on this day...

I am about to enter San Francesco in Arezzo, a church of magnificent 16th century frescoes, but I pause because from a small corner trattoria, I hear the sound of Italian music. A waiter is singing along. Familiar to him notes and lyrics. My daughters will attest that if there is one genre of music that steadily carried me from late adolescence into adulthood it is Italian pop. My little girls learned to dance with mom to the tunes of Fiorella Mannoia.

So I enter the trattoria and I ask the waiter what it is and now you can listen to it as well as you read on.

Like the road that winds and climbs either to the left or right from my olive farm, the railroad line, too, runs from Rignano sull'Arno to the west (final destination: Firenze, 38 minutes) or to the east (final destination: Arezzo, 58 minutes).

I'd never been to Arezzo.

I know, I know, I know! You're reading this and you immediately want to remind me that, as a rule, day excursions to cities have let me down. But I think there is another rule out there that I like: you can't be rigid about rules.

I will tell you now: Arezzo is to become my gem. My exception.

But let's go back to the start of the day. To the first look out my window.






And to explain why there is no breakfast photo: a half a yogurt and a half a peach deserve no commemoration.

I have trepidations about setting out. They say there will be storms in the valley. I am fine with storms once I am sitting comfortably on the train to Arezzo, but there is that hour walk each way, to and from the station.






The world belongs to the brave. (Besides, it's not storming at the moment!). I set out.






It's good to see Rignano sull'Arno wake up from its sleepy Sunday. The road is now full of tractors going to the fields for the harvest...






The grocery store welcomes a delivery of zucchini flowers and these mushrooms.






A woman buys a bouquet -- for her table? A gift? For the grave of a beloved?






It is still a very plain looking town though. Even the train station is drippy looking.






But with lovely, friendly, helpful people, ready to assist with the complicated business of purchasing a ticket on the machines that have replaced ticket agents at railway stations. And here's a visual upside: it is, after all, on the River Arno.






Is it the contrast to the starkness of Rignano sull'Arno that leads me to be overwhelmed (really that) by the beauty of Arezzo? Or is it because I love Florence and this is like a small version of it, only without the tourists? I know I myself am a tourist and so I mustn't make disparaging comments about the likes of me and I love places like Florence and Paris despite the millions who flock there, but it really is so extraordinarily beautiful to behold the streets of Arezzo and only once hear English spoken here. I am completely spared the crowds. I almost cannot believe it.


The San Francesco church has frescoes that leave you gaping. Only a handful of people are there, looking up.












This stunning church of San Domenico has not a single person in it. Imagine stepping in to it and being completely alone with the soft colors of the frescoed walls.






You could enter the cathedral, too and be awed in silence. (Rows of confessionals, also empty. The vast majority of Italians does not attend church services.)






And the streets, too, have the traffic of a busy Monday in the city (Arezzo's population is at around 100,000). They have not (yet) been taken over by visitors.


















There is a quirkiness here that is also beguiling.












It's as if Arezzo is still trying to capture your attention. I'm grateful for its effort!






I have my "breakfast" here...






As I walk up the streets of the historic center, the storms never quite materialize. The sun will be out as a few drops of rain catch me by surprise and it's all rather magical.






As is the Casa Vasari Museum (I'll spare you the history. Just think: friend of Michelangelo and architect of some of the most important buildings in Florence. Just one fresco for you -- of a writer's muse.)






As is the magnificent Piazza Grande.






From both sides.






The time in Arezzo flies. But I do need to fit in a real meal. I go to a place that seems popular with Italians (I have no idea if they're local) -- il Saraceno. (I see that the website has an English translation, but the menu at the restaurant surely doesn't have one and I'm grateful that Italian menus, unlike the French ones, are not written to test your knowledge of the esoteric.)






I order the porcini soup -- with thick with chunks of that flavorful mushroom -- followed by a salad with grains, eggs and artichokes.






And then it's just a short skip and run to the railroad station and a dreamy ride back to Rignano sul'Arno.

