Italia 2001

Italia 2001

Wednesday-Thursday, October 17-18
My flight to Milan was uneventful except for an acrimonious exchange between my seatmate, a tetchy older lady, and the man behind her. This obstreperous toad took it into his head to berate the steward over some minor matter. She turned around and gave him the rough side of her tongue and the battle was on. The flight was underbooked, so the lady eventually moved to another seat, leaving me to savor my book, the Complete Stories of Evelyn Waugh, in solitude. When we landed at eight, Milan was shrouded in a fog as thick as in the last scene of Casablanca. I breezed through customs in less than 10 minutes, a refreshing change from the (alas, necessary) ordeal at Logan. While waiting for Ellen and Richard I boned up on my Italian. An hour later I was jolted out of my studies by a whoop of joy from Ellen and the vacation officially began. We bought our train tickets with no trouble and proceeded to the train station on the level below the airport. The ride into the city was through some of the more charmless suburbs of Milan but we didn’t care; we were happy simply to be together again. When we disembarked from the train Ellen was enthralled by the ornate painting on the buildings lining the tracks. I smiled to myself, knowing what glories lay ahead of her. Italy is one of those blessed countries where ornament is still considered essential.
But we had come into the wrong station to take the train to Florence. A young Japanese-American student (from New York) saw our plight and directed us to the subway station. She also helped us buy our tickets (my Italian was still a bit shaky from underuse) and walked us over to our gate. The Milan subway system is shabby and old and the cars are eerily lit by bluish light. As in New York, everyone rides in stony silence. Four stops later we emerged from underground into a soulless city devoid, as far as I could tell, of beauty or grace. Our young helper had described Central station as ugly but she was wrong; this large ornate edifice was the one note of charm. There was a balls-up in our ticket line, making for an agonizingly long wait, but we finally got our tickets and sprinted for the train. If the man at the head of the line had taken another minute longer we would have missed it altogether.
We settled into our seats (unassigned, we thought) and prepared to enjoy our trip. The scenery was much as I remembered from my last trip between Florence and Milan, flat plains erupting suddenly into dramatic green hills. The trip as far as Bologna was enjoyable, but at this, our first stop, a flood of ticket holders washed into the train and we were bumped. Ellen and Richard, as it turned out, had seats in another car (a smoker) and I had another seat in this car. I finally had to bump someone myself, a scrawny, intense female student who didn’t seem to hold it against me. Ellen and Richard tottered down to their car (on this train, buffeted from side to side, this wasn’t easy). By and by I went down and found them in snug, unsmoky comfort and joined them, leaving the grateful student my seat.
Arriving in glorious Florence at last, we took a wild taxi ride to Ellen and Richard’s hotel, a fourth-floor walkup (no elevator!) across from the Baptistry. I walked the easy 2 blocks to my hotel, my old favorite, the Pendini. I was given what I think was Kathy Swift’s old room there, a spacious, gracious room with sun. Giving Ellen and Richard an hour to shower, I finally called for them to conduct them through the short tour through the city.
At the Piazza della Signoria we settled down at a café and ordered the first three glasses of our two-week orgy of chianti-imbibing. After a few minutes we were asked for our ashtray by a young man at the next table. Filippo Asti is smoothly good-looking, with the over-cultivated gloss of an Armani model, impeccably dressed and a speaker of seven languages. His cousin Andrea is somewhat less handsome, but much more attractive. He is darker, markedly sexier, and speaks five languages; Andrea ‘s English, in fact, is almost flawless. The cousins, scions of the Asti family (Italian champagne), are leather coat designers, with a smart shop overlooking the Arno. Our polite exchange of pleasantries rapidly turned into a party so we moved our tables together and enjoyed each other’s company for the better part of the next hour. Richard let it slip that he was looking to buy a leather coat in Florence. They invited us to come by their shop, on Lungarno Acciaiuoli, a few steps from the Ponte Vecchio, while we were in town. After we parted from the cousins I continued the tour. Walking along the Arno we happened upon their shop and stopped to admire the merchandise in the windows. Suddenly, here the cousins were again. They invited us into the bar in the back of the shop, poured us some Asti Spumante and showed Richard a coat in black leather, soft as butter. The cost was, predictably, stratospheric; Richard regretfully left it on the rack.
For dinner we ended up at an old favorite of mine next to the Duomo, Il Sasso di Dante. We all had the same thing, accompanied by a flask of chianti. First came crostini with various patés. For the main course we all had gnocchi al pesto. This was Ellen and Richard’s first introduction to gnocchi; I’d had my first here been in Florence, eight years before.
I walked them to their hotel and on the way back to the Pendini, stopped at Gilli’s for a small orange tart.

