for obvious reasons. Since I was the one fully engaged in field combat as he observed from a little distance, he could detect patterns I couldn’t see. After a few excursions, he pointed out that the Italians parked their carts in the center of the department and just carried their little plastic bags around as they filled them. This way, they weren’t bumping each other and shoving their carts into the tomato bins. Bingo. When I copied their method instead of bucking the system, things got easier. Adapting to our host country is an important part of being good travelers—not to mention a relief. I keep reminding myself of this all the time!
Back to the produce-buying process. After choosing fruits and vegetables, the shopper jumps into a haphazard line in front of the weighing station. The purchases are plunked on a scale and the buyer punches the picture button, which matches the item on the machine. If the product’s picture is not featured on a button, he must type in its product number, which is displayed in microscopic letters on the price card in the bin. Not remembering that number means giving up your spot in line to the next person who, unlike the more passive, hands-off French people, has been nudging you to hurry up with her bag of peppers; marching back to the bin, avoiding the elbows of territorial shoppers and minding your feet so your toes are not squashed by a fast-moving cart; and then retrieving the number and starting all over. Finally, the machine spits out a sticky label, which is supposed to adhere to the bag, but usually grabs your glove, too.
I usually stuck to buying produce that had a picture, because I could never remember the numbers. Also, it seemed there was always some tiny elderly Italian widow in a floral dress breathing down my neck—or up my neck, owing to our height difference—as I made a fool of myself, caught in a sticky loop of label, glove, and plastic bag as I hurried to tag our purchases. At this point, my teammate, who watched the action from the bench, helpfully snorted with laughter. It took some time for me to see the humor in it.
After a few visits, we started to find our way with little difficulty. Once we had conquered the rules, we enjoyed the great bounty an Italian market offers, if not the sporting aspect of getting it. We feasted for an entire summer on sweet white peaches shaped like little sultans’ hats, melons always at the peak of perfection, abundant fresh fish, and perfect Italian tomatoes that tasted as if a neighbor had grown them. Tuscan bread, made without salt, is the basis for the Tuscan bread salad Martha later taught me to make. We also indulged in cured Italian ham, olives, and other antipasto treats, the best in the world.
The food was to die for, but the drivers were not. Every time we stepped into the car, Tim learned another way to save our lives. For our entire stay, it seemed we were the target del giorno for every Tuscan driver. Tailgaters and hostile motorcyclists charged us daily, seemingly without reason. We thought Tim was driving really well and courteously, so we couldn’t figure it out. When we asked Martha why we were trouble magnets, she looked at us with pity and informed us that the blue F on the back of our car told other drivers all they needed to know. F, as in France. Once Martha explained that the Italians she knew were not fond of the French, rather than being oddly displeased with the two of us, we stopped taking it personally and just accepted the abuse.
Unfortunately for us, many Italians had sunk into a collective bad mood even before we arrived. Locals told us that the country was sweating through its hottest summer in two hundred years. Day after day, the temperature soared above 100 degrees and barely cooled off at night.
The heat was so intense that we ran errands and played tourist only in the morning. Then we retreated to the apartment, where we could move little and stay in range of the several fans we ran all the time. One day, as we hunkered down waiting for evening so we could open the shutters, Tim said, “I feel like a mole living in a renaissance convection oven!” He was right. There was no rain. Not a breath of air moved, except when we batted at mosquitos.
***
That said, we did enjoy one haven on those hot afternoons: the sparkling pool. It sat at a higher elevation than our apartment, giving us an even more spectacular view of Florence. On days when the heat was slightly less beastly, we took drinks, snacks, and our books and computers and whiled away our afternoons under the trees. We read and chatted and wrote as cicadas provided the perfect summer soundtrack, then we dipped in the pool to stay cool.
