northward bound

I've turned into a sound sleeper in Tuscany. The nights are cool and long and the walking and swimming knock me out.

But I am up before dawn today. (That's not really a brag -- the sun rises over the mountain well after 7.) I want the quiet of the valley and the rich blue of the mountains, the stillness of the olive grows and the dense Tuscan forests to be mine for one last time.

I see that a thick mist has settled into the depths of the Arno valley.





I walk with no great purpose other than to soak it all in. And to let Tuscany register forever within me just as she appears now, this week.

I had a uniquely memorable set of days here. Full of nostalgic runs through Florence, full of quirky details of moving about to work through. I had my own house, my own kitchen, but it was an uncomfortable place in which to cook and eat. A long bench at a long table, a cold stone floor. I preferred in the evenings crawling into bed to warm myself under the thick blankets. Suppers diminished into nothing more than bread, grabbed from the lunch bread basket, and a slab of pecorino cheese from the chunk I bought my first day here. Breakfasts? Well, you know. They were taken late, in Florence.

Would I come back to the olive farm? Who knows. I'd be tempted. The quiet. The beauty of the olive groves. The mountain. The good sleep. The pool. Arezzo to the east, Florence to the west. Discomfort pales when you stack the deck in this way.






My walk takes me through the grove now. I see that they're trimming the trees already.






As I turn toward the forest, a deer scampers across my path. I smile at that. I never saw the wild boar of Tuscany. The summer was so wet that they have plenty of grub in the forest - they don't have to come down to the farmsteads. But I see a deer, of all things. I have no shortage of deer at home.






The farmstead. Let me take a photo of that. There are several clustered buildings - the guest premises and Eduardo's home, and further down, the caretakers's family home.



(the cluster of buildings)





(the main house)


I had asked the caretaker on a ride from the train station if he's lived here long. Fifteen years, he tells me in perfect Italian. Is that long? He's from Rumania, I'm from Poland, we live, by choice away from our ancestral homes. His son, who has lived here most of his 18 years, is leaving to study medicine in England. We shift our definitions of what is home. There's a bond in that.

I turn back toward to my studio house. I'm packed. I wait for the farm caretaker to come up and take me to the station for the 10:10 to Florence.






I have an hour in the Florence before my Milan bound train departs. An hour! Think what you can do in an hour! Even with a rolly suitcase, you can walk a magnificent walk in this beautifully and sunny today city.












You can take selfies in the mirrors of high end store displays.











And admire the way people travel in this city of narrow streets...






And you can go to Paszkowski's. As always, the wait staff there is superb, the coffee prepared with care, the pastries -- delicious.

(If yesterday's patrons seemed to be all female, today, I'm surrounded by Florentine men.)






I have a creme patisserie/ almond croissant and a cappuccino.






...and I think breakfast doesn't have to be long to be special. But it has to be special. It then puts you in a good frame for the rest of the day.

I see that they also sell sandwiches here -- sweet little ones, for just 2 Euros.






I buy the salmon one for the train ride. My meals will be flipped once more: small lunch, big dinner. Time to begin the readjustment.

I walk back to the station. Slowly, I put it behind me: the city, Tuscany.

Time to think of the days ahead.


The train to Milan is prompt, clean, beautiful.


 


By car, the trip is about 4 hours and, I'm told, some forty Euros in tolls each way, to say nothing of the gas. By train, from Florence it's 1 hour and 40 minutes. The fares vary but if you buy early enough, you'll pay about 40. (Of course, if you pack your car in with five people, the economics shift. But me, I'd still be tempted to sit back in a train car, take out a book or my computer, turn on the music, look out the window and in this case, eat my little sandwich.)



I'm in Milan for only one night. That's about perfect for me -- I have that much patience for the city, though finding a great little hotel just steps away from the Duomo helps me look forward to my overnight here (booked way in advance, the Duca di York gives me a single room with breakfast for 80 Euro and it's a pretty little room; well, it is after I came down with a sad face after inspecting the ugly little room I got at first try.)

It is my last day in Italy. I don't know why this country makes me swell with nostalgia (not melancholy!), but it does. Is it because I broke with Poland via its musical language and Mediterranean take on food, and life? (I used to come to Italy much more often than to France.) Or is it because Ed never warmed to it, not in Sicily, not in Sardinia, not in Puglia, not in Liguria, not in Tuscany, not even in Venice --  and so it remains deeply my own?


