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buttramnyc · 5 years

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Italy 2018 Part I

Italy, October, 2018

The crescent moon sits in Orion’s back pocket.

Stars from my bedroom window celebrate the first day in Ponti Agli Stolli, The last 24 hours have been a whirlwind of subways, TSA lines, taxis, and jets. The highlight: watching Taylor, Deborah and Mary sprint to make our plane from Paris to Florence.

After a tour of the surrounding area (first hint of the recurring theme, “Lost in Italy!”) we find the village of Ponti Agli Stolli. It’s tiny. There’s a bridge and a river, one store, one restaurant, and that’s it. (Rather like growing up in Oak Grove, TX). Mary navigates down a steep drive to the parking lot. We explore our first digs, the Mill House, guided by Cordelia, a Polish woman who married an Italian. She speaks limited English. We “kinda” get what she’s telling us about heat, gas, etc. Nesting goes into full swing. The local store is closed for the day (siesta at 2:30pm). Off to Greve for food and a delicious meal on the main piazza. We eat, find the grocery store and stock up on breakfast food.

One ritual emerges early on: the trading of Euros among four travelers (keeping our money straight). The “funny money” (i.e., Euros) is serious. The dollar is not strong. One Euro equals $1.20 (depending on the day). The exchange rate is hard to wrap my head around but slowly I get it, Euros fly from my pockets at an alarming rate!

At lunch, Taylor shares the story of when my ultra-sophisticated friend (and employer at “Musical America,” Charlotte Gilbert, read his early play and reported back, “He’s no Arthur Miller.” This, at the tender age of 26, shook his confidence. Charlotte’s long gone to heaven and Taylor has begun writing again. Underlying lesson, “Don’t let anyone’s critique stop you from writing!” Charlotte gave me a day job for several years AND taught me how to drink scotch. Was she the best influence on Taylor or me? Of course, she was! She introduced us to the Metropolitan Opera with free tickets to our first opera, Madama Butterfly.

The Mill House is chilly. Mary and I go on a reconnaissance mission to “borrow” firewood. We score. Coming down the hill, we hear Taylor and Deborah standing in front of the house, whispering. Taylor has accidentally locked us out of our house, grabbing the car key instead of the house key. Hmmmm. Breaking into the Mill House is impossible. It’s a fortress! We text Cordelia for help and await our fate. Mary and Deborah head up the hill to the restaurant. We hear sounds of joy! They meet up with the sweetest Italian angel who saves us from sleeping in our rental car, a Ford Focus. The neighbor has a key to the house. “Did he hear us bemoaning our fate, or did Cordelia (our greeter) text him?” We will never know. What we do know is that Deborah kissed his wrinkled face multiple times.

Among Taylor quotes, Van Morrison: “No gurus, no method, no teacher. Just you and me and nature in the garden.”

Mary and Deborah do a bit of gardening in the patio. Mary upsets a wasp nest under the umbrella. “Run away!” Pass around sprigs of fresh rosemary to open our sinuses. Butterflies play tag. The leaves in the breeze make a soothing sound. Taylor says the river is low.

Looking at the gorge below us, I think of WWII soldiers hearing these same sounds before taking this small village from the Fascists and Nazis. The hill towns, how costly the fighting must have been. Towns perched on hilltops. Who has to charge up the hill? Who were the Italians that Mussolini made sense to them? Who are we that Donald Trump makes sense to us?

We trade stories of children, lost loves, parents gone to heaven. Mary’s story of her father’s indoctrination in his third nursing home. Mary calms him, “We own this place, daddy.” He replies, “Well, that’s all right, Baby.” Deborah’s story of Kevin the Plumber who took part in subterfuge to make repairs for, “Jackie,” her mom.

I would try to find a way to get down to the gorge and wade in the water but there are places to go!

Volpaia.

So beautiful! High, high, sitting on an even steeper hill, it boasts a sweet church (the first of many, many Chiesas). I explore a cemetery and greet hikers (aged 4 to 40). In the piazza, the sweetest 18-month old toddler, adorable in her pink sneakers and jacket, riding in her pink stroller, loved by all: the mother, the aunt, the grandmother, the great grandmother, the uncle, the papa, all eating, drinking wine. Here’s the kicker, the little girl’s name is Gaea, the namesake of my dearly departed friend, Gaetana Sibilio (“Tana”). I learn in my travels, Gaea is a popular Italian name. I share stories of June Havoc and Gypsy Rose Lee and Tana. I wonder how in hell Gypsy and June navigated these narrow Italian roads in Gypsy’s purple Rolls Royce! (They toured Italy in the early 1950’s, much like Hemingway did on his grand tours). Better to have a Fiat or a Ford Focus. We lunched at an outdoor trattoria Bar Ucci Wine Bar. Greeted by the owner Paola Barucci, she turned us over to a handsome young waiter. (All the waiters in Italy are handsome/pretty.)