Each day, the celebrated Tuscan light would change the hills and the city into a glowing golden work of art. It was easy to see why the celebrated Italian painters had given the world the priceless gift of such wondrous skies in their work. That golden light had also drawn our friend, Judy Butcher, to Florence to take art classes at one of the institutes. We’d kept in touch since we met her in Mexico, and she was a senior member of our growing international community of friends. After all, we were forever indebted to her for telling us ahead of time about the Schengen Agreement. Judy had sublet an apartment near the Arno River in the heart of Florence from a woman she had met in Alaska on a bus of all places.
We made a dinner date at her apartment and met her in the square of Santo Spirito Church. By then, Tim and I had learned how to park at the train depot, Santa Maria Novella. In fact, the depot’s main attraction was its big underground parking lot, which was easy to negotiate and kept the car relatively cool. But by the time we slogged from there through Florence, across the Arno bridge, we were panting and damp. We were very happy to find Judy waiting to take us around the corner into her small building.
As we laughed and celebrated our reunion, she called for the old-fashioned cage elevator to take us upstairs. When it came, Tim the claustrophobe balked at entering. As we pushed him inside, he said, “Well, I certainly hope this thing isn’t what it looks like—it’s shaped like a coffin!” It was—with the “foot” end just wide enough for a small child. We let Tim take it all by himself.
Judy had really been lucky on that bus ride because her friend, an artist, had completely refurbished a fabulous space that looked right into a gorgeous, flower-laden courtyard surrounded by colorful antique tile roofs. It was tastefully decorated, completely outfitted with the latest in appliances and furniture, and it was air conditioned. If I hadn’t been so attached to Tim, I would have asked to become Judy’s new roommate!
We had several great meals together in Florence during her stay, and she came up to the villa several more times to swim. One afternoon, as we sat in our wet bathing suits sipping cool drinks, trying to concentrate on the view instead of the temperature, she admitted that her enthusiasm about Florence had weakened during her visit this time, just as ours had. We valued her opinion since she was an intrepid traveler and a flexible person who knows how to adapt to circumstances on the road. When she said, “You know, Florence is hard to love in its current condition. I can’t wait to get away from this heat and dirt and congestion. In fact, I’m thinking of leaving early and going on to Germany,” we felt a little less like complaining American babies.
Determined to be flexible, we continued to find ways to beat the heat. One morning, as I sipped my coffee, trying to enjoy the majestic view of Florence, the garden hose next to my feet jerked so violently that I jumped up and sent my cup flying. Tim stood at the far corner of the terrace, ready to begin what would become our daily watering ritual. He had yanked the hose to make it long enough to hold over his head, and he stood there, chuckling and smiling, pleased with this new idea. I giggled and joined him in our private wet T-shirt contest.
“When we’re finished watering, let’s get out of here and go into the city,” he said. “At least we’ll find an air-conditioned restaurant, and maybe we’ll take in some sights.”
He sprayed me with more water, which I relished. I had long since given up glamour. In that heat, hair wilted and makeup melted, no matter what.
When we had dried off, we headed for the Tourist Office across the street from “our” parking lot at the depot, found a decent city map, and slogged to the Duomo, sticking close to the buildings and ducking into stores whenever we needed a breath of cool air. Lunch in an air-conditioned restaurant restored us, but by 2:00 p.m., with the temperature still rising, we realized that visiting a museum was out of the question. We could think of nothing but the pool. But the fact that we had made it that far made the whole adventure feel like a victory to us.
***
The highlight of our summer in Florence was a ten-day visit from my daughter Robin. We’d been anticipating her arrival for months, and I hardly slept the night before she landed. We had stuffed the house with wine and food and put flowers in the small apartment above ours, where we decided she would stay. It offered two major attributes: instant access to the pool and those two magical words: AIR CONDITIONING. We left an hour early to fetch her at the airport to allow for our inept driving and Victoria’s general confusion in the tangle of Florentine streets, but Victoria was having a good day. We arrived in a hurry.