And a very tough walk back to the farm (because I am hot and just a tad walked out), where I dive right into the pool, polka dots be damned.






As I get back to my little studio house, I see that the internet is down.

Well okay, The Woman (whom I find out is The Wife) hasn't left yet.

Ah, but she is packing. And obviously preoccupied. Moving out. Big stuff. A family is breaking up and here I am nagging about the internet not working at the residence that she, as of today, will no longer be calling home.

It is very hard to insert your own petty issues into the drama of someone's life. And yet, my evening is now lonely as well. I can't talk to people back home. I can't post. I can't read email, I can't respond to comments. And I have no idea if this is a general problem or a sporadic outage. I suppose a new rule for me should be: do not rent from someone who is going to be in Milan and who is going through a personal drama even as you are miles away from the nearest connection.

And then I notice the phone. There is a genuine land-line in the studio. I have a link! Ed is my eye to the computer and he deftly does some searches for me, including of places to move to if this internet stuff becomes a permanent outage.

May I give a deep bow of gratitude and appreciation for the land-line? And to the person at the other end of it (who calls me back to save me from phone related bankruptcy.)

By midnight, I forge some half viable plan (moving to Florence, I learn, is not an option: so crowded is it that all possible b&bs and hotels are reporting full occupancy) and I go to sleep.

By 5, the internet, after a twelve hour outage is up and running. I return to my regularly scheduled program. Only with a very early morning pause to paste in my stuff onto Ocean. Just at midnight, Madison time (7 a.m. my time), I'm done and ready for the next day!

twists and turns: all roads lead to somewhere

Morning. A gentle good morning to you!






I knock on the door of my landlord, Eduardo. His dog, Ulise (as in Ulysses) is a barker until he gets used to you.


 


He hasn't yet gotten used to me.

I have a list of questions for my host before he takes off for Milan today. I think this may be my last chance to do this, but I learn that the woman sitting at the kitchen table (she is a Milanese gelato distributor and she spoke knowingly and favorably about Wisconsin's small batch production of ice cream!) will be here until tomorrow and the farm's caretakers live a few paces down the road, so I can't say that I'm going to be truly alone here.

I take out my notebook. He laughs.
A lawyer, of course! Well he might tease me: by training, he is one as well.

What I cannot readily figure out is how to pull all the pieces together for a sensible day. Walk along the road to the right, up and down hills, to the train station? (One hour.) To the store/cafe in the opposite direction? (40 minutes.) Go to Florence? Elsewhere? Where can I get to without a car? And if I stay put, what's open? Where?

Eduardo has this way about him that (yes, I swear!) reminds me a little of my own Ed. The do not fret, it will all come together attitude of someone reconciled to the fact that at worst, you'll die and that's sort of the fate of everyone so why worry. Surely the details are not important.

We switch into talk of what it's like here, on the farm. I'm curious about the electric fences around portions of the yard.
Oh, that's to keep the wild boar away from the garden. They are everywhere and they dig dig dig, so just here, by the houses, we try to keep them away. It works, more or less.
I ask, too, if he ever lets his cheepers out.
No, I cannot. Too many foxes. But the chickens have a good life behind their fence.
I think about that: our cheepers have American luxury alright! Three acres to roam and scratch! I want to suggest more space for his hens, but I catch myself in time. We're all so hell bent on giving advice! I think about my pregnant daughter and how much advice she is getting on everything from childbirth to childrearing! Surely everyone ought to raise his or her chickens as they see fit. It's enough that he cares. And he does care. It's obvious that animal issues concern him. When I inquire about the factory just down the road from his olive farm, he tells me -- it used to be a prosciutto place: you know, pig slaying, terrible pollution, all of it. But it went bankrupt. Now they make interiors for railway cars. Much gentler,  cleaner, quieter!
I point out that if we eat prosciutto, it has to be made somewhere. He smiles -- I don't eat much prosciutto anymore.