Friday, October 19
There was a pall of fog over the city in the morning but it soon lifted. I had breakfast in the Pendini’s dining room, which was in the charge of the same friendly Filipino couple I remembered from my last visit. At 9:00 I picked up Ellen and Richard. We walked north to the vast piazza in front of the church of SS. Annunziata. This was Ellen and Richard’s first Italian church. They loved the Andrea del Sarto frescoes in the courtyard and the high, richly gilded ceiling of the sanctuary.
From there we wandered over to a friendly, leafy square, Piazza San Marco. I left them at the Galleria dell’Accademia to see Michelangelo’s David and strolled to the lively San Lorenzo market. I had two aims. The strap on the leather bag I’d bought on my last visit had frayed badly so I replaced it with another. I also bought a new wallet from a young Greek-Italian man, since the one I’d bought in Hong Kong six years before was falling apart in my hands.
Afterward I found Ristorante Beatrice to make reservations for that night but it wasn’t open yet. Picking up Ellen and Richard, I walked them over to the San Lorenzo Market. We had lunch at a little sidewalk café (Richard is fond of them) called Ristorante Nuti, then we plunged into the market. Richard consulted a a smiling Middle-Eastern type called Shahri about buying a leather jacket. He had a greater selection in his shop, a block or so away. Shahri and I walked up ahead, talking animatedly. (Ellen described us later as jabbering away in Italian; apparently I use my hands a good deal when I talk.)
When Ellen and Richard went back to the hotel to rest I went to Ugolino and bought the most beautiful shirt in the world, a Brioni plaid in soft browns. Back at Ristorante Beatrice I made a reservation for that evening. As dusk settled over the city I returned to the hotel to read another Evelyn Waugh story.
Ristorante Beatrice is now, I think, my favorite restaurant in the universe. To my immediate disappointment we were seated by a pleasant young waiter who was not Lorenzo, of fond memory. I was assured that he would be up later; he was currently entertaining a party in the wine cellar, a gaggle of Canadian BMW dealers. When he finally came up I greeted him affectionately and was gratified that he remembered me from my earlier visits. He was obliged to take care of the BMW dealers, but he checked back with us from time to time until they left, when he once again became very solicitous of our comfort.
I ordered a house selection of appetizers, the antipasto della casa. Then came a large, tender slice of poached salmon served with capers and lemon. The meal was accompanied by two bottles of the house chianti. Dessert was a torte of vanilla cream studded with bits of chocolate. Ellen and Richard were as delighted as I by their choices. After dessert Lorenzo brought us complimentary glasses of vino santo, a sweet dessert wine suggestive of apricot brandy. Lorenzo explained the reason for the sumptuous décor of the restaurant, which had tempted Kathy and Marie and me into the place two years previously: it was originally an annex of the Bargello Palace.
Lorenzo took us on a tour of the spotless, gleaming restaurant kitchen and introduced us to his brother. (His brother is in charge of making the desserts and overseeing the cooking in general; he and Lorenzo are the sons of the owner.) Then Lorenzo took us to the Cantina degli Angeli. This is the smaller private dining room in the wine cellar, a warm, intimate and inviting den of old brick, softly lit. He gave us glasses of limoncello and showed us the wine collection and pointed out the original entrance to the cellar, a small bricked-in hole in the ceiling. Dining at Beatrice was – no surprise -- a perfect experience, three and a half hours worth, at the most hospitable and beautiful restaurant I know. We immediately made a reservation for the following Saturday when we would have Lee and Jo with us.
I blush to admit that after this Lucullan feast we stopped for gelato. Mine was marrons glacee, of such a piercingly gooey sweetness that I was unable to eat more than a few bites. After what we’d just experienced, it was a ridiculous thing to have done. I left my friends at Piazza San Giovanni and walked happily home, aglow with satisfaction and a renewed love for Florence.

Saturday, October 20
After breakfast I walked downstairs to the bookstore to buy an Italian edition, with charming illustrations, of Alice in Wonderland (Alice nel Paese delle Meraviglie) for my collection, then checked out. The staff at the desk promised to try to give me my old room (208) on my return the following weekend.
From Ellen and Richard’s hotel we walked a few steps to the taxi rank where a saturnine young man drove us to the Avis office on Borgo Ognisanti. Ellen and Richard waited for Lee and Jo while I took a turn around the neighborhood. I’d been telling my friends about a local delicacy called pan di Dante, an almond-stuffed cookie made primarily of marzipan. So far I hadn’t been able to deliver. So while they waited, I strolled up the block to a small bakery. In the window were huge almond cookies, so I ordered three and took them back. They weren’t pan di Dante, but they weren’t bad, either.
On this trip I’d decided to try Ellen’s method: not carrying travelers’ checks, but using local ATMs instead. As I was at this point running perilously low on lire, I put my card into a Banca di Toscana machine but it didn’t recognize my password. Even with Ellen helping it refused to cooperate.
Presently Lee and Jo arrived, after a tiring train ride from Rome – standing up all the way. Lee, the baby of our group, is tall and affable, with something of the younger Alec Guinness in his face. (We hit it off immediately and I grew even fonder of him as the trip progressed.) Jo is small and intense, with a cap of dark hair. She immediately announced that she was a worrier but throughout the trip she appeared to be quite relaxed and happy.
We were given a bright silver Citroën in which our bags fit precisely -- without a spare centimeter left over. As my Italian allowed me to read road signs easily I was appointed navigator. Richard was our first driver. We sped out of the city (after making a series of blunders) and I quickly recognized that we were on the right track, the same southbound road that Kathy and Marie and I had taken on our trip to Siena two years before. It was soon time to stop for lunch, so when I saw a quiet country hotel-cum-restaurant up ahead I told Richard to pull off. We saw immediately that our choice was a wise one.
The cozy but costly décor of the place indicated that our first meal together might be a shade on the expensive side, but this turned out not to be the case. A scrawny adolescent waiter, very friendly, sat us at a large table with soft napery and gleaming crystal and brought us a bottle of mineral water and another of chianti. My dish, pappardelle with porcini, was all I could have wished for. We finished with tiramisu gelato, which turned out to be pre-packaged frozen stuff but tasty enough.
On the road again, we came to a labyrinthine rotary. Afraid we might head mistakenly for Siena, we took a series of winding back roads paralleling the road we wanted, the A1. This was hilly chianti-growing country, wild and glorious, so we had much more to look at and we didn’t mind being the tiniest bit lost. The road tumbled through the countryside, twisting, rising and falling, providing us our first real taste of rural Italy. We at least had good maps so we headed in the general direction of Figline Valdarno, where we could get back on the A1. Stopping at Greti, we found a wineshop selling the local product, a fine chianti with the Verrazzano label. This was named for the intrepid explorer who ended up being eaten by cannibals in Guadaloupe. In fact, he might have gone down very well with a bottle of this particular wine…
Getting back on the Autostrada, we got off at Monte San Salvino and got out the explicit (if somewhat byzantine) directions we’d been given to the villa in Castiglion Fiorentina. They proved more confusing than not, but when we got into the center of the town, a group of helpful teenagers pointed us in the right direction. Finally by sheer chance and arduous application -- and laughing like loons -- we found the narrow, twisting road leading to Villa Sant’Agnese.
We pulled up to a high locked gate and were greeted with an enthusiastic wave from high on the second floor loggia. The chatelaine of the villa greeted us. She and her husband bought the villa some few years back. It was in a state of ruinous disrepair but they have worked tirelessly to make it a showplace. It was originally an abbey (at one time St. Clare was one of the residents). When in time it was abandoned by the nuns, it became a barn where olive oil was pressed. The villa is a jewel set in rough hilly country, surrounded by olive orchards; it is buried in lush flowers.
The villa is huge; the owners live on the top floor and rent out the lower level to guests. A long, connected loggia runs all around their floor; a scattering of potted trees and shrubs create a mini-outdoors. Off each bedroom on our floor are smaller loggias, with tables, chairs and huge mossy terracotta pots of geranium and impatiens.
Our huge central room has high vaulted ceilings, decorated comfortably but sparely. Off to one side is a large efficient kitchen with a small clothes washer (but no dryer). On the other side of the large common room are two spacious bedrooms, and above each bedroom is a smaller chamber with bed and desk. It was in this smaller bedroom over Ellen and Richard’s that I stayed.
Ellen and Jo remained at the villa to unpack while Rocco took us to the local supermarket for supplies. On the way we stopped at another ATM -- and once again I came up dry.
On our return we unpacked and settled in, then drove into Castiglion Fiorentino. This small town is lovely, walled as was the custom when it was built in the middle ages. To my great relief I found an ATM that finally produced some lire for me. The main drag (on a steepish hill) features numerous smart shops, including a fine bookstore. Ristorante ai Muzzicone looked inviting – brightly lit, filled with happy diners -- so we walked in. A glowering bald man advanced on us, instructing us to come back tomorrow. Apparently these diners were a private party, but his vaguely threatening demeanor was nonetheless off-putting.
Perhaps it was just as well. We had asked the villa's owner for a recommendation for a local restaurant. He dismissed every place but one, a pizzeria north of the town. Thence we repaired. The place was choked with smoke but by this time we were so hungry that tear gas and a line of constabulari woudn’t have discouraged us. We all had pizza (mine was the capricciosa, a heady mix of olives, prosciutto, artichokes, salami, potatoes and mozzarella – celestial) washed down with beer. Afterward we trouped next door to Mondo Gelato, where we were served by an antic young counterman, very sexy, who reminded me vaguely of Mikhail Baryshnikov. I chose the chocolate, so decadently rich I almost staggered at the first taste.
Back at the villa I read until nearly midnight. My night was a bad one, for the familiar nasal Niagara presaging a cold plagued me. I never fell completely asleep, which at least enabled me to enjoy the thunderstorm that shook the villa for much of the night.