How glorious to see our sweet, beautiful, bubbly Robin after such a long time! We all talked at once as we gathered her belongings and set out for home. But our harrowing route back quickly silenced us. In Florence, since there are so many one-lane and one-way streets, routes to and from a place are often completely different. The way Victoria chose to take us home was probably the shortest, but it involved climbing a narrow, steep hill that culminated in a turn so sharp, the car door drew to within a hair’s breadth of meeting a rock wall. We couldn’t turn back, because the hill was too steep. We couldn’t move forward without scraping the corner of a building. A high rock wall gave no quarter on the opposite side. Tim made his way around it one inch at a time. It was so terrifying that we couldn’t speak. When I glanced in the backseat, our poor jet-lagged daughter had pulled her sweater over her head. I thought I heard her praying softly.
We made it, but on future excursions in that direction, we carefully studied the route to avoid the turn from hell. When we told Francesco and Martha about that scary moment, they shook their heads. They knew the spot well. I think they were impressed with Tim’s fortitude and driving skill, because even they as natives said that they, too, would go miles out of their way to avoid that infamous, dreaded bottleneck.
Robin’s sunny disposition and offbeat sense of humor brought a fresh perspective to our doggedly hot days, and we loved showing her the magnificent gifts Florence preserves for the world. Even its decrepit state couldn’t mask its beauty.
Martha and Francesco also invited us to bring Robin to Porciano. An hour-long, winding drive away through the countryside, the Casentino Valley boasts several castles and many picturesque towns along the way. Martha’s parents, in collaboration with the Italian government, restored the castle’s tower in the sixties, making a modern miracle out of a ruin.
As we rounded a corner to begin the final climb to the castle, Robin cried out in delight, “Oh, this is unbelievable. I’ve seen your pictures, but I didn’t dream of its being this gorgeous. Didn’t you tell me that Dante stayed here?”
“That’s what they say, and as they excavated for the restoration, they found evidence that humans were living here long before the castle was built in about the year 1000,” I said. “When Tim and I stayed here, I was alone for a few minutes in the castle. Everyone had gone out. In the profound silence I swear I could hear people rustling around. It was a little spooky, but they seem harmless enough. Martha claims that it’s not haunted, but she also has told me that she has never stayed all night by herself. When she comes up here alone, she uses one of those small apartments on the castle grounds where the town folks used to live.”
When we arrived, the elegant Francesco was stretched out on a lounge chair under a tree, reading in the garden. He greeted us with double kisses and his lovely chuckle, and took us inside. Porciano’s fairy-tale exterior includes Juliet windows and several small balconies. It is wildly romantic, dressed in lavish climbing greenery that turns deep dramatic red and gold in the autumn. Positioned on a hill, the tower faces directly across the valley toward its sister castle, where Dante wrote a portion of the Inferno. Perhaps Dante, too, was home free and just mooched from castle to castle.
A small museum and conference area now occupy the first three floors. The family’s living quarters begin on the fourth floor and are surprisingly homey, with comfortable overstuffed chairs and sofas in lively prints, a long refectory table with twelve chairs, and cushioned window seats in each graceful window. The kitchen is small but efficient, with a little step-out balcony and bird’s-eye view of luscious farms and grazing land surrounded by rolling Tuscan hills. Several more stories house beautifully decorated bedrooms and lead the way to an enormous terrace at the very top, the perfect venue for cocktails. The Spechts, Martha’s family, installed a small elevator, but it’s only big enough for two people. When it’s time to repair or reupholster furniture, the workmen must do it within the castle. There’s no way to get the furniture down!
After the castle tour, Martha took us farther up the hill to the start of the Arno, the 150-mile river that runs through Florence before flowing into the Tyrrhenian Sea near Pisa. Here, it was a country stream no more than six feet across. I found it hard to believe that a brook could become such a mighty waterway. It pooled into a green swimming hole not far from the castle, shaded by ancient trees, and then tumbled over a small dam on its way to Florence. We watched children splash and play on the banks and wished we could jump in with them. It was lovely to see people having fun in such a peaceful spot. A country fix was just what we needed after the bedlam of the city, and we were glad to give Robin a different view of Tuscany, one that she would never have seen from a tour bus.