Twenty minutes into the conversation I find out a game changer -- Italian Rail is on strike today. It's as if the country is taunting me for not succumbing to the car rental game! So buses? Maybe I should look into those? What are the schedules like? Eduardo doesn't know. Maybe he'll check later, at the cafe/store. Maybe.

Meanwhile, it's getting warm. A partly (mostly?) cloudy day, but one that portends storms later on. You can feel it in the air.

In the end, I decide I'll go to the right. Up and down, follow the road, all the way to Rignano sull'Arno -- the place of the nearest train station. At least I'll learn the walk. Maybe pick up some more food. Find a restaurant for lunch...  
Are there any good restaurants you could recommend there?
Eduardo shakes his head. They're okay. Maybe getting better. Try the one on the square.
Oh, there's a nice square?
It's actually quite ugly. 
Do you find any of the river towns (along the rail line here) to be worth a visit?
Well, depends what you are looking for. None of them are especially beautiful. You know, they were all destroyed during the war. The Germans spared Florence, that was the deal, but they completely wiped out the rest here, in the valley.

How well I know this! To any student of World War II, Tuscany makes your hair stand on end for the horror of it all.

I eat a make shift breakfast -- just fruits and yogurt and a strip of blueberry cake. I'll save the coffee for some cafe moment later on.







I'm off.






The gravel road eventually hits the paved road. I know it isn't going to be an ideal hiking venue, but it's as good as it's going to get. I'd say the traffic is about as light (or heavy, depending on your perspective) as it is on the rural road where I live, so I'm used to it.

(I'm used to weekend motorcycle group rides at home too, though never quite so gendered as here!)












And I know, too, that I could still rent a car. I checked the availability in Florence -- plenty and at good prices. But I'm really resisting.

Why? Am I just incredibly stubborn on this point? No, honestly not stubborn. I've rented when I had to. In Islay. In Ireland, England. Plenty of times in Italy and far too many times in France. But I always think I miss so much driving from one place to the next! Oh, I get to all the lovely places, I check them off the list, I see the sights I'm meant to see, but I miss stopping to contemplate this:






And this:






I miss pausing for two minutes just to watch the man who is hand harvesting the grapes (it's so difficult to pull over in a car on a narrow road -- usually you just let it go).






I would miss, too, the gritty entrance into town -- the real feel for living there.



(Sunday is...laundry day!)


You can't pause in a car to watch the Italian men, deep in their conversational bubble on the city benches.












...or catch the wife looking on:






You miss the sounds. The dogs, the tractor, all of it. For me, it's too big a price to pay for the sheer convenience of getting from one place to the next.


I walk into town, the ugly square, I ask for directions to the station. Five men jump in to tell me, as if it were the most complicated walk on earth (it's just around the corner). I smile and walk on.

True enough, there is a rail strike. Until 9 p.m. An easy answer to my dilemmas. No bus service today either -- those run on weekdays only. But I am surprised to see that restaurants in this town, too, appear to be closed. I ask about that.
There's a take out pizzeria... someone tells me. I think about carrying an Italian pizza in my backpack for an hour. No. Not a great plan.

But of course, there is an open pastry store. Two in fact. I go to the one with a coffee machine and order a stand up cappuccino. I see that they have one of those bready pizza slices for sale -- last one! I take that to go. And a bag of cookies. Oh, and they squeeze orange juice here? Fine! My day is looking good!

As I sip my juice and cappuccino, I watch the woman work behind the counter. She looks stern at first, but when she catches my eye, she asks anxiously -- Lei piace? (Do you like it?)

I'm eating one of the almond-paste cookies and I realize that it isn't the best cookie on the planet, but I do like it. Quite a lot. For its simple goodness. For how well it fits into my cappuccino moment.






And when a young mother comes in with her toddler, the woman behind the counter gives the widest of smiles!






Her delight at seeing this little child bursts out in a strung of words -- almost like bubbles out of a Prosecco bottle!