Sunday, October 21
I woke, incredibly, at 10. Breakfast was on Lee and Jo’s loggia. We were joined by the owner for a pleasant chat and afterward I strolled about taking photos of our villa; we were shown his vegetable garden – spices, olives, late pears, and a few last tomatoes, which he told me were very strong and only good for cooking.
We drove south to Castiglione del Lago, an ancient walled town on a nipple of land jutting out into limpid Lake Trasimeno, tranquil under a perfect sapphire sky. A restaurant on the lake’s edge, Tigra Tinca, was too crowded to accommodate us, so we went for a stroll along the quay and returned to the car.
By now we were ravenous. La Cantina, an inviting place where one could dine al fresco, was full, so we went on up the street to L’Acquario. Seafood was not the specialty; the restaurant is named by a small tank in front occupied by a handful of listless fish. They were unable to accommodate us at one table, so I sat with Lee and Jo, with Ellen and Richard at an adjoining table. I had bruschette with various spreads: minced truffles; minced porcini; garlic butter; ricotta and pignoli; and little rolls of a not immediately identifiable substance (watercress or spinach) and minced truffles. My main course was rabbit, sublimely tender and flavorful, slowly cooked with olives and juniper berries. As my only experience with rabbit had been in Florence in 1993 – a dry and tasteless mess – this was most refreshing. Naturally, this was all accompanied by a splendid little chianti.
Castiglione del Lago is not large, so we took a turn along the main street, lined with many shops selling foodstuffs, in which wild boar seemed to be the chief ingredient. In fact, every other shop had a stuffed boar’s head glaring down at us. At one place an entire stuffed piggy guarded the entrance. In one of the shops I bought a hearty, fragrant cheese containing minced black and white truffles.
In the Church of Santa Maria Maddalena, there was a plaque concerning Mussolini, though whether praising him or damning him I was unable to determine. At the end of the street, a wide terrace at the city wall afforded a stunning view of the Tuscan hills far below. After gazing at the view for a while we ducked into a gelateria (no surprise, this), where my flavor of the day was torrone.
We drove north to Cortona. The impetus for the trip, as far as Ellen and Richard and Lee and Jo were concerned, was a homage to Frances Mayes, the author of Under the Tuscan Sun. So this was holy ground to my companions. Cortona was definitely worth a visit, though almost straight up a steep mountain. Our parking space below the town required a long climb but we stopped to catch our wind in an old and very plain church. An organist was practicing as we wandered through the gloom looking at the dark paintings and remains of ancient frescoes.
We stopped at a café for pastries and coffee. Ellen had a cup of chocolate, as thick and rich as the chocolate that delighted me so in Spain. My friends were inclined to linger in the shops so I strode on ahead. The waning sun was casting a warm light on the buildings ringing the Piazza della Repubblica and I got some nice shots. Further along were the Museum of Ethnology, known for its Etruscan treasures, and the Teatro Signorelli. Posted as part of their season I saw Le Tram Che e Chiamo Desiderio (A Streetcar Named Desire) and Piccolo Betteghe degli Orrori (Little Shop of Horrors), either of which I would gladly have killed to see. Back at the base of the main street into town we made reservations at Ristorante Tonino (recommended by Rocco) for Thursday. Lee was turning 55. Tonino was next to a circular piazza overlooking the countryside below. Under a fiery sunset the lights of Tuscany twinkled below like fallen stars.
Driving home through the town of Montecchio, we spotted fires sending fountains of sparks into the air. Throngs of people were milling about and I suggested stopping. This was a happy accident; the town was celebrating the Sacra della Castagna, the festival of the chestnuts. The fires we’d seen were the roasters, being turned by burly sweating men. We bought cups of wine and a couple of bags of chestnuts, fragrant and delicious, to nibble while we strolled through the fair. Back at the car we gulped mineral water and smelled the yellow roses growing by the side of the road. Returning to the house we enjoyed a lovely little impromptu party with wine, a couple of different cheeses, prosciutto, bread and olives.