We took everyone to lunch in Stia, the picturesque Tuscan village at the foot of the hill, and chose a favorite restaurant from our first visit. “Robin, you are about to have one of the best meals you have ever had,” I told her excitedly on the way down the hill.
The tiny place was beautifully decorated in soft greens and pale pinks with crisp linens and sparkling cutlery. It was so elegantly turned out that it could have fit perfectly into a big-city neighborhood, yet here it was, in a tiny country town. Everything was pristine and understated—except the food, which was over-the-top haute cuisine. The owner’s mother, the chef, outdid herself with two kinds of homemade ravioli, one with meat sauce and one with cream sauce, both delicious. Her risotto with beet sauce was outrageously good, and I found the dessert of caramelized fruit in a flaky crust with homemade ice cream practically a religious experience! We ordered everything they offered; each of the fifteen dishes we sampled was memorable. Robin, who was sitting across from me, rolled her eyes throughout the meal, a family signal that means “This is just about the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth!” I was thrilled to watch her have such a good time. She was her usual entertaining self, and even the owner and his mother joined in our fun.
After lunch, we strolled to the town church, where Martha introduced us to the chubby little priest. He was very happy to have visitors and proudly showed us the highlights of his little church. We chatted with him for a moment. When he left, Martha said, “There are people in this village who would like to kill that man.”
“Why on earth would that be?” I asked.
“Because he rings the church bells every hour on the hour, seven days a week. He’s got the bells electronically programmed and they are loud.”
“Well, that’s one of those things I guess you could get used to if you lived here.”
She laughed. “Not if you own the hotel next door. Nobody ever stays in that place more than one night. The owner is practically going broke, and nobody can get the priest to quit ringing those damned bells. I think they’re having another town meeting tonight, though I doubt it will do them much good. He’s a very stubborn guy.” Martha raised both hands heavenward, palms up in the classic Italian “what’re you going to do?” gesture of surrender we’d seen many times since we’d been there.
Before Robin left, we made several very short visits into the city center to show her the highlights: the Ponte Vecchio Bridge, museums, monuments, and major churches. We drove her to Siena and took a train to Venice, but in the punishing heat, our trips were brief. Instead, we spent a lot of time at the pool. Robin was kind enough not to complain, even though her vacation turned out differently than we had hoped because of the heat. Even so, it was wonderful having her with us because we were able to focus on one another without the distractions of children and social obligations. We had the luxury of playing cards, having long, leisurely chats, and catching up on the little things we miss when we are gone so long. And best of all, we laughed constantly because Robin is one of the funniest people I know. She’s been amusing me all her life with her wacky sense of humor and fertile imagination. We were so grateful that she came to be with us and got to experience a slice of our new life.
After we saw her off for the long trip home, Tim and I were quiet and a little sad. We worked on our projects in the afternoon while we tried to stay cool and distract ourselves from boredom. It was just too hot to think about going into the city and although we tried driving out of town for a change of scenery, it was just as hot there, too, so we would scurry home to our fans to wait for sundown. Tim sat at one end of the dining room table with a fan blasting at him, making headway on his detective novel. I sat at the other end, fiddling with my article for the Wall Street Journal. For over a month, I had been trying to work up the courage to send it to the newspaper.
The idea of moving from my homey little blog to submitting my work to the Wall Street Journal terrified me every time I thought about it. Tim was the writer in the family. I was just a dilettante, a dabbler!
Poor Tim had listened to me read it so often that I’m sure he wanted to bash me over the head with my computer. Instead, he politely said, “Honey, I think you should probably just bite the bullet and send it now. It’s fine.”
I appreciated his encouragement, but I was still terrified of embarrassing myself and being told “Thanks, lady, but no thanks.” Finally, I was so tired of it myself that my finger hit the “send” button before my brain could stop it.
I expected the article to languish in cyberspace for a while and maybe, just maybe, one day someone there would bother to send me a kind rejection note.
Instead, to my utter surprise, I received a response within a few hours: the Wall Street Journal had accepted my story idea! We were thrilled, of course, and had no idea just how much our lives would change with that news, or that the next month would be our last bit of lollygagging for a long, long time. We hadn’t a clue that our roles were about to change. But that night the Chianti flowed and we rejoiced once more at the power of saying “yes”!