Magical village, Volpaia!

Back home (after a few wrong turns! Where, oh, where is that turn off to Ponti Agli Stolli), we snuggle in but it’s chilly. Cordelia’s instructions for heat are no help. Aha! More firewood capers. A fine pack of thieves, Mary stumbles and falls during our hasty getaway and we leave her on the street. (Back in the USA, I was told that stealing firewood is a hanging offense in Italy.) Mary has a sizable bruise on her knee but no lasting damage!

Siena madness!

Mary speeds over the Tuscany hills, we see a fox out for a morning stroll (Mary missed it by a mile). Yes! We find Siena (more wrong turns even with our new ally, the GPS, dubbed “Marsha”). Taylor directed Mary to “Stay near the city walls!” Italian cities are surrounded by stone walls, many begun by the Etruscans and added to by the Romans and on and on. Mary edges our Ford Focus through streets filled with pedestrians, bikers, cars. It’s crowded! I muse to myself, “How will we drive out of Siena?” Siena reminds me of Venice without the canals, the streets are filled with small shops (touristy) intermixed with stylish fabrics and cosmetics, designer jewelry, a music school, it’s all here. There’s a grand piano in the music school. I decide NOT to play it. An older (!) woman in a wheelchair is pushed around by her son (?). Her eyebrows have been drawn onto her forehead. A fair amount of jewelry and scarves.

Sitting by the Sienna Piazza, the Campo, I watch a young mother change her baby girl’s diaper on the street. The baby’s “tush” must be chilly in the spotty sunlight. Children tumble and play, wrestling their mother down to the stone piazza, loving the brisk weather. Boys and girls chase pigeons, surprise! The wind picks up. Hemingway was here! Michelangelo was here! June was here!

Taylor and I tour frescos The Allegory of Good and Bad Government (circa 1340) in Palazzo Pubblico. We all visit the magnificent Duomo. Breathtaking. The black plague sent everyone flocking to religion, to find some meaning to losing 3/5 of the city to the “cimitaires.” Small wonder Italian children are so cherished! (Ah, but they should be everywhere, even in immigrant caravans.) No lack of saints, martyrs, popes, cardinals in Italy: all the subjects of religious adoration. Walking through the Duomo, I reflect on today’s sexual abuse scandals. How many innocents were sacrificed across the massive altars late at night? I am periodically overwhelmed by the religious hypocrisy. So much money!!!!

Our time in Siena is too brief. Our hard-won parking spot is time sensitive and it’s getting dark! I drive us out of Siena in search of A2. (It’s a freeway but we’re headed in the wrong direction.) With the help of “Marsha,” Deborah and a friendly and handsome blue-eyed Sienese van driver, we recover, head back over the hills toward Castellino and Greve.

Somewhere in here, we tour the Vignamaggio winery where Mona Lisa stayed and Leonardo da Vinci hung out as a young man. Legend has it, it’s where the artist drew his first sketches of the demur beauty. A tour of the winery, a delicious meal, and back down the ultra-steep hill toward Greve, finally getting the turn right to Ponti Agli Stolli. We spot a second fox AND a young wild boar (Cinghiale in Italian).

The next morning, it’s wet. We rest. All quiet except for the sound of the river bed and the gentle rainfall. “May all beings with no exception be happy.” Namaste! “Blessed is he who leaves.” Olga Tokarczuk

Arezzo via the train!

To find the train station, we ask a sweet young woman who tails us, gesturing us to the correct turn off for the station! We (park in what I now believe was an illegal parking space) in Figline Valdarno and buy tickets from what must be the surliest ticket seller in Italy. Luckily, we catch the train in the right direction and, voila, we are in Arezzo’s antiques street fair. Another beautiful Chiesa, Basilico San Domenico at the tail-end of Mass. Again, lovely singing. The altar boasts the saddest crucifix ever by Cimabue. To the Arezzo Duomo, no comparison to Siena, but we catch another tail-end of Mass. Lunch in the piazza and to the Roman amphitheater. All the museums in Italy are free on Sunday? This does not hold true for Florence! The finale, the Basilica of San Francesco with the frescos marking the journey of the “true cross.” For almost all the train ride back to Figline Valdarno, I am convinced we are moving in the wrong direction! Hallelujah, I was wrong!

