(Or: A Poet’s Italian Sojourn with Friends Near Pienza, October 2010)
The day before leaving -
I begin to hate the clock, which like a gate or barrier at either end of my day says start, stop! It doesn’t let me flow into the timeless space I yearn to swim in. Vacations are made for losing track of time, that mortal trick we play on ourselves, human mind putting up barriers to peace – why not just flow, without regard for clocks, watches, dates, time frames, boxes. But even my journal is divided up by dates....for memory’s sake....for the sake of order.
Olmo, Pienza, Tuscany
Day 1
(October 22)
We set out for Olmo by car, with friends who have been here before and are in love with Italy; J, my husband at the wheel, and me taking mental notes in the back seat. We haven’t been to Italy in over 24 years.
After almost two hours by car from Florence airport, we find Pienza, but cannot find Olmo – the stone agritourismo waiting for us in the middle of viticoltore and empty wheat fields. We did stop in Montalcino to buy two bottles of Brunello – JP was thirsty for a glass of wine after spending the night traveling to Paris, and four hours in Charles de Gaulle airport, then a flight to Florence, then by car to here. We stopped a passerby who knew exactly where Olmo was – otto chilometri de Pienza, dritto, a destra, a sinstra, et voila – tout baigne dans l’huile - La pleine lune, le soleil couchant derrière les collines - en plein cœur des terres brunes (en attendant le printemps les vignes les tournesols) nous y sommes.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
It is very WOW – and bonus, we’re the only ones here – two large bedrooms, suites with a sitting room and round dining table, a little courtyard with pomegranates growing in a pot. 17th century blackened wood beams traverse the ceiling of the main house’s lovely white living room. Totally renovated and modernized except for those 300 year-old beams. Our suites (the old stables renovated) have beams that look as thick but a bit younger. Terra cotta floors, dark pink walls, flowered curtains. Before supper we open our first bottle – 2003 Brunello, Ciacci Piccolo mini d’arguna. It was 3 degrees C in Paris this morning, and we were lucky the recent strikes by Sarkozy’s protestors did not affect our flights. Warm sunshine, 16 degrees in Tuscany, almost too hot for the warm sweater I have on. Sunshine on the drive here, full moon over the hills, cypresses lining the road. Fuck qu’on est bien! dit J.
Day 2
Woken out of deep sleep by a knock on the door in a darkened room. Morning in Olmo! The wooden screens outside are closed to help us sleep through bright sun. Breakfast served by a uniformed maid who brings fresh bread rolls and silverware on a tray, then returns a few minutes later with fried eggs, espresso and hot milk in a silver pitcher, white dishes, clean pressed linens. Wrapped in terry cloth and barely awake, we sit at this lovely table. Sun rises hot and yellow in our window- overlooking a little patio with roses, lavender, and huge bushes of rosemary growing all around. Shiny egg yolks yellow as the sun, bird twitters in the poplar tree by the door. I sit in the warm sunshine after meditating – barely able to contain myself, so much excitement, a trembling body, full of creative flow, ideas for stories.
The hills surrounding us are bare earth brown, edged with green. Tall cypresses line the farm house on the hill across the field in front of my little patio; a tractor rumbles in the near distance. Apart from that – almost total silence. One wants to sing: the hills are alive – yet dormant, end of the growing season. Clouds faintly line mountains to the south. Pomegranates hang heavy on branches like Christmas decorations all around the courtyard. 17th century haven: we dreamt of this over five years ago – living in a house in Tuscany for a week – and now with barely any planning here we are at our Tuscan chalet.
A clear blue pool, too cold to swim. An empty pergola with tables and chairs beside the pool, and vines covering a bamboo or reed roof; climbing trellis with a few roses, pink and fuchsia, end of season noseful of pink rose jam. I lie on a lounge chair, meditating on a current of thought – how we are co-creators with this energy flow. How self-belief flows from that connection, how leading a writing class is helping me find the desire to write – teaching what I need to learn. A little discipline, a daily practice, just getting down to it. Push aside the inner critic and allow, let it be, give yourself permission to remember, or failing that, create.