Monday, October 22
An early fog lay over the land as we sped toward Perugia, into Umbria. Our goal was the little town of Deruta, a town devoted exclusively to the production of majolica ware. Jo wanted to buy an entire set of china, surely a perfect souvenir of an Italian trip. We got hopelessly entangled in the web of roads on the outskirts of Perugia but finally found our way south to Deruta. Lee and Jo popped into the first shop they saw while Ellen and Richard and I explored the town on foot. Except for the plethora of ceramics shops, the town contains absolutely nothing of interest. Furthermore it was Monday, the deadest of days in Italy. I found a farmacia and bought some cold remedies, then we found a café, apparently the only one open. I had a simple but freshly baked slice of foccacia.
We collected Lee and Jo. They had commissioned an entire service of pottery, which will be hand-painted and shipped to them later. Perugia, a substantial town, seemed to be a good place for lunch. We found a parking space immediately, but it was a special meter allowing only certain vehicles. An approaching meter maid gave us that unmistakable basilisk stare that indicated we were to be her next victim so we got in the car and drove on. The rest of Perugia failed to let us park so we pressed on to Assisi.
Assisi is a dramatically walled hill town with one vast industry: the production of mementoes honoring its most famous son: St. Francis. We found it almost as difficult to park in as Perugia, but finally found a lot and trudged into town. The first stop, obviously, was for lunch. Luckily we happened upon Ristorante Metastasio, dramatically perched on a promontory situated to afford us a view of the gently rolling Umbrian hills far below. My tagliatelle con salmone was flawless, as was the (inevitable) chianti.
We decided to explore the town separately, as it was clear that we were moving at different speeds. I was not impressed by Assisi. My main impression was of hundreds of little shops, all selling virtually identical knick-knacks honoring St. Francis. There were two glorious exceptions: at one end of town lay the church of Santa Chiara, in which the remains of St. Clare reposed in a vault below the chancel. At the other end of town was the basilica of St. Francis. His bones rest within a thick block of column in the basement of the basilica. A garland of little old ladies knelt around the column offering up prayers. This church was far more impressive as a shrine, but St. Clare’s had a more elaborate architecture, rich and thrilling. We met at the car at 6:30 and drove back, at one time getting lost in the dark.
In Montecchio we stopped for dinner at a modest restaurant/pizzeria called Anfora. I had my favorite pasta dish, paglia e fieno, not as I’ve traditionally had it, with white sauce, peas and prosciutto, but with a sauce of ground duck. My second course was thin slices of roast wild boar, moist, tender and robust. At the end of the meal we were joined by one Patrizio, who had run the bike race the previous evening at the Sacre della Castagna. Blond and short and intense, he was very attractive, spoke English moderately well, and had apparently studied long in England.

Tuesday, October 23
I slept better than I had since we’d been at the villa, as my cold was little in evidence. The whole day turned out to be lazy and very enjoyable. Rocco came downstairs and gave us a tour of what we hadn’t suspected existed: the wine cellar below. Only one small section is used for wine storage. It is a huge and pleasant place, cool and dry, and vaulted in excellent brickwork. When we came back upstairs the eggs Richard had poached for me were stone cold, but still delicious. Richard and Lee and I went to the supermarket while Ellen and Jo did laundry.
In the afternoon Lee and I drove to Arezzo. Rocco had told us about the long route over the mountains which his son liked to take, so we took it. It was immediately apparent why anyone might prefer it. A tortuously winding road took us up into the mountains, our ears popping all the way. We stopped to look at a spectacular view of Castiglion Fiorentino and Montecchio, then the dropping road took us into some wild mountain passes. From time to time we saw two-girl teams of black hookers stationed along the road, provided, Lee said, for the truckers to dally with.
Arezzo was very confusing. After much trial and error we finally found the route into the heart of the walled city. It was siesta time by now, and the place was all but deserted. We stopped for lunch at a wine bar in the shadow of the cathedral, Vineria del Duomo. We were served a fine red wine -- in very niggling servings. But my pollo con peperoncini e olive, a rich dish, was generous and tasty. Afterward we briefly explored the Duomo, vast, dark, and fragrant with incense. At Piazza Cavour Lee got American coffee and I had a dish of heavenly amarena (black cherry) gelato. Piazza Grande reminded me of Siena’s but on a much smaller scale. On the way back to Castiglion Fiorentino, via the main road, I bought cough syrup -- of an indescribable foulness, compared to which Robitussin is honey. On our return to the villa, we picked everyone else up to show them the magnificent view of our village from the spot we’d attained earlier. They were enchanted, as we knew they would be. We stood breathing in the fresh mountain air, cut occasionally by the aroma of burning brush cleared by the owner of the olive orchard below us, wandering through his groves with his dog.
After Ellen’s shower, we drove north. Driving back from Arezzo Lee and I had spotted Villa Burati, a ‘residential restaurant’ that looked worth trying. We pulled into the parking lot but as it seemed deserted, we drove on. Further along we discovered Ristorante Pie Rita -- odd name, but a real find. It seemed to be run almost single-handedly by a lovely young woman. She served us different bruschette; mine was the Toscana, which included two sausages and a slice of very lean, exquisitely salty prosciutto. Ellen and Jo and I had the same main course, a distinct change from what we’d been served so far. This was bucceline de Tachine in aceto balsamico con ciprolini. Tender chunks of turkey breast had been sauteed with balsamic vinegar and small cocktail onions, bursting with pungent flavor. With the addition of two bottles of chianti our meal was nothing less than sublime. In spite of all this, we again stopped at Mondo Gelato, where our sprightly counterman served me panna cotta, a gelato which was almost too rich. But what the hell, I ate it.

Wednesday, October 24
We got up earlier than customary to drive over the mountains, a most scenic route, to Siena. This time, in distinct contrast to my visit two years before, there was no rain. We found a parking lot, apparently at the lowest spot in all Siena, which meant a long, steep climb into the centro storico. Lunch was under umbrellas at a pizzeria on the Campo Centrale, that lovely fan-shaped bowl of elegant brickwork, after which we separated to see the city at our own speeds. Siena is glorious in sun, a large and vibrant city of fine shops and bustling crowds. We met again at six, walked the sixty-eight miles back to the car, and just for good measure, circumnavigated the city walls, which gave us a rapturous nighttime view of the Cathedral, rising in dramatic black and white against the dark blue velvet sky. It took us some time to get out of the city and once we achieved Monte San Salvino we got hopelessly lost leaving the town, the road finally depositing us near Arezzo. We rushed back to the villa for a supper of bread, cheese and wine. We raced through this, for we had a date with our hosts.