It strikes me that the last several paragraphs, written on the train to Milan, sound very defeatist. Why am I writing that I cannot get excited about this city? Perhaps I haven't looked hard enough?

When the olive farm caretaker drove me this morning to the station, I remarked how I didn't love Milan. He considers this. He goes there frequently -- delivering olive oils to restaurants, taking care of some of the details for Eduardo. He tells me now -- you know, you like the Fortress in Firenze. Have you walked through the Castello-fortress in Milan? Of course there are also the Duomo, the galleries...

He speaks gently of these, as if they are a treasure.

Me, I just haven't been able to shake the sternness of the city. Harsh architecture. It isn't full of tourists (except the Duomo Square), but it's a stressed place. If there is a joie de vivre, I haven't seen it.






But I don't know the Castello...

It comes with a large park...

I love city parks! They are, in my mind, the greatest gift to people trapped in an urban setting. And I have, over the years, neglected looking for Milan's green space.

I go there today.

It's late, of course. The sunlight is mellow now, just a tad faded. Beautiful. The Castello park (Parco Sempione) is far less popular than a Parisian green space would be, but it nonetheless is enchanting! For lovers. For babies. For friends. For solo travelers like me.






























Slowly, I am refreshed. And as I leave, I think -- day is young! (It isn't really. It's after 5.) What luck -- here's a museum, let me go inside!

It's the Pinacoteca di Brera -- Italy's first public museum (opened in 1803), certainly Milan's best art collection. I go in.

The art here is complemented this month  by a photography exhibit and the photos are of the museum and integrated into the existing exhibition halls, so that it's a show within a show and mine is the show that is outside of it all, looking it.











But the main focus are the paintings. Centuries of art. (And not very many visitors.)



(Modigliani, Bonnard)




















I'll include a photo of an art student -- they hang out in the courtyard in packs...






And another selfie!






After, it's just a short walk, through sophisticated streets, past sophisticated shops and past  uber sophisticated people...


 














....back to the Duomo...





And just before my hotel, I stop at a fairly new ice cream place that boasts a full pledge and devotion to quality ingredients. (To the point where you're almost told what nut was picked by what hand in which place and in what loving way.) Why not.  A predinner treat. Pistachio! I ask for the smallest portion and as he begins filling the cup, I tell him -- stop, that's enough! As in Florence, this request to not fill the cone or cup really is disquieting to them. And as in Florence, he refuses to take full payment for it.  And truly, the ads don't oversell it -- it's a wonderful ice cream and oddly color matched to the interior.






Dinner? Oh, I eat around the corner. Osteria Milanese. It never astonishes, but, too, it rarely disappoints and the prices are okay. If anything, the dishes seem too traditional Milanese, but I'm alone and I don't really want to eat in big ways in this relatively expensive city.

I order the risotto milanese, then a plateful of steamed artichoke hearts and, because I seem to veer toward nostalgia lately -- veal scallopini Marsala -- the first "grown up" dish I ever made for "company" when I was in my young twenties. (I stopped making it when I realized -- who knew?? -- that Americans aren't really  great consumers of veal scallopini, so what I could get at the meat counter of a grocery store was inevitably wretched.)


 Night time. Tomorrow, I'm up and out, heading even more toward the north.

full cup

It all seems a bit unreal. Take the weather, for instance. It's too good. Every time there is even a threat of rain, it quickly disappears. I've not had one dreary day since I came here now ten days ago.

And the luck that pumps each day to be so gloriously full! I come back to the olive farm in the evening and I fret -- I have too much for Ocean! I will never write the post well enough. Or work on the photos in the way that they deserve. I want to tell a good story, but I sometimes wish I hadn't so many threads to pull on. A full day is harder to write about than a simple day. And I'm my worst critic at these travel times. How could I be so dull here, when the day was so full of magnificence?!

They are indeed days of magnificence. I read the newspaper, I listen to stories of horror and then I face the day before me and what pours forth is a steady stream of gentility and goodness -- the type that makes you think that humankind is, for the most part, doing quite well. And I'm filled with joy knowing that.