Horizon: rounded hills, little puffs of white cloud. Cloud shadow on bare brown earth – postcard pictures everywhere you turn. Supper at Orestia di Leona in Bagnon Vignoni – an old medieval town with ancient hot springs. Not far, only 10 chilometri into the hills. Very cleaned up, re-mortared brick buildings look new. We walk into the centre of the village, steam rises from a huge raised pool of water – hot springs. Vow to come back.
Here, the poetry is in the food:
Piti noodles with Tuscan ragu
Thin beef Carpaccio on shredded radicchio with a creamy sauce.
Roasted steak sliced rare, crusted salt, roasted potatoes with rosemary,
Brunello, Madonna, very very good wine, head-turning wine.
Back at the auberge, I lay down, briefly; body clock is off, so I get back up and smoke three cigarettes in an intense conversation with JP and J sipping on the 4th bottle (but who’s counting?) Discuss the fate of the world economy, Chinese savings vs spending in the US (my husband the economist). We all remember collecting dimes and nickels for the starving children in China – being admonished to polish off all the food on our plates. Soon they’ll be feeding us, says JP (il dottore) – later, the wild man of Borneo turns up in my bed, turns me on my head. We roll and play and laugh, en vacances – alive! Some prevention: Charcoal capsules, 2 glasses of water before sleep.
Day 3
Morning poetry on the menu:
Coffee, hot espresso with hot milk to revive jet lag.
Little gecko slim and slight gives himself a big fright – gone!
Could have slept till noon, but sweet twitters from
invisible birds and the bright sunlight shining in through curtains,
smell of espresso...
Later, yoga on a blanket in the sun while J & JP stalk the hills
in shorts and running shoes. I check out the lavender, roses,
greenery, shrubs with red fruit. Pomegranates! Take pictures
of our bare earth hills and cloud shadow.
It gets hot very quickly. Stretch my legs, arms and shoulders,
do pigeon pose for stiff hips, downward dog, chest openers....
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Chiaroscuro
Dark clouds blot the sun, it grows cooler
Dry leaves flutter in the wind, crinkling sound
Dragon flies spin, flies scatter, birds hidden in rosebush.
Rain may follow, or not. It has been foretold for tomorrow but the
Weather Man is often wrong, misspeaks the sun-wind-rain
Moving into the living room of this little Italian suite, surrounded on
Three walls by butterflies in frames, coloured ink to be sure,
J comes in from his walk to Montachiello hair puffy with wind.
Bella Italia, Tuscany, clear air, blows our fatigue away.
Sunday brunch: Pecorino Pecorino cheese – everywhere in all the stores in Pienza, this perfectly modeled little Renaissance town – old dark wheels of cheese in all the shops along with salamis, pepperoni, piti pasta, bags of spices, lavender, parma ham, prosciutto, ceramics and linens. Old stone walls patched and re-mortared for 500 years – Pie-enza named for pope Pius II , survived pestilence, famine; architect designed piazza, plaza, we walk through, laughing with Italian tourists along the walls of the city, take pictures of each other kissing on the Via del Amore, under the Via del Bacio overlooking the Val Orcia, pristine, clean swept streets and red geraniums in pots at every brick doorway. Red vines climb, roses in pots cover the streets. We wander in circles, a labyrinth, and love every inch of this red brick town.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Wine tasting with Gino: swirl, spit and pour. Decide on the Brunello (what else in Montalcino region?) and head back to Olmo in the middle of undulate hills, bare haze of green on wheat fields surrounding our little villa.
Our hostess, Loridana, a gracious, elegant blonde in her 60’s, is most helpful with booking ristorantes, offers breakfast à la carte with cafe latte and croissants, ham, fruit, yogurt, omelettes. We are spoiled. The International Herald tribune arrives with breakfast every morning (but only one copy so we share it with JP), keeping abreast of the outer world so far away. In the car, the radio rings Italian, musical voices, Toscana style. Prego Pronto, Scuzi, Buona Sera. The three others leave for their jog through the hilly roads to nearby towns on hilltops. While I sit and write, meditate, in the caldo sun - cool breeze over my toes reminds me the season is still ending, but such simple splendour. Rosemary bushes, fragrant, as tall as me and a metre wide.