Thursday, October 25
My laundry from two days before was still quite damp so I put out my socks to dry on a sun-soaked table in the west loggia before leaving for Cortona. I brought along my book and my white laundry, convinced I’d find a place – somewhere along the way -- to wash it. I was wrong.
Our first stop was Camucia, the modern town at the base of the mountain below Cortona. A large market is strung out along the streets near the train station – ranks of stands selling kitchenware, cheap clothing, produce, and in one wonderful stand, dried fruits and nuts. Lee bought a bag of dried mango, Richard nuts, I a macedonia of dried fruits and coconut. I am a faster walker than the rest and we got separated, so after I raced through, I stood waiting for them at the corner nibbling macedonia and reading Evelyn Waugh.
In Cortona, everyone else wanted to tour the church of Santa Margherete, extolled by Frances Mayes. I had more mundane concerns: my laundry. They let me off near the town center. Three different people told me there was a lavanderia in the Piazza della Repubblica but I never managed to find it. By lunchtime, fed up with searching, I stopped at a Bar Sandy and had a panino of mozzarella and tomatoes and a glass of red wine. I’d arranged to meet my friends back at the car, but on the way there I found Ellen and Richard sitting at a café blissfully drinking coffee. They were vaguely disappointed: the church of Santa Margherete, alas, had been turned into a hotel (perhaps Mrs. Mayes has made Cortona a shade too popular). They sent me to Tonino to change our 8:00 reservation to 7:00 while they waited for Lee and Jo. As the Etruscan Museum was only open for another hour and a half, I went in -- and found that my companions hadn’t followed me in. I knew I’d catch up with them later, so set out to enjoy myself. It’s an impressive trove of antiquities, but the Etruscan art is merely one aspect of the collection. The gallery below the first floor of the museum was showing the work of a contemporary painter, Vincenzo Galli, a very able technician but whose work was merely pretty superficialities, all of a sameness that quickly palled.
While exploring the town I met Ellen who declared enthusiastically that the climb to the top of the town was not to be missed; I set out to see it. Until reaching the top I hadn’t quite appreciated how very high up Cortona is. The sun was low in the sky and by the time I was halfway back down the sky was stained with a bright cherry red.
We met at 7:00 at Tonino’s. Apparently the gentleman I’d consulted about the time change had understood that we wanted a table for seven, not at seven. And the restaurant was very difficult to find, being in the bowels of the building. We finally stumbled across a young woman with dark, troubled eyes and a smashed plum of a mouth who was setting tables. She seemed mildly offended that we were there; the upshot was that we decided to eat elsewhere. Ellen had gotten friendly with the young shopkeeper at Il Papiro who directed us to another place popular with the locals: La Locanda della Loggietta.
La Locanda was a very attractive place, invitingly lit and suggesting an old winecellar; it turned out to be the best possible choice. It was run by a young couple who at once made us feel welcome. Lee’s birthday dinner, in fact, was one of the dining highlights of the trip. I had the pici con sugo del’anatra, thick noodles covered with a ragout of chopped duck. This was followed by still more duck, the petto di anatra con salvia e carrote. The five of us easily managed to down three bottles of chianti. Dessert was a heavenly torte with walnuts and orange; the proprietors also brought us vino santo and amaretto biscotti for dipping. This last delicacy elevated Ellen to something approaching ecstasy.
Back at the villa, we opened up a bottle of grappa that Lee had bought. Absolutely nobody liked it, but after such a fine dinner, anything would have been an anticlimax.

Friday, October 26
Before I got up, Lee and Ellen walked to the village to see the market. Their only purchases consisted of a single persimmon and some large, mild green olives. Clearly the walk was more for exercise and scenery than for shopping. Before we left, Rocco came down to say hello. Everyone else was going back to Cortona to take in the museum; I still had a fat bag of unwashed whites, so they dropped me off in the town where I searched without luck for an automatic laundry. They picked me up as arranged, to take me on to Cortona with them. Instead I left my stuff with them and with my book, walked back up to Castiglion Fiorentino.
I hadn’t seen much of the town, so I wandered up the main street taking in the shops. A ragged market stretched out over Piazza Garibaldi. Although I arrived late, it was still crowded and active, selling more or less what we’d seen at Camucia. I enjoyed this more, and even made a few purchases: a bagful of torroncini, little blocks of flavored nougat covered in rich chocolate. My main purchase was five pairs of very inexpensive socks, and – in case a laundry continued to elude me – some undershorts.
Across from the city gate is a large shady piazza looking down the mountain to the villages below. I settled down on a bench under the plane trees with my book and read Waugh while nibbling torroncini. When lunchtime approached I remembered Ristorante ai Muzzicone. It was completely empty, but a handsome dark-eyed waiter invited me in. Suddenly I was seized by what I can only describe as exceptionally bad vibes. I muttered an apology and left, with all the waiters undoubtedly perplexed by the strange mood of the pazzo Americano. At the city gate was another Bar Sandy so I stopped for a panino of mozzarella and tomatoes, simple, morning-fresh, and satisfying as pheasant under glass.
The hike back to the villa took only ten minutes; I wished it had been even longer. The road is hilly as a roller-coaster, lined by olive orchards and thick grapevines. A few late grapes were hanging into the road so I plucked a handful; they were tiny and of a piercing sweetness.
Back at the villa I poured a glass of pinot grigio and took my book to a sun-splattered table in the garden just beyond our loggia, a perfect little island of peace. All around me was a tumult of bloom: geranium, rose, impatiens, begonia and delicately scented bushes of rosemary. Birdsong and the thrum of an occasional passing car were the only sounds.
Around 2:45 everyone returned, delighted by the museum and showing their purchases. Ellen and Richard went for a walk while Jo and I packed for departure the following morning. Rocco and Liliane came down for photos.
For dinner we decided to give Villa Burati another try. The parking lot was again deserted. Ellen discerned some movement in the bushes, so we crept out over the lawn to investigate. It was open, though I couldn’t help but wonder how many potential diners they lose by being so well-hidden. But it seems they’re popular enough. Several parties, obviously regulars, came in while we ate. I had an assortment of antipasti followed by risotto con asparagi, impossibly creamy and made with the freshest asparagus. We couldn’t help ourselves: we stopped on way back for a last gelato.

