I woke up too early this morning when last night’s fly kept landing on my face. We have no internet, but there are ripe cherries on the trees to put on our cereal and a little cat that sneaks in every time the door is open and makes itself at home.
The shortcut to Jerry’s that Maurice sussed out on the map turned out to be a longcut through the white roads of Tuscany, leading us right back to the road we started out on, making us even later than we already were with Maurice trying to capture the nonexistent internet and me being my usual self with a poor grasp on how long it really takes me to do things. Dewey and Jenelle were even later, having lost track of time in a morning painting session at their kitchen table. When Jenelle got out of the car at the gas station to tuck her shirt in and put her belt on, she said, “I’m never like this;” it must be the delightful Tuscan atmosphere.
It wasn’t long before we were in Castelmuzio. I hadn’t been able to look anything up about the town because Jerry, hardworking as he is at herding us cats, is vague on names (and pronunciation and spelling). As far as I could tell, the town had no bakery, no grocery store (the Co-op sign led to a dead end), no tourist info and not even a map board with local features, but it also had few tourists and was unusually quiet for a town that was supposed to have a fest in progress; in the Italian manner activites ramp up later, with birra e panini on sale at 7:30 and a rock concert at 9:15.
I wandered the streets, took pictures and serendipitously noticed a sign for Pieve Santo Stefano. In spite of yesterday’s disastrous expedition I set off hopefully. First of course I had to leave town—i.e., descend the hill—but it wasn’t far until I saw the sign pointing down a poppy-lined, stone-walled lane among olive trees. Even if the church was closed, this would be worth it.
The church, its original Romanesque apse somewhat worn with years but glowing in the sun, was not closed.
Though remaining decorations were few and it seemed to be under refurbishment, I soaked up the atmosphere in and out, inhaled the scents of a thick line of white roses and a tall patch of lavender, watched and listened to the buzz of the bees and the bells clanging noon, and walked back happy. I got my lunch out of the car, found Maurice ready to head to the cafe for a salad and visited the stunning one-seater free public restroom (better than most in public facilities) generously provided by the citizenry.
Castelmuzio is bigger than Murlo, but size is relative. Several streets circle around the old hilltop borgo, the intertwining buildings a mish-mash of vermillion brick and summer-wheat stone, opening out to views, a little park by the gate and a delightful outdoor salotto under the trees—a patio on the hillside—where I ate my lunch and stayed for the afternoon overlooking the flowing green landscape. A sign in poetic Italian described the salotto as a place to connect with one another or be yourself or be “sweetly shipwrecked in the green sea of the hills.” Dewey and Jenelle were settled there painting.
Penny worked at her easel under another tree.
A young woman at the table in the sun between the trees was underlining a four-inch-thick textbook, her phone and other accessories at her elbow. A man behind me in the street was doing tai chi.
Visitors wandered by to take pictures over the railing. A streak of swallows swooped low from behind, veering right over the valley and disappearing behind the shuttered and ivied wall. A clutch of expressive Italians had been coming and going from Penny’s bench until only a young family was left enjoying riposo together, the baby eventually working itself into a vigorous cry; Papa talked to it sweetly and Mama stuck it on her chest occasionally but I think it needed a nap (at home), and soon its parents packed up the baby and the toddler and the supplies and the double stroller and ambled away. All was quiet at the edge of the village in the leafy shade under the blue Tuscan sky. In the warm stillness I heard the the amiable chirping of happy birds, bits of conversation and the clinking of pranzo dishes through an overhead balcony window, and Dewey, who had declared his painting done, munching an apple. A gentle breeze floated past, then butterflies and more swallows, and the hilly sea of green wrapped itself around our restful salotto in the summer afternoon. For sweet and fleeting moments it was the anteroom of heaven.
I took Janice up on her quick creativity challenge but instead of painting I made up couplets:
My luggage is missing. I’ve clothes not a one. But still I am dancing in Tuscany sun.
Socks, clothes and undies we wash in the basin. Oh, suitcases straying, to Tuscan hasten!
No curlers, no sunscreen—it’s not what I planned—but Jesus walks with me through Tuscany land.
The wayward returned—a sartorial fest! I’m halving my packing for Tuscany next.
Artists Maurice, Bob and Kay taking a break
Home at Le Chiuse I visited our landlord Lorenzo working in his vegetable garden. We reviewed the names of all the plants in English and Italian. I asked him if the cat had a name. Wilma, he said. Wilma likes to visit us, I told him. Yes, she wants company and food, but she has food at home. Aha. I had dropped my hunk of cheese on the ground at lunch, shaved off the outer portions and saved them for Wilma, and Maurice gave them to her in spite of her sneakiness. Then he made us bruschetta. By the time we went out the grocery store was closed; according to the sign it had been closed all day. A lot of stores were closed today. Breakfast will be thin.
Dinner pickings in Buonconvento were slim too. We ate at the Ristorante Roma on the old town’s quiet main drag. Maurice’s pici was OK but my verdura alla griglia was lacking something and my pizza—well, my pizza was on a fat prefabricated crust! I could have done better at home. From the next table the young mother of two little boys said to us, “We are brothers and sisters in the Lord.” What? Such an unexpected comment. But she had seen us pray before dinner. They were a Dutch family on holiday in Tuscany for 3 1/2 weeks. Koos had lived in the US for two short periods growing up and he spoke better English than his wife Carliene. His hometown was near Nijmegen in the Dutch Bible belt (which I’d never heard of). We met again at the ice cream shop down the street and exchanged emails. Come visit us when you come to the US, we said. Maybe they will.
Koos mentioned today was a holiday. Aha—National Day! Maurice suddenly remembered that when he worked at NGA this was the day he and his colleagues (and spouses) were invited to a celebration at the Italian embassy. Yes, I remember it well, especially the huge wheels of parmigiana scooped out and filled with chunks of the perfect hard cheese. And mozzarella and real verdura alla griglia and gelato….
When we got home I closed myself in the bathroom with the irritating fly until I whacked it dead.
Montalcino
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