Each hilltop has one farmhouse or a fortified town built in stone or brick. At night they glimmer at us from afar. Morning mist burns off quickly by breakfast and the promised rain is pushed off until tomorrow or domani, promesso. We covet our morning silence, coquette-covered chaise longue and paper, pen, cafe (water), clouds and sun. My list of needs is short, once I am fed and watered. We begin to lose track of time...
Day 3
in Tuscany under a bright sun. Last night’s trattoria La Porta, after two-hour siesta, early supper by Italian standards at 7:30, roast lamb, ravioli, handmade with truffles and mascarpone, goat cheese salad, rabbit pate, Brunello de Montalcino vino, and dessert divided by four (apple cake and ice cream, infusion di camomilla for the girls and more wine for JP and J. Back at the villa, more wine, cigarettes, we talk till past midnight, listen, cajole, empathize, and sympathize. Giacomo e Jenna we have become, easy listeners, no space in us for drama or tension.
Souvenirs in Pienza on our daily tour de ville: Lavender sachet, woollen sheep from Pecorino, balsamico, Italian herbs, linen table runner. Looking for olive oil with truffles...Italian leather and cashmere on my list, and a new suitcase to hold our gifts...
Silent hills, echo tractor and jets overhead
The land is resting, as are our weary travellers
Piccolomini siesta, stillness the only remedy for the 21st century
mad rush of bing-bang busy work and daily bread
Hermits of the hour, a sabbatical week to become monk,
brown cowl, shawl, sandals and all. You pretend
To be curiouso about the ruins but all you want is to be ‘away’
Ensconced in a foreign language, tongue pierced by uccelli
Beautiful sounds in the sky
yet the word-joints are familiar, the roots of Latin and French
Call back to ear and brain similarities, syntaxes, synecdoche.
Move over clouds - full moon beaming through.
This morning Tuscan Sun traverses fields’ curving symmetry.
A cure for the workaholic, Silence booming. Dipped
and held under until the pressure releases
and we finally relax.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Walk up the road towards Montichiello, photos postcard quality. Meet M running downhill towards me, heart monitor in hand. We return, me at a walk and her running, back to Olmo to get the car, shower then drive to Pienza to meet the guys. There they are! Very visible standing on a bench in the square waving at us, bright Canadiana red t-shirts and shorts. A cafe latte and Panini, then drive through the back roads, more of a dirt path really, that the guys hiked through on their way here. Then up the Strada Panoramica, high up past the town to see where M had jogged, more hairpin curves to the Summit. These breath stopping views, valleys and mountains and cypress lined road bring out the superlatives in us: Mamma Mia! Holy Strada Panaroma Batman! Must have been a lung popping run – M bought an asthma pump yesterday. We drive past Casa Frai Agriturismo – JP says I’m improving (he’s an Italian citizen, as he tells everyone we meet). Provare – to try – we asked waiters at La Porta last night – practising our verbs.
Day 4
lundi – day after a full moon.
Supper in a 5-table trattoria – Rossilino; we are the liveliest bunch there – other tourists too quiet. Our gentle hosts and cooks, an old couple who work alone in the kitchen, both dressed in black aprons; they come out once in a while to serve a plate and laugh with us, or tell stories about a friend of Obama’s who owns the vignoble of Brunello. Enzo enjoys our laughter, says we bring some life to the place (the size of my living room). He brings us a bottle, a little “surprizo” -- M is sure it will cost E180 but turns out to be much less. We buy a second bottle to take home, very nice, private riservo 1999. Enzo says he served it to the president of Citigroup. Dropping names....
Dark green fresh pressed olive oil from Enzo’s own trees (Loridana has olive trees too, everyone presses their own oil here; one night we meet some olive pickers at a restaurant, here from Switzerland to help a friend process the olives, working for payment in oil).
