Dispatch from Tuscany

Now, for more tourist meccas, we leave the countryside of Umbria to train north into the current hip spot for the American go-there do-that set - Tuscany.  Ever since Jean read Under the Tuscan Sun, I have been bombarded with her deep sighs about restoring some crumbling 13th century Tuscan villa and making olive oil from our very own trees.  I must keep reminding her that she is Jean Stewart- not Martha, and while I can repair wiring and plumbing, I don’t want to have re-invent ‘em. 

In Tuscany the food is different enough for even me to notice.  Eating and food are an important part of life in Italy, and we are getting into their way of eating and drinking.  For instance, waiters here are members of a respected profession, not struggling students, screenwriters, or OJ’s houseboy.  No salt and pepper on the tables, as one would not dream of altering the chefs presentation.  Asking what spice a dish contained, one night was misinterpreted as it needing more spice.  The waiter slammed down a dish of cayenne pepper on the table and stomped off.  When the mistake was explained, the mood of the help changed back into one of service and respect and Jean ended up in the kitchen with the chef. Thank goodness he didn’t hear that we thought his creations needed changing, or a meat cleaver might have been our second course.

A long weekend in Siena, a medieval city made rich on pilgrims going between Rome and Florence.  These guys got so rich, they started building a church to rival Rome’s, but the Black Death intervened, dropping two thirds of the population, leaving church unfinished and the various competitive family towers still the tallest buildings in town.  Siena started with 9 family groups in the 12th century, vying for prestige and power - that has grown into 14 today.  Each with its own neighborhood, animal icon, church, flag, special street lights and various other self-proclaimed embellishments - just like any clan, tong, gang, or fraternity.

Siena is where they run the famous horse race called the Palio - bareback riders roar around the plaza for a prize of a yellow streamer and big big bragging rights.  The race was over months ago, but the day we arrived, we found small boys from the winning family drumming and twirling banners in the streets.  Young men, in costumes to rival Halloween in the Castro, chanting and singing thir neighborhood anthems while snaking through the narrow street’s canyons.  This went on until fireworks at 1AM, making me think that somehow the news it was my birthday had leaked out.  No, it was just another bunch of human males, taunting their rivals and boasting of marvelous unnecessary deeds done in their name by others – a fairly universal and timeless human activity.

Today, we are in San Gimignano, where this competitive-family-tower construction thing, reached its zenith.  Seventy-three of these ego trips were built here during the 12th and 13th centuries, and enough remain to give this little village the title of “The Manhattan of Italy”.  The egoist builders surly padded their codpieces.  (Look it up)  I wonder what Freud would have said about these guys.

We find a small hotel outside the walls and are lead up to our room by one of those incredible women that only the Italian gene pool can produce.  I, being always the gentleman, let her lead up the stairs and her jeans were slow dancing a pas d’ deux from Swan Lake.  My Jean follows and gives me a swat.   She knows me too well.  We will hold up in our room until the tour busses take the hoards of German day-trippers back to Florence, and then hit the cobblestones.  Our afternoon picnic of cheese, wine, truffle spreads and fruit, next to the roofless ruins of a stone farmhouse, will keep us going until the fashionable Italian dinner hour of 9.



Jean got a good look inside that Tuscan villa, so I don’t think the local real estate agents can expect a call.

- Rodichello Realiti