Saturday, October 27
We got up early, said our reluctant goodbyes to our hosts, and signed the guest book. We hated to leave such wonderful people. The host brought down a 3-liter jug of olive oil, freshly pressed by a neighbor, which was to be divided between us. We were on the road by 9:20 and arrived in Florence at 11:50 to return the car.
Everyone else took a taxi to their hotel but I walked back to the Pendini. It was more strenuous than I’d expected but by this point I was much in need of the exercise. I was happy to discover that they had given me my old room as promised.
We’d arranged to meet at their hotel, the Maxim, at 11:45. For the first time on the trip, we ate at a cafeteria, not at all the same experience as in America. With my tuna salad sandwich I had a tall, cold beer, and finished with my only real tiramisu of the trip. Ellen and Richard went back to the San Lorenzo Market. Jo and Lee wanted to see Michelangelo’s David more than any other sight on the trip so I walked them up to the Galleria dell’Accademia and arranged to meet them at five between the Duomo and the Battisteria.
Wandering the city with no real plan in mind, I stumbled onto one of the grand Medici palaces, the Palazzo Medici Ricciardi, showing an exhibition of ancient marble heads. These stunning portraits are one of my passions and this was a particularly wonderful collection, expertly lit for maximum dramatic effect. There was a special treat I hadn’t expected, a tiny chapel decorated floor to ceiling with the most spectacular frescoes I’ve seen outside the Sistine Chapel. Benozzo Gozzoli‘s subject was “The Journey of the Magi.” This sumptuous masterpiece features, in one of the more subtle displays of the gentle art of sucking-up, faces of the Medici family.
On the next floor up there was a long gallery with a barrel vaulted ceiling decorated with a lively fresco of gods and goddesses gamboling about with various exotic quadrupeds – and one rowdy ostrich. Along the sides were mirrors painted with frolicking putti. Also on this floor was a sublime madonna and child by Filippo Lippi mounted in a case so one could see the sketch of a young man on the inverso.
After this I had a more prosaic concern: my laundry. The hotel suggested a laundromat which turned out to be the one I’d used on my previous visit. There I met a couple (from Dedham!) to whom I warmly recommended Ristorante Beatrice. I also gave them what was left of my laundry soap. While we were visiting, Ellen and Richard passed by unexpectedly.
My clothes were still damp, so back at the hotel I spread them all over the bed, and put the socks out on the ledge to take the sun.
I met Lee and Jo as scheduled. They were bathed and relaxed and ready for my art-and-history short tour of Florence. We sauntered through the town, taking our time, and got to Beatrice far too early. We stopped across the street at wine bar and were presently joined by Ellen and Richard.
Ristorante Beatrice was once again superb. Lorenzo presented us with an aperitif on the house, flutes of champagne mixed with fruit juice. My special antipasto was entirely different from my previous one; it included a slice of quiche, an octopus and watercress salad (the octopus was exquisitely tender and ideally mated to the watercress), an eggplant mousse, and a dab of soft cheese with chopped porcini folded in. For my main course I had the dish that so delighted me on my 1999 visit with Marie and Kathy: macheroncetti with steamed vegetables and grated fontina, baked in foil. Dessert was a tart of “strawberry grapes”, which seemed to be a type of wine grape. He once again presented us with complimentary limoncello. Is it any wonder this is my favorite restaurant? Lorenzo asked when I was going to come to Florence again (as soon as humanly possible!) and joined us for photos.
Back at the hotel we took care to set the clocks back (daylight savings time was ending) so we would all arrive at the train station at the same time.

Sunday, October 28
After breakfast and goodbye to the Filipino couple, I took a final stroll through the neighborhood before checking out. I carried my bags to the train station, but as I was rested it was a breeze. Florence was never so beautiful. We met, as arranged, in front of the station McDonald’s. Ellen informed me, wide-eyed, that we’d been wise to buy our tickets the day before, as the ticket booth employees were on strike. (This situation, of course, is the bane of Italy, though it’s never affected me on my travels there – so far). I left my bags with my friends and sprinted through the neighborhood to find a bank for cash and made it back just as our track was announced. Luckily our seats were all together, in a non-smoking car, and comfortable. On the hour and a half ride to Rome we easily recognized Castiglion Fiorentino, Montecchio and Cortona off to the left.

I learned on my previous trip that the taxi drivers plying their trade at the Stazione Termini are pirates by nature. Nonetheless we took two staggeringly expensive cabs to our hotel, the Italia. Richard was justifiably incensed over the ridiculous rate and vowed never to take another cab in Rome.
My room at the Italia was a stark white cell, some seven by ten feet in size, but perfectly comfortable. The only decoration was a poster of Caravaggio’s insouciant nude John the Baptist.
At 2:00 I joined my friends. The essential highlights of Rome can easily be walked in a day. We went down the Via Nazionale to Trajan’s forum and the Vittorio Emmanuele monument. Before going into the Roman Forum we descended a narrow stair into the dark round cell where St. Peter and St. Paul had been imprisoned. It was too easy for this borderline claustrophobe to imagine their ordeal so I hurried out quickly.
The Forum was open free to the public on Sunday afternoons, and huge numbers of people were swarming through, enjoying the sights in the low sun of the waning afternoon. I’d never seen the place so filled with people, most of whom seemed to be Romans. From there we walked up to the Colosseum, then down the Via dei Fori Imperiale. Ellen was thrilled to be walking down the street where Cleopatra had been borne in triumph. As dusk fell we reached the fountain of Trevi, then walked past the Pantheon to my favorite space in Rome, Piazza Navona. We stopped for dinner at the first café we reached, Caffe Barocca. I was ravenous and made short work of a plate of spaghetti alla carbonara, then roast chicken with potatoes sauteed in olive oil (and of course chianti). Richard, however, ordered a martini and was horrified to find he’d been served a tall glass of straight vermouth, Martini being the leading brand in Italy. We were serenaded by a duo with a tragic lack of talent. The lead singer wrung out his high notes with such a look of agony I couldn’t help but think: if singing hurts that much, don’t do it.
The view of St. Peter’s by night was only a couple of streets away so I took them there to see the most spectacular night sight in Rome. By the time I walked them to the Piazza di Spagna (for gelato) and home via Piazza Barberini, Ellen was complaining bitterly that I’d walked them half to death. On Via Nazionale again, they left me at a pharmacy to buy some antihistamine and we agreed to meet for dinner the following evening.