Freezing in the Mill Mountain house this night. I wake with a sore throat. Crap!!!! Hard to rest but in the early morning window, there is Orion holding hope for sunshine the next day. Money begins to cause me concern… why did I think the dollar was strong? It’s not! “Ah, well.”

We spend the next day exploring another hilltop town, Montefiorelle. WAY up, one-way streets getting there, missing the turn off. Lost in Italy theme underscoring! (Must be lost at least once a day.) Taylor and I catch the end of Mass at the Greve Chiesa. Beautiful voices (all girls). We discuss religion, always fascinating! After a late lunch of deadly lentil soup with leeks, we head back up the hill to Montefiorelle at night! We are four of a total of six diners who have returned to the hilltop (but we are stuffed from the soup). Taylor was the only one not affected by the soup. We return because Deborah pined to sit close to a working fireplace. My capetto was yummy but, oh, brother, did I pay for overeating!

In retrospect, it’s rather jolly about traveling with hard-of-hearing people, we have no compunctions about farting away, every step we take! Walking behind us must be amusing and horrifying.

The last morning at the Mill House! I take a walk in the morning hoping to make it down to the gorge. I take the side road. An old man (older than me!) struggles along, stopping to rest periodically. I pass Cordelia walking into town. She’s coming to check us out of the Mill House! Cordelia doesn’t recognize me so I keep walking. Abandoned apartments are totally beyond repair. You could buy this villa for a song if you had a fortune to refurbish it. Two men working on the country road look up at me… “Don’t recognize this lady!” I nod, wave, and retrace my steps. Never did make it to the gorge!

Packing and moving madness! The GPS goes haywire. I’m missing some step, soooo simple, but what? We drive in circles, slowly closing in on Montepulciano… again Taylor shouts to Mary, “Stay close to the walls.”

Montepulciano!

A “hill town” is an apt description. Our hotel, Albergo Duomo, sits atop the hill. The concierge (ten years on the job) is helpful but “coolish” when we arrive. Frazzled, uncouth Americans! Slow down! Chill! But, he helps us and we retreat to our separate rooms. I fail to notice (or chose to ignore that my room is right next to the “elevator”). A brief pause and we are back out on the street!

A great lunch leaves us a bit logy and we stroll. Taylor points out the topography. Winding streets of stone. Spectacular views of the valley. On this piazza, there are chairs and we settle in next to four stunningly beautiful Italians from Roma. These “youths” (two couples) are listening to Andrea Bocelli on their I-phone. Mary asked if they know the Ed Sheeran duet with Bocelli and it’s quickly cued up. They sing along with all the songs, tossing their heads back and serenading the manicured valley below, young, sexy, and singing from their hearts. Soon, we begin to sing along, Deborah, Mary and me. A pure spiritual moment. This quartet and three ringers from the states. We sing all the greats, Celine Dion, “My Heart Will Go On,” Pavarotti’s “Nessun Dorma,” even “Ave Maria,” applauding ourselves and each other. Bird, bells, world travelers, all singing. We share fresh “biscotti,” the sun slips behind the land, and they bid us farewell, “See you tomorrow.” Perfect experience. God bless Ed Sheeran. In the distance, rain falls on the valley. I am sitting in Etruscan ruins. They built the walls (or parts of them).

I climbed the Palazzo Comunale (i.e, City Hall) and it was tight staircase! A worried young man waits for his ancient father to climb the haphazard stairs, “He insisted on coming up here.” Oy!

Sleepless night listening to the elevator open and close, AND I had a head cold. Taylor and I ask the surly concierge for directions to the “Pharmacie.” He points it out on the map. Trying a follow up question looking for common ground, “Taylor says the last time he was here, there was a cat. What happened to the cat?” He grunts a one-word reply, “Dead.”

(Nose drops. Yay! Returned the next day for more. “Cough medicine,” really good cough medicine. Score! I sipped it for the next three days… Italy has excellent cold drugs. Deborah and Mary came down with the same cold in Cortona, I shared my meds.)