The next day over breakfast, as we felt the temperature climbing yet again, I said, “You know, honey, I realize that we have paid for several more weeks here, but I’m not so sure I can put up with this for much longer. Maybe we should pull a Buenos Aires and just bite the bullet and get out of here. What do you think?”
Tim thought about it. “It’s been on my mind, too. And I’ve even looked around at some possibilities, but we still have those opera tickets in Verona. I would really love for us to see Aida and Turandot in that fantastic Roman arena. I think we should wait it out for the next few days, go to the operas, and then make a decision, okay?”
He made the right call. We fought truck traffic all the way to Verona, but it was worth the effort. The pedestrian-friendly city was a joy. It was cooler than Florence, pleasant enough to enjoy an evening stroll, and we loved its pretty buildings and immaculate, tree-lined streets. The relaxed, welcoming people matched the slow, easy pace perfectly. Verona is romantic, its reputation assured by a certain famous play of Shakespeare’s. We even managed to negotiate our way through the hordes of tourists to see the balcony where Juliet never stood.
At lunchtime, we stopped in one of a long line of restaurants that face the arena on one side of the square. The food was excellent. We started with a crisp cool salad, welcome in that climate. That was followed by a sublime pizza, a delicate, perfectly made crust with just the right amount of cheese and excellent Italian sausage. Our efficient waiter’s eyes had a twinkle of humor that even his dour expression that invited little conversation couldn’t hide. We joked with him, saying that we’d return for dinner that night if he’d save a front-row table for us. Sure enough, when we returned for dinner before the opera, he spotted us and escorted us to a table for two in a prime people-watching position. We were surprised that he remembered us.
Again, the food surprised and delighted us. The seafood risotto was creamy and full of luscious scallops, shrimp, and octopus. Tim enjoyed tender, flavorful pasta, and this time, the waiter treated us as if we were old friends. We were flattered and a little puzzled because he lavished so much attention on us.
The mystery was solved when he brought the check. He hesitated for a moment, then pointed at the silver skull ring Tim wears every day in homage to the Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards. The waiter smiled and pushed back his sleeve to reveal a silver bracelet of linked skulls. We expressed our delight and inspected it carefully. His smile got bigger as he opened the neck of his shirt to show us a skull pendant on a leather thong. His smile grew even larger when he quickly opened and closed his shirt. Underneath was—you guessed it—a big, heavy-duty black skull on his T-shirt. People stared as all three of us laughed like lunatics! Who would believe that a skull ring would result in the best table in the house and royal treatment by a world-weary waiter? It proved once more that Italians, like people everywhere, respond to warmth and respect and that we all have more in common than it may seem at a glance!
After dinner, we approached the ancient arena. The stone facade glowed pink in the sunset, giving more definition to its graceful arches, and we entered through the same portal that has welcomed millions of visitors through the millennia.
No one should miss the opportunity to see grand opera in such a magnificent setting. We found our seats and looked out at the audience as the sun began to set behind one end of the oval. Four tall arches, the only remnants of that original tier, stood in relief against the sky. “Now watch this,” he said with a note of pride, as if he were the director. Just then, thousands of tiny candles began to flicker, held by each person who entered the arena. The astonishing sight offered the perfect beginning to an unforgettable event.
A third of the oval arena was dedicated to the stage. The ancient colosseum was built in AD 30 to accommodate thirty thousand people. At one point, while two white horses pulled a chariot onto the stage, forty men dressed as Roman soldiers stood evenly spaced on the top tier, holding fiery torches aloft while the entire cast, three hundred strong, sang at top volume. For two evenings, we were completely immersed in lavish spectacles of light, costumes, staging, and music on a scale that I do not think I will see again. I’ve seen many big productions in New York, London, Hollywood, and Los Angeles, but the combination of stagecraft, setting, and musical presentation was like nothing I could have imagined. Tim, who is a true opera fan, had been to Verona before and enjoyed not only watching the show, but seeing me ecstatically appreciate such a rare treat.