Monday, October 29
So I had a free day to myself, to perambulate the city as my fancy took me. After a quick breakfast in the hotel lobby I set out with only three established goals. The first two were easy: to make my eventual way to Trastevere, and to buy a one-liter bottle for my olive oil. One task I’d set myself in Rome was to do some research for my novel, just to get the descriptive details of several places right. The Via Veneto was my first goal and I approached it via the Quirinale gardens and Piazza Barberino. A favorite bookstore lay at the bottom of the street. Italian book cover design is superb; I spent the better part of an hour in the bookstore looking at cover art.
The U.S. Embassy, just up the street, was under heavy guard, due to the necessary new security measures. The USIS Library had been moved to another location anyway, so I went on to the Excelsior hotel to make notes on the lobby.
At Largo Fellini I made a stupendously bad decision: instead of taking the shorter route back, I walked west within the Villa Borghese on the wrong side of the road. The traffic roared alongside me, filling my lungs with exhaust, and since I was unable to breach the towering city wall to my left, I had no choice but to make for the Piazza del Popolo as best I could. Miraculously, a hole appeared in the traffic and I darted across, my heart in my mouth.
The great piazza is warm and vital, a great open space. A few cars roared around the edge of the space, but largely the traffic consists of the inevitable Vespas and pedestrians. Three great streets emerge from it like bicycle spokes. I took Via di Ripetta south, hoping to find the little outdoor market of antique prints I’d visited with Marie and Kathy – and found it. Incredibly, I found the particular print I was seeking. This old French print of two saucy housemaids dressing up a dummy as their master – L’Absence du Maitre -- had caught Marie’s fancy two years previously. The owner of the stand had been unwilling to sell it without its frame, but now it was behind plastic in a binder. I asked the price, hoping to bring it home and somehow make copies for Marie and Kathy but it was unreasonably high. As it was a very fragile piece that might not make it home, I reluctantly left it behind.
Via di Ripetta turned into Via della Scrofa (“street of the sow”), which led me again to the Piazza Navona. I took some photos of the fountains in the bright sun, then strolled over to check out Mastrostefano, a restaurant where an important scene in the novel is set. In the approximate area was another, newer restaurant, the Don Chisciotte. A waiter gently informed me that Mastrostefano is now out of business. I asked about Piazza Pasquino, which was just around the corner. This little square is home to one of my favorite restaurants, Terra di Siena.
I was seated outside under a yellow umbrella, and ordered a half-liter of chianti, a plate of gnocchi with cheese and truffles, and last, the best dish I’d had in Rome thus far, petto di pollo con olive. This chicken breast, baked till tender, swam in a pool of butter and olive oil, surrounded by huge green olives slashed and stuffed with wads of basil leaves. This idyllic dining experience was made even more so by an accordionist playing soft Italian specialties at another café further along the square. When he wandered off, a man with a mandolin came to Terra di Siena and cocking his head oddly, serenaded us -- with more sheer volume than artistry.
Walking through Campo dei Fiori and along the Tiber past the Ponte Sisto, I crossed over the river to prowl through my favorite neighborhood, Trastevere. At the church of Santa Maria I took several shots of the Byzantine mosaicwork in the nave (which finally, after three previous tries, came out beautifully). I had no success finding my liter bottle, so to console myself I stopped for a gelato, an intense, impossibly dark rich chocolate, topped by a dollop of frozen whipped cream. Finally in despair of finding a decent bottle I stopped at a pharmacy. A wolfishly handsome pharmacist with pale green eyes sold me a plastic liter bottle of distilled water that would certainly work. A scrawny plane tree sapling at the riverbank looked as if it could use some nourishment so I poured the water out to make my burden lighter. Across the river I found a kitchen supply shop and bought a perfect bottle with a sealed stopper.
At the hotel, I finished up my Waugh, put my travel notes in some semblance of order, then joined my friends for dinner. The man at the desk had recommended Crisciotti al Boschetto down the street as the best local spot.
This turned out to be an excellent choice. Crisciotti al Boschetto featured a terrific cold buffet, mostly seafood specialties. For my main course I had the bucatina all’amatriana, which was adequate but hardly memorable. Our waiter was a little man with an enormous shelf of stomach who in taking our orders, only took notes in his head. The meal was fine but it took forever to get the bill, which diminished the pleasure of the evening.
Lee and Jo were leaving early in the morning so we said our goodbyes. I arranged to meet Ellen and Richard the following evening at seven.

Tuesday, October 30
I set out to see the parts of the city which I hadn’t explored yet, south of the Colosseum. Climbing the Via dei Santi Quattro, I stumbled onto Collegio Irlandese. An Irish college in Rome must have something to do with educating Irish priests.
Eventually I reached the baths of Caracalla. I had never seen these impressive ruins except in passing so I bought a ticket and went in.
The baths were a project of one of the later emperors, and when finished they must have been spectacular. Sadly, they were in use for only about 300 years. When Rome began to be sacked on a regular basis, the Romans were reluctant to venture outside the central part of the city. The baths, as a result, fell out of use and a succession of popes continued the destruction by stripping the buildings of marble and ornaments. Time did the rest, but what remains is still colossal. Like most ruins, these are a great spur to the historical imagination. In summer, the great parkland surrounding the baths is home to outdoor productions of opera, an excellent reason to return to Rome in the hot months.
I trudged back to the centro storico along the Palatine hill, beside the Circus Maximus, then along the Tiber toward Piazza Venezia. By now I’d worked up a powerful hunger. My goal was Fiaschetteria Beltramme, site of two memorable meals with Kathy and Marie. Unfortunately, the host -- in a grimy apron -- informed me there was a wait of about 10 minutes. I was willing to wait, but when he churlishly wouldn’t allow me to go back and wash the dirt of the centuries off my hands, I decided to go to a friendlier place.
Luckily there was one next door, called Difronta a…, a friendly, lively place with colorful decorations. A charming, somewhat harried man showed me to a table immediately and a sweet young girl brought me a quarter liter of white wine. I ordered a terrific salad – roughage at last – of chicory, fagioli, tiny shrimp and a rough grating of cheese. It was most enjoyable and filling but I still followed it up with a plate of fettuccine with clams. This splendid repast needed a sweet finish so further up the street I stopped for a small cup of black cherry gelato.
Back at the hotel, Ellen brought me my olive oil and set me the task of finding a nearby restaurant for our last meal together. Gran Caffe Strega, a brilliantly lit outdoor restaurant, was two blocks away. I had a salad much like the one at lunch, but with olives and no fagioli. After roughly nine and half hours of walking it was lovely to relax over a meal with my friends, and we savored our last moments together.