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| © Jennifer Boire |
We waltz home after a salty supper (JP enjoyed his balsamico pigeon and tartufo pasta) - the whole place smells of truffles that Enzo passed around in a jar with some porcini mushrooms on the side. Drank our bottle with Loridana and Georgio in their salon. I thought she would go outside to smoke but she lit up right there. M’s asthma acting up and she’s coughing a lot. Then of course we came back to our little room, nightly ritual behind the patio, this time to discuss women’s stuff under the moon, while I get hot and bothered and smoke 4 cigarettes and argue with JP, again – I tell him my horror stories - about the gynaecologist who said ‘Let’s hope you’re as cute down there as you are up here’ and the x-ray technician who made me fear I had cancer because he thought my nipples were in the wrong place – while he fondled my breasts. I prefer women doctors. He probably writes me off as a rabid féministe enragé.
Today, Prada outlet! It rained last night, cold, windy dark clouds. This a.m. they were both dressed for running, but it’s too cold for the regular morning walk. We find some bargains, but mostly the minimum price is $120 Euros – M swears the prices would be double in Montreal – I buy a scarf and a pair of loafers. What do I know about brand names and designers? Nil. Nada. But JP guides J into a snazzy Italian jacket (while I steer him away from the burnt-orange pants to match). We come home exhausted after an hour’s drive, and many hours bargain hunting at the Outlet stores...counting our receipts to make sure we don’t go over the amount allowed at Customs...maybe we can wear the shoes....
Day 5
We stay in this morning. I convince J to not go walking with JP. I want to spend more time alone with him, since that was the point of this vacation! Delicioso amore, and more. Went for a walk just the two of us, ordered lunch in our room. JP and M joined us after their 3-hour marathon walk. After a nap and reading, we drive into Montelpulciano with JP Belmondo shifting gears up and down hills like he was driving a Porsche. Beer and herbal tea at a 19th century cafe on the steep spiral streets of the town. Very dark streets, sun cut off by high walls, feels colder with the brutal wind whipping up the lanes. Speciality here is leather: colourful handmade bags, shoes, bright yellow! Red. Orange. We window-shop only, missing the friendliness and warmth of Pienza.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
After we climb and climb up to the top to the Teatro and Piazza to see the dying sun, a panoramic view of the valley – clay tiled rooftops below and curling chimney smoke, twinkling lights of villages for miles around lighting up the tops of hills, and nestled in valleys. JP and I silently declare a truce – he says he’s post-feminist; of course, I understand how it is for him - it causes upheaval and chaos when women doctors take their maternity leave, or have a sick child at home, or have to leave early for school concerts...it disrupts the orderly schedule and makes work for the other doctors. But then women doctors don’t have wives at home holding down the fort.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Day 5
Yesterday, dark clouds and cold wind. Warmer in the morning but by late afternoon we were layering wool sweaters, leather jackets and wishing we had gloves. Walking up the streets of Montelpulciano we see lots of shoe store, more commerce than in Pienza. The Brunello of this region is our favourite wine of the moment. A bottle at lunch, two bottles at dinner, l/2 bottle at home later. M stores the names on her I-phone, J keeps the corks.
La Grotta served a fine meal, except for my too bony rabbit with rosemary, bean soup, chocolate torte, white truffles on tagliatelle – even the wine smelled of truffle. What to say about truffles: I am orgasmic over them, never have they hit me this way, their odour rich, buttery, the mushroom smell of sex. JP had the best lamb chops ever, tasty and rare. M ordered artichoke and zucchini tart. Brunello rains from the sky, and even the dust smells like sheep cheese.