And I think this is the pleasure of visiting a town that has nothing to show tourists. No one comes here. There's nothing to see. Except this authenticity of human life. It's harder to find it in beautiful Sienna, or Greve in Chianti. But it's easy to catch it here, in this stark town of Rignano sull'Arno, where people commute by train to the city, or work in the olive/wine/other industries that support this region and hang their laundry out to dry on a Sunday morning.

The walk back is unfortunately more uphill than downhill, but I know now what's what and so I don't mind it at all.





So much so, that one hour later, as I approach the turn off for my olive farm, I decide to continue and time the walk to the store/cafe on the other side. Maybe, if they're still open (I'm fuzzy about their hours), I can get some more greens or fruits to take home.

What I have been calling the store/cafe, turns out to be a store/restaurant! Sure, you can get a coffee at the store counter, at any time of their opening, but between the hours of noon and 2, you can also get lunch in the back room -- a dining room just for those two hours of the day.

And the place is alive with locals! There is one couple -- a younger one, but that's not the primary demographic.






It's Sunday. There are friends (for example, these four men, in their hunting clothes)...






...and there are families. And they eat a lot of food! Bruschettas and prosciutto and salamis for starters.






Followed by pasta, meats, desserts. I'm just swimming in admiration as to how much they can put away. Of course, these are all people who live here, they all know the owner and they know the type of food served here. Italians don't do breakfast and probably today, they don't do much of a dinner either. They do this meal and they do it well.

For me, there is so much to take in! My own simple meal is far too short: a salad and balsamico chicken, followed by an exquisite, home made apple cake (I begged for a thin slice - he obliged and charged me 1.5 Euro for it... sublime stuff! I ask: did you make this here?! Of course!).





I try to prolong the lunch with my glass of Chianti (I am in the Chianti Colli Fiorentini wine producing region) and then a cup of macchiato. I am the only solo diner in the room until a man sits down next to me and orders three courses of so much food that I think he surely must be one of those guys I've seen in the fields working even on Sunday to complete the grape harvest before the good weather gives.

In the course of my own lunch,  I can't help but watch a family meal to the side of the room, with two couples maybe in their fifties, a young man -- clearly a son -- and a grandpa. Toward the end of the meal, the young man wants to go out for a while. I'm guessing he's anxious to use his smart phone. Call a girl. Maybe have a cigarette. His mom, across the table, gives the most subtle shake of her head. He mouths a question to her, she again shakes her head. He sits back down. Not angry, not put out. Indeed, he falls into an animated conversation with his grandpa. Make of that scene what you want.






At the end of the meal, as the table empties out, the grandpa pauses and goes up to the counter where the liquor bottles are stored. The proprietor pours him a glass of grappa. The other men come back and they, too, have shots of grappa. Hands are shaken, the Sunday lunch ends.






I was reminded of an article from today's paper: how you get to be a certain age and you keep thinking about all the things you should do, the medicines you should take to stay healthy and you do this 'til the day you die. Somewhere in there, the author points out, you forget to enjoy the life that's given to you. I don't think this family and perhaps not anyone else in the room forgot to enjoy the life that was given to them.


I pause at the little store that's at the front of the dining room...






....pick up a couple of inconsequential items and begin the walk home. To *my* olive farm.






I am good and warm and all walked out by the time I get back to Il Casellino (the olive farm). There's just one thing to do: hit the pool. And no, everyone hasn't departed from the estate, but for those of you who stay in places that are not of the Ritz Carleton variety, remember the virtues of polka dot undergarments. You never have to pack a swim suit.

But in the end, none of the Eduardo people are anywhere near the pool. I have it to myself, as I will for the rest of the week. It is unquestionably the best lap swim I've had in many, many years.






Supper is easy. Before taking off for Milan, Eduardo brings me some fresh figs and I add that to my collection of walnuts from his walnut trees, tomatoes from his garden, bread, cheese, cookies.


It's quiet again in the evening. I walk up the hill to see the colors of a darkening sky...






... and to say goodnight to the cheepers...






