Dispatch from Via Chianti

With fall coming early, our plans to visit sunny Capri or bask with Napoleon on Elba were washed out with the arriving rain showers.  “But the hills of Chianti”, to quote Jean’s friend, “are just ta die for!”  So to test that literal truth, we went to a local agency ... and rented a car!

Have you ever fantasized about the autumn trees blurring past the open window?  Your right hand, draped in a kidskin driving glove, is gripping the 5 speed close-ratio shifter.  Your left hand is linked to the crisp rack-and-pinion steering of a fine Italian road machine.  Low profile radial rubber on a well engineered, perfectly maintained, but winding and narrow mountain road.  Such Italian roads are the reason for the Mazerati, the Ferrari, and bright red Alpha Romero Spider convertibles!  Unfortunately, we only got the off-white Fiat Punto (Pinto?) hatchback.  But as we corkscrewed up and down the mountains and drifted into the turns, I was living the dream - and I think even Jean was visualizing it - as she often had her eyes shut tight and was making what I think, sounded like little moans of delight.

Despite the reputation of Italian drivers, I loved our first adventures at the wheel.  Darwin has apparently culled the herd, and those that survived are great drivers.  Drink espresso, drive as fast as you dare, and let everyone else know exactly what you are trying to do - and then do it with gusto.  In other words, they all drive like me!  No honking or vivid hand gestures out the window, too busy shifting and passing.  Ah passing! My memory of Italian roads will always be expressed by the vision of a yellow school bus, blowing by us on an outside curve, while I’m up shifting into fifth gear.  I watch the blase expression of the school children, Italy’s future drivers, looking out the back window as they are compressed to one side and then the other.  The bus roars out of sight, sliding around the next hairpin curve.  Jean re-closes her eyes.

But we reach the heart of Il Chianti alive, find a room to rent in one of their 800 wineries, hang out two buckets of laundry to dry as it starts to rain, and raid the wine cellar just across from our door.  Chianti Classico is the wine of fame here, and the view from our room even meets Jean’s expectations, with the just opened ‘96’s label showing the very vines seen outside our window.  Tonight we drive to the top of the hill town of Radda, for Bar Dante’s famous bruschetta, and to see if vino rosso works as well as espresso in bringing the Grand Prix of Chianti to life ... and maybe to look in the shops for driving gloves!

Viva Italia, viva vino, viva retirement!

- Rodolifo Rapido