I'm grateful to have these days here. I am. And here's another thing I'm grateful for: fortuitous coincidence. And serendipity. Let me explain:

When I finished writing my Ocean post last night, it was, as usual, close to midnight. I take the time after to unwind a little. Check a blog or two,  the paper one more time. Say, what's this? As I refresh the NYTimes page, a new story comes up (it's their next Sunday's travel story, which posts a few days in advance): 36 Hours in Florence.

Now that's exciting! These snapshots of cities are useful, in that they always try direct you to something new. Something only a person living there would know about. And sure enough, as I read through the article, I know right then and there that I have to go back to Florence one more time.


The weather at sunrise helps push me forward with this. It isn't promising out there. I had originally thought I'd take it easy and stay local on this last day in Tuscany, but a heavy fog has set in and it seems difficult to imagine that I can fill a day well by drifting around the river valley in its thicket.






Still, this is the day of the Rignano sull'Arno market. Surely I shouldn't neglect it. And so I set out very early, giving myself plenty of time to hike to town, walk through the market and still be able to catch the 10:10 to Florence.






I wouldn't have minded the fog, but it turns out to be one of those fogs that feels awfully like rain. As I hike up the olive grove hill, I ask myself why I am so trusting of the weather gods as to leave my umbrella at home!

In Rignano sull'Arno, the market is already in full swing. I'm always amused that in France, there are two shifts for the farmers markets: the early risers come to do quick, serious shopping for produce. Then at around 11 a.m. comes the second shift: those who want to shop and chat to friends and neighbors. I'm in Rignano at around 9:30 and the women especially seem to be managing both the shopping and the conversation just fine!


















Alright. Now I'm on my 10:10 train, listening to Italian music, reading a magazine and feeling so comfortable in this routine, loving it because it is a routine.


In Florence, even though it is now 11, I hold off on breakfast. I want to check out the Mercato Centrale -- the Central Market, that is actually quite close to the station. The news story talked of additional layers, food stalls newly opened, levels and levels of tempting this and that -- I wanted to see it.

And this is how important Breakfast (yes, big "B") is for me: the Market is not good enough for my morning meal (small as that meal is in Italy). Yes, there's a lively coffee counter with youthful and energetic baristas.


 


Yes, there is also a pastry section where you can pick up your croissant. And tables in the middle where you can sit down with it all.

But it's too sterile. The atmosphere is not right.

I go back to Paszkowski's.


Snippets from my walk there:



(fruits at the market: I buy and munch on the strawberries)





(how can you not love walking in Florence!)






(Ocean author takes photos)






(What does this  say about raising boys and girls in Italy?)


Okay, at Paszkowski's, today's clientele:


















My breakfast:







So, what now? Without question, two items in the newspaper article were a huge draw for me: the reopening of the Fortezza and also the deli-restaurant (Zeb) on the south bank, where mom and son cook wonderful, casual foods together.

I make my way across the river.

I check in at the Zeb to make sure I'll be able to eat there.  I had already sent the owner an email before I left the olive farm. Alberto, the son-chef-copropietor now tells me -- yes, I wrote back to your email, sure, no problem, come at 2. I tell him -- but you're famous now! Neither he, nor his mom had known about the appearance of the article. Their eatery is very small -- maybe a total of 15 spots spread between two counters. I imagined a NYTimes listing would immediately flood them. But only one other person -- a guy who admitted to being an insomniac and therefore, too, catching the article as it popped last night -- was there because of the listing.

And now I start the climb up to the Fortress. This is a new thing for me. In the past, I have done what many others do to get that five star view of the city -- go up to Piazza Michelangelo. I've done it enough and had no interest in fighting the crowds there on this trip. My true favorite place to enjoy the city view is from the Boboli Gardens, but as I noted, they're closed this week. But the Times author writes that the Fortress is now reopened, refreshed and it provides lovely views. I'm interested.

And I am not disappointed! Again, part of it is the quiet. Fewer than a dozen people, spread over a vast expanse. (Am I the only one who reads the paper on line??) And truly, that most glorious view! I mean, just magnificent! I can't believe it's this good today!