Wednesday, October 31
At breakfast I was joined by an sixtyish Swedish man, here for a week. He’s another ardent Italophile and was very curious about our Tuscan sojourn. Ellen came in briefly to say goodbye; I hated to see her go. The months of careful planning had produced a lovely trip together and now it was ending – for them, anyway.
I was in the mood for art today. I’d seen much of the Capitoline Museum collection on a previous visit, but there was a whole wing I hadn’t explored. Most notably, I’d missed La Lupa, the Etruscan statue of the she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus. This symbol of Rome is powerful and simple, and I’d have hated to miss it. There were great galleries of painting to enjoy, and I wanted to see the ancient marbles again. In all I stayed about three and a half hours.
Back in the old center of Rome I briefly ducked into the Pantheon. Under the great portico I was stopped by a beautiful young man in 18th century Venetian dress, passing out flyers for a concert that evening of vocal music. I longed to go, but my flight was too early in the morning for me to chance it. Across the square I stopped in at a restaurant and got an indifferent panino of mozzarella and tomatoes which I ate sitting by the fountain, tossing bits of bread to the pigeons. But the pear gelato afterward was the stuff of legend, grainy as a sun-ripened pear and mouthwateringly sweet.
I spent the rest of the afternoon meandering the city, savoring my last hours here. An unfamiliar street, Via dei Coronari, was lined with one antique shop after another. Most of the antiques are the sort of thing you don’t easily find in America but I couldn’t take home what I really wanted, a handsome shopkeeper in his forties, with dark eyes, slightly graying hair and a full, beautiful mouth.
During my hike I found Il Buco, the restaurant specializing in Tuscan dishes I’d stumbled upon on my first visit, and I was told that they could seat me as early as seven.
I returned to the hotel, paid my bill and arranged for a taxi to take me to the airport in the morning. After too brief a rest, I set out for Il Buco, leaving behind camera, bag, maps. My load this time consisted solely of Sprezzatura, a book of fifty short essays on various aspects of Italian culture.
The meal at Il Buco was as close to perfection as I found on the entire trip. The waiter, not the man I’d talked to earlier, seemed somewhat put out at my appearing precisely at seven. With no need to hurry I sat sopping up a lovely chianti and eating rough Tuscan bread and enjoying Sprezzatura. It took almost 45 minutes for my meal to arrive but it was lovely to wait and read. First came penne alla Wodka, perfectly al dente and plentiful. The main dish was guinea fowl baked – till falling-apart tender – with artichoke hearts and tiny bittersweet black olives. Guinea fowl are apparently cursed with more bones than most birds are, but it was very pleasant work taking him apart. My bird was accompanied by a generous slice of polenta to soak up the juices and a spray of chicory.
As if this weren’t bliss enough, the waiter, who got much friendlier as the meal wore on, brought me a basket of delicate little biscotti no bigger than orange slices -- and a glass of vino santo. Ellen had been so smitten by this combination in Cortona that I was acutely sorry she wasn’t with me.
I wandered back to the Italia slowly, stopping only to buy a calendar of Italian theatre prints for Lisa and to toss the propitiatory coin over my shoulder into the fountain of Trevi, thus ensuring my return.

Thursday, November 1
Before leaving I went back down to the ATM to get a bit more cash. The hotel clerk had told me that the forty-minute taxi ride to the airport was a fixed rate of 75,000 lire (About $37.00), but I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a little extra. The Italia had been comfortable enough, but hardly worth a return visit, but as a courteous gesture I took a business card on checking out.
It was the wisest thing I did that day.
The taxi arrived a couple of minutes before seven – perfect. He seemed affable enough, so I climbed into the front seat beside him and we sailed off down the all-but-deserted Via Nazionale. After a few blocks I realized the meter was clicking away and the tally was already 119,000 lire. “Wait,” I said, “the hotel said there was a flat rate of 75,000!” He looked dubious – and suddenly less friendly. “Here,” I said, pulling out the business card. He took it, pulled out a cell phone (I’ll never curse them again) and called the hotel. After he verified the settled rate he shrugged his agreement and we continued down the road. I noticed that yellow lights were being ignored, and we even squeaked through a couple of red ones. When we hit the outskirts of Rome, the car leaped into action, racing along the autostrada faster than I’ve ever gone before while not in a jet. We hit the open highway and he accelerated further. I sat rigid, trying not to look nervous, but my hands were gushing perspiration. Refusing to show cold fear, in case that was the effect he wanted, I looked lackadaisically at the landscape whizzing past the slipstream of the cab. Out of mild curiosity as to what my death report would read, I glanced over at the speedometer. It was lazily resting at zero. Obviously, we were going well over 120 mph, and possibly as fast as 150.
When we arrived at Fiumicino – after our fifteen minute ride – I fought down the impulse to fall to the ground and cover it with kisses. Every climax has its anticlimax, I suppose. I found the KLM counter in no time and seven or eight Americans were there already. But no clerks manned the counter. Forty minutes later they arrived.
My flight back to America was uneventful, which in these parlous times is all one can ask. Once more Italy had drawn me in and made me feel welcome -- and I shall return.