Buongiorno, and welcome to Montepulciano, a medieval town perched on a Tuscan hilltop two thousand feet high, which is not as high as I am at the moment. I am here for nearly two weeks to explore and attend Il Sasso, the language school that everyone in town seems to know about. I've been here since yesterday late afternoon. That would have been Wednesday morning before you even got out of bed...and I'd already flown into Florence from Madrid, rented a car, driven helter-skelter through the countryside, got lost twice, then drove directly to the hotel through steep narrow unmarked streets, which everyone on Tripadvisor says is impossible.
Ha! say I. Nothing is impossible.
I arrived at the same time as a thunderstorm.
My room is off a terrace festooned in petunias. Below is the main street of town, which is flamboyant with people all hours of the day and night. Their voices echo in this stucco canyon, rising like bubbles which pop in several languages. It is holiday time in Europe, and cheerful visitors are here from all over the globe.
Those of you who know me well will not be too surprised to hear that I'm already on kissing terms with a goodly number of the local populace. It all started last evening, when I took myself down into the canyon street in search of a bite to eat.
The restaurant recommended by Vittoria, the female owner of my hotel, was closed. It's usually closed on Tuesday but they closed on Wednesday because Thursday (as I write this) is a festa. Don't ask me. That's what the lovely waitress told me when I inquired a little while ago. Anyway, I ended up a few doors down at Bistrot del Tribunale. I ordered an insalada mista and a small plate of homemade tagliatelle with Italian sausage. I wanted Prosecco, one of my favorite drinks in the world and a very popular one here in Tuscany, so I ordered a bottle. It was cheaper than by the glass and a better label. That's it, sitting on my table beside my notebook and glasses.
They spoke a Germanic sort of language that I didn't recognize at all, and they were lovely, easygoing with the kids and enjoying themselves. By and by, I finished my pasta and a cigarette or two (everyone here smokes, it's marvelous), and I still had a whole lot of Prosecco left. So I did the only thing possible: I took the bottle over to the parents' table and asked them if they spoke English. Yes, they did, as so many here do, no matter where they call home. Would you like to finish my bottle of Prosecco? I asked. The men shook their heads no. I looked at the women. Their eyes were bright and perfectly amazed. Really? Yes, please take it, I've had enough. They thanked me and I wandered back to finish the wine already in my glass.
A few minutes later, one of the mothers came to my table. She told me she had an American friend now living in Norway who had insisted she learn English. We introduced ourselves. Her name is Marenka, although I'm not sure about the spelling, as they are Polish. Marenka said she and the others had been trying different wines for the three days they'd been in Montepulciano but they had forgotten to order Prosecco and they were overjoyed to be drinking it now. "It's a wine for women," she said, which I believe is a true enough statement. We discussed the happiness of bubbles in wine.
Pretty soon, her daughter joined us. I had noticed this beautiful child, probably eleven years old, slender and graceful with hair the color of caramel sauce, when she walked up on crutches. It turned out she is a dancer and had hurt her knee in a recent performance. She told me, in English with her mother's help, that she loved to dance. I told her I did too and I hoped she would dance all her life. She beamed at me and promised she would.
Marenka asked me where I was from. When I told her I was American but lived in Mexico, she nearly swooned. She told me it is her greatest dream in life to go to Mexico one day, maybe when the children are bigger. So we talked Mexico. I encouraged her, of course, and she and her daughter decided on the spot to start learning Spanish as soon as they return to Poland.
When Marenka returned to her table, I went inside to pay my bill. One of the waitresses who had overheard the conversation outside began speaking to me in intermediate Spanish. She told me she loves the Spanish language, so we shared some words in all three languages: Spanish, Italian, and English. Then Pino, the chubby and cheerful man who had been overseeing everything, joined in. He, too, speaks some Spanish. They asked me what I was doing in Italy, and when I mentioned my upcoming visit to Sicily, he exclaimed, "But I'm Sicilian!" I told him I was going on a search for any trace of my ancestors, and, in true Sicilian style, he nearly cried as he hugged me with joy. Then he insisted upon giving me enough milk for my tea in the morning, as all the grocery stores were closed already. "Not like Mexico," he said, shaking his head in dismay.
We all parted with hugs and kisses, and I climbed back to my room and slept like a happy child.
This morning, I made tea in my room, adding Pino's milk to taste. After I was sufficiently awake and prepared to speak to other humans, I went down to the patio for breakfast. Roberto, the owner, who I will tell you more about soon but suffice it to say he keeps suggesting a massage in my room, was swooping about serving all the guests, singing bad opera, and hollering to Vittoria (his wife...) to make more cappucinos. He pushed a trolley to my table which was piled with croissants and pastries. No thank you, I said (in Italian, although Roberto does speak some English which may not include the word "no" but I'll teach it to him, you can bet). Off he went to the kitchen to bring me protein: a plate of salamis and pecorino cheese, which is made here in twenty-seven varieties. I ate it all.
(I got more kisses when I passed Rosella's shop again.)
Down there somewhere is the agriturismo, the farmhouse bed & breakfast I'll be staying in for a week starting on Saturday. I know I said I'd blog if and when I could, but if I have anything resembling internet access, expect fairly frequent reports. I have to do something with all these damn photos.
Ciao for now!
Ha! say I. Nothing is impossible.
I arrived at the same time as a thunderstorm.
My room is off a terrace festooned in petunias. Below is the main street of town, which is flamboyant with people all hours of the day and night. Their voices echo in this stucco canyon, rising like bubbles which pop in several languages. It is holiday time in Europe, and cheerful visitors are here from all over the globe.
Those of you who know me well will not be too surprised to hear that I'm already on kissing terms with a goodly number of the local populace. It all started last evening, when I took myself down into the canyon street in search of a bite to eat.