Earlier, I heard the shot of someone hunting wild boar. But now, the sound of tractors is gone and the road traffic, too, has lessened. I'm left with birds, a cicada in the distance and the barking dogs from a farm up another hill. Rural sounds. Soothing noises of the evening, reminding me of days at my grandparents' village home in Poland, when everything at the dusk hour became muted, letting you know that now is the time to slow down, settle in, exhale.

to Tuscany

After my third attempt, Eduardo picks up his cell phone. He is my next inn keeper on this trip, though to call il Casselino an inn is not quite right: it's an agri-turismo type place. Meaning the owners convert some rooms and secondary buildings on their working farm to bring in guests (and presumably to up the income a bit). Il Casselino has three such units.
Did you get my email?
Yes, sure, I'll be at the train station to pick you up. Where are you now anyway?
Near Bolzano. (I assume that like Wisconsin, Kurtatsch is not on the radar screen for most people.)
Oh! Lucky you! I wish I were in that region! Anyway, I'll see you later this afternoon. I'll be the old and balding guy in the silver car.

Well, apparently he shares more than a name with Ed.

I'm in an especially chipper mood. It had rained last night and it's as if that rain cleared the remains of my sleeping issues, because for once I cannot complain about being up too late or waking up too early. The world seems in focus again.



(the world outside my window)


And I'm happy to have spent these four nights in the Alto Adige. It was a last add-on for me. I had originally planned on a week in Italy and a week in France and then, in the end, I added days in Italy, took away days from France and threw in Poland for good measure. But these will have been probably my best hiking days and I'm always glad to hand over a good part of a day to exploring by foot interesting villages and natural landscapes.

I'm tempted to eat breakfast outside again. It's still warm! I surely was lucky with the weather. But, it would require a bit of a wait for a table. No, that's okay. I'll sit by the big windows and pretend I'm on a porch.






After, I have time for a short walk. To the vineyards! So you'll have to indulge me -- the last glance at the grapes of the Alto Adige. And a few vignettes from my walk through the village.



(Kurtatsch youngsters)






( a nod to the geranium)






(one more time!)






(a one farmer Saturday market)






(the vines)






(the grapes)






(the glorious vines)


In the course of my stroll, I run into Margaret. Remember her? My gracious vineyard hiking guide? She asks me where I'm going now, after Kurtatsch.
Tuscany, I tell her, feeling a tad like I'm abandoning the 0.8% vineyards in favor of Italy's most famous wine producing region. But she is enthusiastic. Take me with you! -- she says with longing in her voice.

Are Italians in the north dreaming of the south, even as Italians of the south (or at least south of where I am now) are dreaming of the mountains and geraniums and apple orchards in the north?


I had recently reworked my connections to give myself plenty of time. To catch the bus to Ora. There, to wait for the train to Verona. And plenty of time to catch the high speed to Florence. And finally not so much time for the short ride to Pontassieve, but so it goes - it's the last connection and at the end, there'll be a balding, older Eduardo. In his silver car.

As I wait at the Kurtatsch bus stop, one of the typical tractor-trucks comes down the mountain, loaded with apples from the trees I passed on my hike yesterday. There must be some sense of pride to have completed a successful harvest. I have one of those moments of deep satisfaction -- on the farmer's behalf. Whatever happens elsewhere, there will always be the apples. And someone will harvest them and someone else will pack one into a school lunch or bake it into an apple cake and so it will continue. And that's such a good thing.






Alright. Next,  the trains.



(Ora station: different styles of waiting for the train)



On the train ride from Ora to Verona, I watch a guy maybe just a tad younger than me across the aisle, working hard at a scruffy workbook. He looks like he has worked hard all his life. Really hard. And not necessarily on paper work. He catches my eye.
I have to learn this stupid language, he speaks to me in Italian.
Ah, German, I comment, looking down at the title of the workbook. I don't know German.
Neither do I. Twenty years of living in Italy and I was fine with Italian. Now, because I'm in Bolzano, suddenly I need to know German. 
You're not from Italy?
No, South America. 
Really? Where?
Argentina. But now I live here. I like it here much better. 
He launches into complicated rapidly told stories. I have to interrupt him.
Hold on there, I don't speak Italian that well. Slow down!
What's your language?
Well, English to start with.
Nope. Don't know it. Never wanted to go to America or England. I really like it here. It's the culture. It fits with my idea of a good life.