The next day, we set off for Trieste, which we chose because it was featured so often in the Cold War novels we read in the sixties and seventies. Trieste made us think of spies skulking around in fedoras, handing off secrets and ratting each other out to the Commies. Its rich literary history also attracted us. While living in Trieste, James Joyce wrote most of the stories in Dubliners, turned Stephen Hero into A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and began writing Ulysses. He and other writers like Italo Svevo and Umberto Saba regularly visited its literary cafés, making it the cultural and literary center of the so-called Austrian Riviera. The third largest Adriatic port, Trieste has a rich history that stretches all the way back to Roman times, which intrigued us. Neither of us had been there, which made it even more of an adventure.
The approach to the city was dramatic. While driving through a forest, we made a sharp turn. Suddenly, stretched out far below us, was the Adriatic—pancake flat and bright blue. Trieste curved around a deep bay, with impressive estates hugging the tops of the cliff. Designer houses lined terraces that marched down to the sea.
Tim booked a room at the Grand Hotel Duchi d’Aosta, which has hosted just about every visitor of note since 1873. It was wonderfully elegant and the old-world service impeccable. The hotel sits in the best location in town, directly on the square facing the Adriatic Sea. The neoclassical buildings that surround the square are huge. When illuminated at night, their elaborate exteriors look like wedding cakes. The city oozes a middle-European feeling different from any other place in Italy. After the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, it was annexed to Italy, but it still retains its unique Austrian look and atmosphere.
In the hotel, porters in navy uniforms with epaulets and shiny gold buttons made the rounds with dust mops, constantly polishing the dark wood floors. The brass fittings looked as if they’ve been prepared for the king’s arrival. Floral wallpaper and velvet settees contributed to the sensation of an elegant bygone era. Our room was awash in inlaid furniture and gilded botanical prints.
The pedestrian-only city center features a short canal, a failed attempt to compete with Venice. We explored the wide plazas and narrow alleyways, enjoying cooler temperatures than we’d experienced for many weeks, but found ourselves looking around corners expecting shady characters with dark secrets to appear any second! We enjoyed the hotel and appreciated the beauty of the city because it was so different from other places we had seen in Europe, but there was a melancholy feeling about the area that made us slightly edgy. Its dark history during World War II—Jews were gassed to death there—had left a stain that, for us, even its physical beauty could not erase.
Florence was still a furnace when we returned. We tossed our bags in the apartment and hurried to the pool for relief. As we paddled around, Tim said, “Look, we have just a couple of weeks left here, and our only commitment is to see La Bohème at Puccini’s home. I want you to see it, but the weather report says it will be 104 in Lucca that night. Can you imagine the cast in their wool coats and scarves, passing out on stage?”
“We’d probably faint, too,” I replied. “Didn’t you tell me that we had to walk quite a bit to get to the arena? I’m not sure that’s the best plan, are you?”
“No, I don’t think it is. I say let’s give the tickets to Martha and let’s get the hell out of Dodge. I’ve already looked into it and I think I’ve found just the place for us. It’s not too far from Paris, so we won’t have any trouble turning in the car and getting to London. The apartment looks great, it’s in a cute little town…and it has three air conditioners.”
I gave him a big smooch and ran into the house to start packing. He was right behind me. Now we were moles in our hot hole, running at warp speed to get out of the tunnel!
We were not surprised when we phoned Martha days later to let her know we had safely arrived at our next destination, and she told us that her daughter, who had taken the tickets, said that cast members and some in the audience had fainted from the extreme heat during the performance. We were very pleased that we had not been among those prostrate in the aisles, and felt terrible for those who had suffered so in the name of culture.
The next day, we were so excited to leave that even the crazy drivers in the tunnels didn’t bother us too much. The higher we climbed toward the Alps, the cooler the temperature became. Soon, it was in the eighties. We were so happy to have surfaced from the oppressing heat that, during two days on the road, we never had a cross word, even when we were lost, hungry, held up by traffic, or caught in a surprise rainstorm. We felt free as a couple of kids ditching school.