Delirium: I dream of taking Beckham to the circus. No animal acts only humans and “giant slides.” He loves slides and was happy. My old buddy Kara Sekuler worked at the circus, wearing her high heels.

I live another day. I avoid the surly concierge and asked the night gate keeper to change my room for the last two nights. It happens, thanks! Much sounder sleep. We drive to Pienza. I visit the Chiesa St. Catherine, learn about stanzas (prayer rooms).

La Foce: beautiful gardens and villa that belonged to Marchesa Iris Origo, an ultra-rich lady and Anglo-American biographer and historian of international fame. She wrote two autobiographies, Images and Shadows and War in Val d'Orcia. Created farms, revitalized a community, saved WWII refugees, and built a garden for the Gods filled with plants and lemon trees. Sizable swimming pool!

Leaving, Taylor wanted to find the cemetery where the Marchesa is buried. We drive up and down the main road. No! We drive up a cow patch. No! (Mary is a force getting us out of the cow patch! There is smoke under the Focus… hot engine singes the dry grass.) An older man concentrates on watering his herb garden on the front porch, waves us off, barely raised his head, gesturing, “It’s over there. We drive up a graveled and steep hill in the back of the estate. No! One last try. We take a road to a nearby castle with Italian workmen ending their day. It’s not the cemetery, it’s closed and we aren’t the only ones looking for directions. The requisite black Mercedes with a gorgeous couple are not looking for the cemetery, they are simply lost! Again, no cemetery. The drive back to Montepulciano via Piensa, apples and cheese on the veranda.

Dipping our feet into the mineral springs of Bagno Vignoni, (Lorenzo the Magnificent and Saint Catherine bathed there) we visit with the passers-by. British girls discuss global warming and conservation, “America is bad but not like Indonesia. Poaching is bad.” That the USA is coupled with Indonesia says a lot about their perceptions of the USA.

Taylor seeks a monastery further “South, East, West, North” … I have lost all sense of direction. But with the help of “Marsha,” we wind our way up the mountain. Success. There’s a parking lot, cars in the parking lot, and signs! Two rows of cypresses leads down the hill to Monte Oliveta Maggiore, a Benedictine Abbey set in the clay hills of Tuscany. Founded in 1313 by Bernardo Tolomei (a rich man who found religion and became Saint Benedict), the cloister has frescoes of the Life of St. Benedict painted by Luca Signorelli and il Sodoma. They are masterworks of the Italian Renaissance. (Taylor tells us the Benedictine monks were appalled (Taylor’s word) because “Sodome,” (i.e, Sodom) was enamored of young men and his rendering of male “buttocks” were way too sexy. He painted a lot of horses’ rears, too. (Taylor notes Sodome fathered 30 children.) Truly, this is a glorious Chiesa, filled with art. Thirty monks live year round. They prepare the evening meal; the U-shaped table is formidable. They eat together, worship together, read in the voluminous library, and play together. In their gift shop, I buy a cross for Guy, Taylor buys honey.

We find our way back to Montepulciano via Piensa. All roads lead through Piensa. A quick visit to Tempio San Biagio, a lovely church at the foot of Montepulciano. I climb the hill back to home, the same hill that Iris Origo climbed with WWII refugee children when they were escaping La Foce and the Germans; the townspeople applauded Marchesa Iris Origo when she entered the city walls. Today, many cats greet me and the weather is perfection. Thrilling sunset!

[At Monte Oliveta Maggiore, we begin to understand the horror of Hurricane Michael. It hits Bainbridge, Georgia, hard! There are many texts, Facebook messages and phone calls to family. Everyone is safe but all suffer real property damage. Halfway around the globe, nothing to be done by the band of travelers. Deborah, Mary and Taylor are heroic in their ability to “keep a stiff upper lip” and enjoy Italy.]

Last morning in Montepulciano, I have a breakthrough with our surly concierge. Paying my room bill, he notes my zip code, Manhattan. “Do I know Joe Allen?” Yay! “Do I know Joe Allen?” “Yes,” I lie. (In theory, I know Joe Allen. I’ve eaten in his restaurant hundreds of times and he donated to Abingdon Theatre Company when my buddy Shirley Herz made the “ask.”) Suddenly, we are on common ground and he is nigh charming. He loves Manhattan, considers Joe Allen a father figure. Thank you, theater Gods!

Our exit from Montepulciano is a clean one. Phew!

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