(And for my final installment of Italian musings):
Francis Mayes, the author that put Tuscany on the maps of recent tourists with her book (and later movie) Under the Tuscan Sun, wrote of Italy:
“Italy is an immortal playground. Does any country come close to its sustained, heady concoction of joys - serene landscape and magnificent art and layered history and savory cuisine and glorious music and welcoming people? So many ands.”
And, I might add, awesome climate, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Ducatti, and the like. After a month here the features of this incredible land are nearly overpowering, except they hit one in a sublime and friendly way. Of all the countries I’ve visited, Italy ranks among the top three for the most friendly and accommodating people (Ireland and Canada the other two vying for top spot), if not the outright first place winner. Everywhere I’ve gone, every place through which we’ve managed to squeeze the clunky white mini-bus, every wrong turn, wrong way, blocked intersection, illegal entry, parking calamity, and driving uncertainty has brought about not a single angry word, mean gesture, or unfriendly response. The closest thing was an extended explanation of my forlorn ways while driving through the heart of Siena in a Local Traffic Only zone. I shudder to think what an Italian visitor to the United States might have received in a similar, reverse situation.
As I curve continually through Tuscany’s smooth winding roads on my BMW GS 650 motorcycle, I am constantly arrested by the stunning views. Undulating hills of bright tan wheat fields roll like a painting, while gray-green olive tree groves, planted so straightly one might think they were arranged with celestial navigational aides, provide a nice contrast. Bright green vineyards stream past like soldiers at attention. But it’s the architecture that gets me repeatedly. Everywhere I look someone six or eight hundred years ago thought to build a house especially for me! There, on that hilltop yonder, see it? Surrounded by tall, dark green cypress trees standing proudly and a few distinguished maritime pines with their high, distinct canopies. See it? It’s the one with the tile roof, the stucco and stone walls, the creative exterior stairs, and the fifty kilometer view all around. Can’t pick it out, you say? Too many such specimens, you say? Ah, then you see what I mean.
I crane my neck as I downshift gears, believe it or not, letting cars pass. I want to take it all in and not miss a thing. I stop to take photos, shoot a little video, desperate to take the essence of it home, to show it to people, someone, everyone, anyone, to share in my joy. It is like grabbing at smoke. How do I capture it? I’ve got 2400 photos already (literally), and the lens just doesn’t have the grasp for the reach. It won’t capture the depth of the field of view looking over ground that would take an hour to cover even on a fast motorbike (like mine). It doesn’t pick up the hot summer sun on my skin or the smells of the wide-open campania (countryside). Perhaps I can recreate it with words, on my blog, maybe.
Or maybe not.
By the way, I found Frances Mayes’ home on its high perch by a quiet little road. I knew it immediately though I had no guide or confirmation until later. See it there, that house on that hilltop yonder? Someone built it just for her, maybe a few hundred years ago.