The most beautiful city view in the world.
(The "trees with stones" are a temporary art exhibit in the Fortress)

 Florence is my selfie playtime. Here are two, on a self timer:











There is a cafe up here and although it's just about 1 p.m. and so getting awfully close to lunch, I can't quite imagine leaving here without sitting down. It may not be the right hour for an Aperol Sprtiz, but it is the right moment. The most perfect moment, in fact.







Alright, time is furiously running away from me. Let me start walking down to Zeb. Oh, but what's this? (Here's the serendipity!) On the quiet, beautiful little street leading away from the fortress, I pass what appears to be a museum. I'm toward the tail end of my third day here and only now do I feel the stirring of an interest to enter a museum. It's not one I've ever heard of and perhaps that is its charm: it's the Villa Bardini and it, too, is newly renovated and just recently opened. I can do it! The exhibits can't be large! And not a single tourist in the whole building! I can swing through it!

The permanent collection is interesting. But it's the special exhibit that draws me fully in:  canvases from the twentieth century painter Giovanni Colacicchi. This is where I got positively teary eyed with the joy of this unexpected discovery.



(he liked to paint every day life)






(this is indeed what the walk up to the Fortress looks like even now)






(titled the Resurrection of the Body)


I wish I could spend more words reflecting on his paintings, but it's not the time for it and I'm not the best person to do it. But the impact on me is significant. In moments like these, it helps to simply pull out a quote from the exhibition itself. This, describing his very last large canvas (the nudes above):

The theme of the nude becomes a metaphor for the spirit. .. The artist expresses here the essence of myth, a dancing myth, yearning for a lost serenity and a necessity to rediscover beauty.


Oh, I have to also tell you that the view from the Museum windows is breathtakingly beautiful.






Ah, but now I really do have to hurry. It's past 1:30. Still, I pause at the counter to tell the clerk there how much I loved the exhibit. And she smiles and tells me: and now you must see the gardens in the back.

I get choked up just recalling that moment of stepping out into the quiet, green spaces behind the villa. How did I not know about this place?! Apparently neither does the rest of humanity: the gardens are virtually empty.






Except for the cool people. The people in the know. This handful, sitting at a cafe inside the gardens, looking over at the city on the other side of the Arno.













Time wise, things are getting tight. I walk down to the lovely San Niccolo neighborhood just below the Museum...





...and I do get to the Zeb at 2, but I'm thinking -- where was my internal calculator? I have a train at 3:22 -- an earlier one today, because I need to get home and get ready for my departure tomorrow. How is it possible to fit in a meal?

Alberto and his mamma are hard at work.


 








I need to be decisive. As I sit down, I glance at various foods that people are eating and within five seconds, before she has placed a napkin by my placemat, I tell her -- I would like the spaghetti with white truffle slices, a mixed plate of vegetables, a glass of white wine and a mineral water. And the check please!

Oh, what a meal! And it's perfectly simple, informal... (Note the young couple across the way from me. Very plugged in.)






(And the older couple next to them wondering -- why is everyone always looking at their phones or tablets?)






The spaghetti is a pasta made with eggs, adding a rich base for the truffle slices.






The plate of veggies -- a godsend after a rather spartan veggie offering the past few days.






And mostly, it's just such a perfect place to eat alone. Because you're not really alone. You listen in to this person and the next one, you watch the mom and son team behind the counter and you really feel like this is what every lunch should be like.

But it is 2:50 when I finally leave. The question remains: If Zeb is in the south east corner of Florence and the railway station is in the north west corner, can a 61 year old person make it in time for the 3:22 to Rignano sull'Arno?



 (crossing to the north bank)


Yes. Thank goodness the answer is yes. On this beautiful blue skied day, I fly through Florence like a woman possessed. By happiness.

As I slink into a seat on the train, the sun pours in. The sign says -- don't open the windows, it's air conditioned, but no one believes the sign and all windows are down. As the train picks up speed, the curtains fly every which way, the chatter is lively, the breeze dances in one window, out the next.

This, this is what travel should feel like!

At the olive farm, there isn't even a question: the water of the pool, though cool, picks up the blue of the sky, inviting, oh so very inviting...





I plunge in for my final most beautiful swim at the olive farm in Tuscany.