1 l/2 day of rain greens the dirt, aura of tiny shoots colours the rows on curved hills. We leave Pienza only to sigh with delight on our return to our tranquil hills. Basta the city! Even Montelpulciano is too big. We adore being stranded in mid-17th century (except for tractors and auto noise). The wind in the poplars is our music. The frost will cover the grass days after we leave but for now it is sunny, gentle temperatures in daytime. Surrounded on all sides by wheat fields, curving flowing rounded hills, not rectangular linear prairies – bellissimo – dark as espresso or cioccalata, smelling of roasted grains or dry earth, I can’t put my tongue on it – this daily smell I wake up to. I meditate in the blackened room, wooden shutters closed, chuisco, smell of baked bread, sweet crust of wheat, brick dust and old wood beams drying under Tuscan sun. Bread here is always white, no salt. Meat is roasted beef, steak, pork roast or lamb, salt encrusted. We never see fresh pepper grinder on the table but lots of salt. Pici pasta are like spaghetti but fatter. M makes them herself at home. Regional cuisine means if it’s fresh it’s on the menu, if it’s out of season – not. No fish, hardly any chicken. Lots of zucchini, spinach, chard, salads. Pasta and meat, Tuscan bean soup with bread and Swiss chard. Lots of porcini, not much risotto, but hopefully in Florence there’ll be more variety, more fish, poultry, veggies. Pinocchio was born near here, we saw him in many shops last night. The isle of foolish boys must be nearby too. After two bottles of wine, we begin to grow ass’s ears and bray like donkeys.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Exercises on the floor, me stretching, J doings his pecorino butt clenches and push- ups. Work off all the calories from supper, then off to hike the hills of Monteciello. Breakfast of boiled egg or omelette with pecorino and ham, crusty bread or croissant, peach or grapefruit juice. Great thick cappuccino (or Americano in a teapot), with hot milk. Fruit if we order it and jams – marmalade – served on beautiful fresh pressed linens and white porcelain, very civilized.
Wed afternoon – Wine tasting day – windblown Jenn.
Montalcino, Capanova de Neri, vineyard: we arrive too late and miss the tour of the vignoble but go straight to the wine tasting room where we sample five wines from different years. Gino has warned us that there is only one wine that is any good, but we had booked this from Montreal in advance. The Brunello 2004 is a favourite of JP’s but he decides not to purchase. We drive up rolling hills and fast curves, getting into town at sunset around 5. It’s very cute, and while walking down from the summit of the winding streets, we come upon the Potazinne wine bar! Ah the wine with our two little birds from first night’s supper, nicknamed for two daughters of the wine owners. We’ve been looking for it in all the wine stores and here it is!
We stop in the bar for a small snack (always hungry!) antipasto, salami, pecorino and honey, prosciutto, bread, green olive oil (we buy 3 bottles, one for a friend). With some Brunello of course, then espresso, to keep us from nodding off on the road; then head home for a brief nap. Nap and eat and walk, that’s the menu for this Tuscan trip.
Tonight Loridana books us another supper at La Porta. Daria serves us impeccably, like the old friends we have become (Olmo has a good reputation). She graciously offers us Proseco to begin, a potato stromba entree on the house, and even makes me risotto with truffles, not on the menu, ravioli for JP, carpaccio with truffles for all. M eats salad and pork roast, beef braised in red wine with polenta, panforte and vino santo brandy to finish the evening. She leaves us the bottle! Plus gifts – a rose from her brothers’ winery and onion balsamic spread for M and I. Gentilly, molto bene. Pici-Eccolo! – our new secret code.
We are happy drunks, take pictures with Daria and her wine collection a glassed-in case. A blonde couple at the neighbouring table stops to tell us they are Habs fans, overheard our stories of famous games with Guy Lafleur 1978 (JP). They’re Canadian! Ecstatic discussion of the Washington-Montreal 2009-10 series. They come back to Tuscany often, grew up in Valleyfield and St-Jerome. We have noticed that most of the clients speak English and are quiet couples, not loud boisterous “partiers” such as we. I blame it on the French Canadians...
