Holiday Letter 2003
Since we’d confirmed our arrival at Alberto’s Podere Di Pillore I have had some trepidation. I am not sure why. We spent a wonderful two weeks there two years ago, but I thought there are so many other places to explore, should we have come back here.
I usually don’t look forward to long flights but I was excited to learn that we would be flying the first leg of our trip to Florence on an Airbus. Curious these many years of seeing them fly over our house, I was excited to actually fly in one. I love to watch the “heavy” planes coming and going, imagining what adventures await the passengers. I think of these planes as the great trans-oceanic liners, on a much more informal basis, of our times. Not an original thought I know but one that keeps me entertained as they ceaselessly fly over our backyard.
The shape of the Airbus intrigues me. It has four engines and a profile reminiscent of the 707, which was the first ship to carry me off to Europe. The wings are what get me. From below they look almost glider like—slender and coming to sharp upturned points at the ends and now sitting at 37,000 feet looking at them, they are even more magnificent. As opposed to Boeing’s stout wings, these are lithe with multiple controlling surfaces. While sitting on the tarmac full of fuel they hang down somewhat dejectedly but once we start to roll their ends perks up and sail.
Two planes and nine hours later, finally over Florence, we land in the clouds and rain and make our way to the rental car stand. There we are warned of the crazy Italian drivers by a beautifully dressed French grandma and her cardiologist husband who have confided in us the longing for their grand-children growing up in Washington D.C. Seems the children are resistant to all their grandparents efforts to pass on the French language to them, ah Americans.
On our last trip we had a Fiat Punto - it should have been called a Pokey. The Italians took full advantage of its lack of horsepower, though Alberto, our host and innkeeper, thought it probably had more to do with the driver’s lack of horsepower. Even the Vespas seemed to sense the Punto’s lack of spirit, but today my confidence is bolstered when it is announced we have an Alfa Romeo 156 turbo diesel and it appears to have UMPH! I take the keys from Charlotte. You see I had been so traumatized by my experience as an unwilling participant in the Italian Grand Prix for two weeks on our last trip that I made Charlotte promise to drive this time out, but upon seeing the Alfa’s coat of arms on the grill all my foreboding faded away.
Of course, we immediately got lost but reluctantly I followed my navigator’s insistence to just keep going, “this just feels right”, she repeated over and over. And it did, once the Centro sign appeared I knew we would recover from our first misstep.
You have to remember that we are not actually staying in Florence but in a small hamlet called Caldine, a narrowing in an already narrow road. This down to earth little town makes Lincoln Park look lame. We watch for the tiny off shoot of a road that leads to Alberto’s orchard. The road immediately becomes a one lane twisted, blind curve infested, 45-degree up trail past apartments, trains, homes, gardens, orchards, grapevines and finally leading to Podere Di Pillore, Alberto’s ancestral home from the 13th century.
We launch into the driveway, skid to a stop, catch our breath and see Penny, his German Shepard, approach with a tennis ball in her mouth—nothing has changed.
The smell catches me: rosemary, thyme and sage. If you could write a book, you could write a book about the smell. Even the forty-degree wind and rain do not dampen it and this day the air is laced with the smell of burning wood from the fireplaces giving it a deep rich note, not unlike the tannins in the local wines.
Alberto, cellist, professor and farmer, greets us apologizing for the weather. It seems that nature is finally taking its revenge for our despicable handling of the environment. The summer had been a disaster. No rain for 8 months with temperatures in the 90-100 degree ranges. The grapes were a total loss as the olives may yet be, a catastrophe in Alberto’s words. I should mention that Alberto produces olive oil and vinegar to which I have become addicted.
He informs us that he has enough olive oil for his most important customers in Ann Arbor, MI and Japan this year and that this is agriculture, dependent on nature and he has wonderful land and on to the next year. While lamenting the bad fortune in the hills this year, I am selfishly hoping that somewhere there are 12 bottles for me in his shed.
He shows us our cozy little suite that feels like the heat has been off since the 13th century. We are to clean up and rest for a couple of hours then he will take us shopping and to Mario’s to make a reservation for dinner. Now in the telling this seems simple enough but the grace and complexity of these tasks here in Caldine is deceptive.
We jump in his car, which he puts in neutral to begin it rolling down the hill, slips it into gear, and pops the clutch to start it. It being a fairly new Fiat station wagon, all I can think of is the confused little microcircuits under the hood wondering why the key wasn’t turned on and the starter engaged. It seems it is a new car for him and he has no idea of how to defrost the fogged up windows as we careen down the steep road into town. I am thankfully allowed to turn the knobs and instruct him in the use of the curious defrost options, though I am sure the dials will never be changed again whatever climatic conditions are encountered.
On the way we drive out into oncoming traffic, just miss a bus squeezing through the main drag of Caldine which is barely wide enough for several Punto’s but now in the late afternoon, with all the locals congregating in the shops and parked on the road, is narrower still.
We get to Mario’s, no pizza and different owners but they were students of the professor when he taught high school music for 6 years and appear very fond of him. We invade the restaurant and he explains we are “vegetarianos”, the only word I understand in the flurry of the exchange. We’ll be back at 8 PM, it seems we have passed the test. We pull out, then back to get the forgotten eggs at the butcher next door to Mario’s for the frittata he plans to make the piano trio he has been blessed to play with. The eggs are wrapped in newspaper and come from the free rangers just a across the road.
Now to the wine shop, a place run by an ex-bike racer who travels to the US to buy old radios, restores them and makes enough money to keep making his own wine. The locals bring their bottles to be refilled and we buy a red and a white of his finest for 3.60 euros. Then across the street for bread and cheese at a beautiful little deli where all the local men are having their shot of afternoon espresso.
Everywhere we stop, the lively conversation makes us wish we had taken that conversational Italian course at the Italian Consulate in Chicago. Alberto sensing this says that this is Tuscany and every meeting is theater. We have a wonderful dinner at 8, then bundle up and sleep for the next 10 hours.