Finally, someone who doesn't want to be elsewhere. I wish him luck as he disembarks to rejoin his family.

Somewhere between Verona and Bologna, the skies mist over with what surely must be drizzle. Weather is less important to me now.  In Tuscany, I can always grab a train into one of the many tempting cities around me. And these are places, for me at least, that will never disappoint. I watch the scenery somewhat dreamy eyed, though not for want of sleep.

And suddenly the terrain is hilly and a little forbidding and the sun is out and I know that I am in Tuscany.





The train changes are all amazingly smooth and punctually at 5, I am in Pontassieve -- a small river town maybe 20 miles east of Florence.

I look for Eduardo in the parking lot. Nothing. I pear into cars trying to discern the level of hair left on any man's head. Nothing.

Just as I'm thinking that this has the potential of quickly unraveling, Eduardo steps out of his big, somewhat banged up silver car.

The unshaven face -- like Ed's. And there the visual similarity ends. To my knowledge, Ed has never worn yellow pants with a loose and airy linen shirt on top.

We drive into the countryside, stopping along the way at the cafe/food store that's closest to Eduardo's property. I knew it was a gamble taking on a country rental without a car, but I hadn't quite figured it was this much of a gamble. Apart from the cafe store, which is 3 km off and in the opposite direction to anything else, the nearest commerce is 4 kilometers away. Eduardo's work (in addition to producing the most aromatic, heavenly olive oil, he is an executive business consultant in Milan -- hence the linen shirt) requires him to be away for most of the week days. Meaning I'll be alone for much of the time on his farm.
Don't worry, just call me in Milan if you have any problems!
I suppose this is the closest I'll ever get to being in charge of an olive farm in Tuscany.

Even so, I refuse to rent a car. Storms coming this week? So what! I can stay indoors. Or go to Florence. Well, after that four kilometer hilly walk to the station.

At the cafe/food store, Eduardo suggests I stock up on foods in case I don't want to go out tonight or any other night. It's tough to stock up not knowing what's at the house, but still, I go for the stalwarts -- Pecorino cheese (so Tuscan!), thinly sliced sausage (so Tuscan!), red wine (so Tuscan!), fruits, bread, a blueberry cake.






I'll give you some eggs from the farm and of course, some of our olive oil, Eduardo tells me as he watches me make my selections.






What else, what else -- better get it now while I am with someone who will drive me, what else, what else do I need at the store -- can't decide. Soda water. Alright, done.

About my home for the next six nights -- it's gorgeous!



(the studio house)


But the rental operation seems to me to be a half hearted game for him. No one else is staying there right now and as I said, no one I know would put up with his confirmation requirements. And I can see that no one has passed through my little kitchen lately. There aren't the telltale signs of humanity. No salt in the cupboard, no dish washing liquid under the sink.

But no matter! The little house is stunning in its simplicity and old Tuscan country vibe. Here, take a look at the entire farmstead:






Too, there is a pool. I tell him I'm ill equipped for that, but he reminds me that after tomorrow, there will be no one around. Ah.

I walk his land, find his cheepers and say hello. The sun has set behind the hills where his cluster of buildings hides behind the Tuscan cypress and a multitude of mature olive trees.

It's a jarring change from the very communal life at the inn in Kurtascth. But, the internet is working (it was spotty in Alto Adige) and the rosemary is abuzz with honey bees. And I'm really not alone. Someone comes in daily to check on things. And, too, if I'm up early, Eduardo tells me I'm likely to encounter a wild boar.
Just don't step between the mama and her babies! -- he warns me.


For supper, I take out the packages from the cafe/grocery store, fry up some eggs and dig in.







Outside, the hill lights twinkle as if in a conspiracy to put on Tuscany's best face toward the world.