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Morning walk, ahh! Wrapped up in cashmere against the cold wind, in spite of sun, up and down a quiet deserted road, only one poor dog barking in an abandoned farm house near some olive trees, and fields laid bare. 25-minute walk towards Montechiello (120 inhabitants Daria tells us, in winter), mostly uphill. We did not make it to town, and turn to cross through the bumpy dirt fields, coming back the way we came, a road lined with huge cypress trees; waxy pine cones on the side of the road, wind in my ears and sweater plus scarf. Nippy autumn, gorgeous sun.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
On the way to the vineyard in the sun, M and I trade words for colours – how to name these pale browns: khaki, sand, gold, ripe wheat, taupe, cashmere, terra cotta, (literally cooked earth), rust, green, olive green, dark brown, sage, yellow, reddish-brown – how describe the bare-furrowed fields, overturned clods, corduroy rows curving and flowing in mounds and hills all around. Every road has hairpin turns, no straight line or paths in the wheat fields or olive fields. Wine country, bread basket of Italy? Or maybe we should call it the pasta pot. Tagliatelli, pici, pinci, fafardella, spaghetti, pasta coloured fields! That’s it – the fields are the colour of bread crusts, pizza dough freshly baked and gleaming with olive olio, the aroma of golden loaves in the oven and served in woven reed basket covered with freshly pressed white linens – ah olio, figs, hortensia (hydrangea) and rose trellis covered house.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Loridana brings us to see a house she rents (oh my!). For 5000 Euros a week we could live in spare Tuscan splendour. Stupendo view of Mont Amiata, Val d’Orcia, two hills away from Olmo, a three-kilometre ride from the main road on a gravel bumpy road. Magnifico 16th century farmhouse, guarded by Rosetta Puss in Boots. Ogres from Montelpuciano can never harm us in this book-filled haven, 5 bedrooms (cameras) a den lined with bookshelves, grande cucina, solarium with a/c, molte bene terraced courtyard, garden with tomatoes, lavender, rosemary and thyme. Giant fireplace on the 2nd floor: in olden days owners lived on the first floor, with cattle and goats below. Original beams from 1200 over the pool table Mah! Eccolo – Basta – What else do you want in life? A Tuscan courtyard to write in....I’m writing this outside in our little patio by our room. A gecko motors by on four swift legs. I hold my breath. If I move one eyelash, he stops. Flicks his tongue in the grass, not paving stones mottled with lichens then disappears into the shrubbery between our two rooms.
News of the World, reading the Herald Tribune over espresso: Heart attacks On the Rise in Women – is there a better way to foster Creation? Tsunami/earthquake hits Sumatra/Indonesia, and a tsunami of legal lawsuits. (We’re not missing much tucked away in Tuscany with day-old news).
Day 6?
Not sure what day it is anymore...lying on my lounge chair again, yoga on the grass. A fighter jet disturbs the peace, its plume white line across blue sky – if the strivers and government leaders decide to shoot it out up in space, even the tranquil countryside will be broken in shards. One secret to happiness – having a sister to talk to – Deb Tannen says – it’s the female factor stupid! Siblings and support – it’s the talk– she says even male hockey jock-talk and company is good for us too. I clip an article for JP – il dottore is encouraging J to walk every day, get more cardio. Daily walking at age 55 can delay immobility at 90.
I snip a rose fading on its bush, fragrant as jam, pink honey or a ladies’ rosewater spray bottle, grown concentrated on the vine in Tuscan sun, a pale half-dried rose stirs my olfactory senses to sublime satiety. Lunch by the pool – hot sun, cool wind, basket of aceto/olio, tablecloth and bread basket. Dieu merci! Says JP. Pincez-moi quelqu’un! Today is massage day – two masseuses come to our rooms to relax us, facials for the madames. JP reads the paper by the pool as J gets his massage. I read in the patio while M has hers. The perfect end to our stay. Sad to go, that evening we have one last glass of wine with Loridana before we head out to supper; such lovely, gracious hosts who give us big warm hugs goodbye. The whole week has a golden halo around it.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Day 7
Leaving Olmo.
On our drive to Firenze, we pass time by remembering TV shows from the 60’s we loved and guessing the theme music: Mission Impossible, Man from Uncle, Chapeau Melon et Bottes de Cuir, Hercules Poirot – Agatha Christie, Alfred Hitchcock, Skippy, Agent 99 (Get Smart), Twilight Zone, Bugs Bunny and Road Runner, Merry Melodies, Batman and Robin.