After we negotiated the last tunnel, we stopped for lunch in a large restaurant that drew us in because we were amused by the full-size papier-mâché cattle on the lawn. After a beef sandwich (what else?), we took a look at their children’s museum, in which they presented displays showing how well the cattle were treated and how happy they were on the farm. We also saw pictures of rapturous children chomping away on roast beef sandwiches. How cute. “I can’t figure out how they explain to the kiddies that Bossie has to be offed before she shows up on their dinner plate,” Tim said after we left.
We drove into La Charité-sur-Loire, a medieval town complete with towers and cobblestones, our home for the next few days. “I’ve saved a little surprise for you. There’s a blues festival going on in this town over the weekend! Supposedly some really good performers are going to be here, and I’ve already booked tickets for us.” Tim looked at me, grinning. “Is that cool or what?”
“Well, it’s quite a change from Aida, and it sounds like fun,” I replied.
The American owners of our fifteenth-century building, Kelly and Byron Harker, had converted it into several apartments. Ours was at the very top, up a steep circular stone staircase. Its tiny private terrace paralleled a fabulous medieval church, site of the festival. Not only was the place spacious and beautiful, it was also cool.
At the festival, we had fun listening to an American art form interpreted by pickers and players from all over the world. Not the best blues we ever heard, but the setting was marvelous and everyone had a terrific time. The audiences tickled us because many of them were dressed up in their impressions of what an American blues-goer would look like. There were lots of T-shirts with silly sayings that used words like “dude” and featured Harley Davidson logos (an odd choice to us). The venue, in the annex of the stately old church, did NOT have air conditioning, so before long the entire audience and the performers were soaking wet. The German guy sitting in front of me was so hot that he dumped his water right over his head. I didn’t even mind the splash-back. But eventually the heat got to the comfort-seeking Martins. We left after the first set and fled next door to our temporary home where three air conditioners were blasting away and we were still close enough to hear these guys sing the blues. It was blissful.
We explored the countryside, picnicked along the river, and even hopped the train to Paris for one more lunch with our pals Andie and Georges. We felt so cosmopolitan strolling up the little main street of town and boarding the train bound for Paris. The views of the French countryside were even more enticing when Tim was able to enjoy them, too. The pleasant two-hour ride brought us to the station at Bercy, where we easily caught the Métro to meet our friends. We strolled up the street beside Luxembourg Gardens and here they came, as planned. I also managed to spend a couple of hours at Dessange, which made me feel terribly soigné and continental, and ready for our next move to cool, rainy Britain. We repeated our little train ride down to La Charité and felt as if we were leading a golden life when we stepped back into our cool digs. Days like that, when everything worked out perfectly, we spent time with people we adored, and we were completely satisfied, made the times that were not so rewarding seem worth the trouble.
We had come full circle from Paris. Our experiences in Italy reinforced what we suspected: new friends and travel enliven our lives, and we can cope with almost anything as long as we keep laughing and stay flexible. We also came away from that experience with some new resolutions. We agreed that in the future when someone offered us a really great rental deal that we would not allow the benefits to render us deaf to the details. We now knew that Italy is HOT—and I mean way hotter than we ever could have imagined—in July and August, and renting a place with “traditional Italian air conditioning” (meaning none) was a mistake. Originally we had made that decision in deference to our budget. But in the future, this resolve would save us a lot of discomfort. We have declined several attractive offers because we looked clearly at the circumstances and knew we would be setting ourselves up for irritation or disappointment.
As we’ve discovered many times in this adventure, it’s important to listen to that little inner voice we all have. You know, the one that pipes up during horror movies as you watch the hero step into a sinister room where the killer is lurking behind the curtain and you and the rest of the audience silently scream, “Don’t go in that room!” I suppose these are lessons all of us have to learn more than once before we really get it. Luckily, unlike the poor guy in the movie walking into the killer’s trap, we lived another day to do so.