The restaurant recommended by Vittoria, the female owner of my hotel, was closed. It's usually closed on Tuesday but they closed on Wednesday because Thursday (as I write this) is a festa. Don't ask me. That's what the lovely waitress told me when I inquired a little while ago. Anyway, I ended up a few doors down at Bistrot del Tribunale. I ordered an insalada mista and a small plate of homemade tagliatelle with Italian sausage. I wanted Prosecco, one of my favorite drinks in the world and a very popular one here in Tuscany, so I ordered a bottle. It was cheaper than by the glass and a better label. That's it, sitting on my table beside my notebook and glasses.
They spoke a Germanic sort of language that I didn't recognize at all, and they were lovely, easygoing with the kids and enjoying themselves. By and by, I finished my pasta and a cigarette or two (everyone here smokes, it's marvelous), and I still had a whole lot of Prosecco left. So I did the only thing possible: I took the bottle over to the parents' table and asked them if they spoke English. Yes, they did, as so many here do, no matter where they call home. Would you like to finish my bottle of Prosecco? I asked. The men shook their heads no. I looked at the women. Their eyes were bright and perfectly amazed. Really? Yes, please take it, I've had enough. They thanked me and I wandered back to finish the wine already in my glass.
A few minutes later, one of the mothers came to my table. She told me she had an American friend now living in Norway who had insisted she learn English. We introduced ourselves. Her name is Marenka, although I'm not sure about the spelling, as they are Polish. Marenka said she and the others had been trying different wines for the three days they'd been in Montepulciano but they had forgotten to order Prosecco and they were overjoyed to be drinking it now. "It's a wine for women," she said, which I believe is a true enough statement. We discussed the happiness of bubbles in wine.
Pretty soon, her daughter joined us. I had noticed this beautiful child, probably eleven years old, slender and graceful with hair the color of caramel sauce, when she walked up on crutches. It turned out she is a dancer and had hurt her knee in a recent performance. She told me, in English with her mother's help, that she loved to dance. I told her I did too and I hoped she would dance all her life. She beamed at me and promised she would.
Marenka asked me where I was from. When I told her I was American but lived in Mexico, she nearly swooned. She told me it is her greatest dream in life to go to Mexico one day, maybe when the children are bigger. So we talked Mexico. I encouraged her, of course, and she and her daughter decided on the spot to start learning Spanish as soon as they return to Poland.
When Marenka returned to her table, I went inside to pay my bill. One of the waitresses who had overheard the conversation outside began speaking to me in intermediate Spanish. She told me she loves the Spanish language, so we shared some words in all three languages: Spanish, Italian, and English. Then Pino, the chubby and cheerful man who had been overseeing everything, joined in. He, too, speaks some Spanish. They asked me what I was doing in Italy, and when I mentioned my upcoming visit to Sicily, he exclaimed, "But I'm Sicilian!" I told him I was going on a search for any trace of my ancestors, and, in true Sicilian style, he nearly cried as he hugged me with joy. Then he insisted upon giving me enough milk for my tea in the morning, as all the grocery stores were closed already. "Not like Mexico," he said, shaking his head in dismay.
We all parted with hugs and kisses, and I climbed back to my room and slept like a happy child.
This morning, I made tea in my room, adding Pino's milk to taste. After I was sufficiently awake and prepared to speak to other humans, I went down to the patio for breakfast. Roberto, the owner, who I will tell you more about soon but suffice it to say he keeps suggesting a massage in my room, was swooping about serving all the guests, singing bad opera, and hollering to Vittoria (his wife...) to make more cappucinos. He pushed a trolley to my table which was piled with croissants and pastries. No thank you, I said (in Italian, although Roberto does speak some English which may not include the word "no" but I'll teach it to him, you can bet). Off he went to the kitchen to bring me protein: a plate of salamis and pecorino cheese, which is made here in twenty-seven varieties. I ate it all.
(I got more kisses when I passed Rosella's shop again.)
Down there somewhere is the agriturismo, the farmhouse bed & breakfast I'll be staying in for a week starting on Saturday. I know I said I'd blog if and when I could, but if I have anything resembling internet access, expect fairly frequent reports. I have to do something with all these damn photos.
Ciao for now!
loving this journey with you...you are in one of my favorite cities...isn't life grand!
Posted by: Char | August 20, 2013 at 09:08 AM
How wonderful to be able to travel vicariously through your blog. Loving hearing about the people and the wine and food. Waiting anxiously for more. LOVE YOU!
Posted by: Adrienne | August 19, 2013 at 10:28 AM
Love it, great storytelling and photos. Almost puts us there!
Posted by: Darren Ballegeer | August 17, 2013 at 08:47 AM
What would I do without you? You brighten my life, Candice. . . Siena is a favorite of mine as well as Amalfi coast (don't miss that ride from Amalfi to Sorrento). I didn't much take to Capri, but really enjoyed Sicily. What a country. You can't run out of beauties to see in Italy. I do look forward to all your reports and pictures. You are such a fine photographer.
Posted by: Thelma | August 15, 2013 at 10:13 PM
I love, love, love Italy and look forward to your posts and pictures! Enjoy all the food, people and scenery. I'm jealous.
Posted by: Nicole | August 15, 2013 at 09:54 PM
Chin up, dear. Maybe your next stop will have some decent scenery.
!!!
Posted by: Travis | August 15, 2013 at 07:23 PM
Bellisima!
Posted by: Fred Feibel | August 15, 2013 at 06:44 PM
That was delicious! Thanks for sharing, the pictures and the stories are delightful. I love Italy and it seems that Italy loves you! Be careful, they will try to feed you to death!
Kisses!
S
Posted by: Sheri | August 15, 2013 at 10:40 AM