One and a half very fast hours with J.P. at the wheel, average cars are doing 150 km an hour – at last we get to the exit and M says, C’est correct JP tu peux ralentir! Aiyaii. It’s 3 pm -- too late to go shopping for cashmere at the Malo emporium. Too late to go on bus shuttle downtown, so we walk the grounds of Le Massa (an old estate turned into a hotel on the banks of the Arno) after choosing our rooms –there’s hardly anyone else here, again, the last weekend of the season – we choose royal Florentine colours – turquoise with burgundy stripes! Huge green marble bathroom, oval tub with a curtain ‘round it for those who like to shower. Deluxe palace lifestyle – at night, invisible hands bring a bottle of water with a small plastic opener, La Massa name on it; slippers on the linen rug beside the bed, sheets perfectly pressed. I have never slept in real linen – imagine sleeping in your favourite linen blouse... crisp... sigh... . A printout of tomorrow’s weather on the bed and three bonbons, moon shaped. Deluxe breakfast buffet – hot and cold, cheese, cold cuts, bread, eggs...
All we do is eat! Supper at Cabreo – chef Fabio Pici , as seen on TV in Montreal on De Stasio’s show, famous diner-teatro but also a ristorante across the street run by his son (a picture of his long-bearded dad reveals the son’s resemblance). Fantastico evening – little dishes of pickles, tripe, ricotta entree on the house, Proseco complimentary – how fast and efficient the waiters are – buzzing by our table – even come to sit with us to explain the menu, which is not written down. Ultra-polite, never invasive, even the owner comes and cuts Jacques’s cod and potato dish for him. I watch him cut a beef steak for an elderly lady with short orange hair; he especially dazzles M, who speaks Italian and can flirt in the local lingo. Three different servers bring us wine, dishes, water, bread in the shape of a dinosaur bone, which Tulli breaks into M’s mushroom in foil (porcini the size of Portobello) to soak up the sauce. Then cookbooks signed by Fabio, at JP’s request (not added to the bill). An expensive evening compared to the trattorias we’ve frequented in the hills, but it was a real teatro experience to watch them at work as the ristorante filled with lusty food-savouring Italians (late-eating also).
Saturday – tour guide Francesa walks us through three hours of damp cold tour in old Firenze – palaces, churches, architecture, from the outside. We enter one church only, she explains that upstairs is a granary (grenier – hear the resemblance to grain – French word for attic ) to keep grain dry and safe for the famine times. The Medicis ruled Florence in Renaissance times and we marvel at the green/pink/ white Duomo – huge dome looms like space ship in between two buildings at night – even more impressive in day.
After the daily nap, bath, antipasto at 7:00 in JP’s room (freshest salami with fennel, vino, crusty bread, pecorino), and gourmet supper at Le Massa (splurge!) Sea bass, carpaccio with freshly grated truffles (a little scale on a table to weigh it before and after grating), Chianti Riserva for a change from Brunello; we make it through 3 bottles of wine, plus the apero – I am a wee bit dizzy at bedtime, spinning head.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Sunday, back on the A1 to the airport – a grey rainy day that feels appropriate for leaving, teary as I am at saying goodbye to Florence and Tuscany. We gas up, return the car, heave our luggage onto the scales at Air France counter. My mind’s eye filled to the brim with images of sunny hazy October days in the sweet barren hills of Pienze – Olmo – smell of Tuscan bread and roses. Back home on Hallowe’en night, we arrive to an empty house, all dark. November begins with sunshine...si le trois fait le mois. Tuscan Sun follows us home.
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Arrivederci Italia!
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| © Jennifer Boire |
Florence, Ponte Vecchio
Jennifer Boire will be reading on Tuesday March 22, at 7:30 P.M. in the auditorium of the Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, along with jazz trio Daniel Lessard and three other poets. 475 Boulevard de Maisonneuve Est, Montreal.
She writes by the lake in Montreal’s West Island and leads workshops and retreats for women. See her blog at www.questinggirl.blogspot.com
