Roma

After three months of travel and living la vie europeene we arrived in Roma, our final stop before flying home. It feels a bit surreal. We have been gone so long I am a little unsure about going home, especially as I won't be in my own home until September. We have seen and done so much since the first of May. Those days in Wales, London and Chester seem like another trip, and I suppose they are; at least a different chapter of this adventure.

I wasn't so sure about Rome at first. It seemeb big and dirty and busy, not that attractive, full of tourists and pushy maitre d's and tour guides. But over the past few days, exploring, meandering, getting a bit lost, then stumbling upon the Trevi Fountain or a Roman ruin or an incredible piazza with yet another amazing gelateria it has grown on me. On our first night we actually went out for Indian at a great little place near the train station. Nothing like a channa masala and butter chicken with naan to ground you.

 

Synagogue in Ostia Antica

Over the past days we've been to the Vatican, seen the museum and Sistine Chapel (gorgeous, but way too busy, hot and humid), saw St Peters and went up the dome in the rain. We meandered in the evening and threw coins into the Trevi Fountain. We wandered from the Spanish Steps, window shopped for me at Armani, Prada, and others (nothing I really liked, or at least nothing I liked and could afford without remortgaging the house), ate gelato again and marvelled at the Pantheon (we want to return when it snows and then make a snowman inside from the snow that comes throught the hole in the dome), toyshopped and ate pizza by the Piazza Navona (goes well with a glass of prosecco). We saw the Colosseum as the sun set, tried to see the Forum, but the workers were on strike (benvenuto al Italia!) so we went to Ostia Antica, the ancient port town west of Rome. For hours we wandered and climbed ruins of this former city of 60 000. Climbing the steps of the temple to Jupiter, Juno and Minerva and looking down on the forum and the other temples, 

in the Vatican Museum

 curia, shops and houses, sitting in the the theatre, we could imagine what it maight have been like two thousand years ago. We also saw the ruined synagogue sitting far outside the city walls, but recognizable with it's carved menora and ark. Last night we walked past the swank hotels and restaurants of the Via Veneto, made up stories about our tall dark waiter with too long sideburns, and found a late night gelateria where we had kiwi and banana gelato to give us strength to make it back. today, our final day here, we just walked- from the Colosseum through the Forum (open today, so we did a quick walk through two millennia past) to the former Jewish Ghetto and the Tiber River, through the markets of the Campo del Fiori (this is Rick Steves' favourite piazza?), to the gelateria of 100 flavours (Tegan had Mars bar mousse and hot pepper chocolate, Rowan had yoghurt and cherry, and I had chocolate truffle and pear and cheese! it was actually delicious, very subtle cheesiness). Then slow shopping walk along the Via del Corso, Via de Tritone, and eventually back to the hotel.


ancient heads at the Vatican

Lunch, siesta, packing, and now we ponder our final night in Rome, our final night in Italy, our final night in Europe.  I think we will eat well, walk once more past basilica, palazzi and fountains, sleep very little, and be home all too soon, but also at long last.
  



en descendant a Rome: city of music, city of walls

After a week in the mountains it was time to head south again. We looked on the map and the girls chose a place to spend the night and ideas for out last couple of days before heading into the city, la citta eternele. So we sped down the autostrada, out of the mountains, out of the cool mountain air and into the plains of Lombardy and the heat. Felt like southern Ontario a bit, except for the signs.

Cremona, birthplace of Stradivari and the violin. We parked a ways from town and spent a while wandering until we asked a signora how to get to museo violini. She pointed us in the right direction. We arrived in a big piazza with a statue of the maestro Stradivari giving a violin to a child, his tools lying around. We stopped for pranzo, lunch, on the piazza, lots of people with violins strapped to their backs, and then headed into the museo. Who should we find there but the signora who gave us directions. But we needed tickets first, so we got those,and a poster of a gorgeous 17th century violin for Tegan. The museo was full of ancient violins, all beautifuly crafted, and all of which would sound so sweet and rich if only they were played and not behind glass. The other part of the museum, across town, well, a gelato-length away, had a beautiful collection of baroque artwork, lots of flying angel-heads and good discussion from ther girls about the artwork. Theit knowledge and appreciation of art has come a long way since we came to Europe. There was also a display about how violins are made, more instruments, old tools lying around, and a pack of Japanese tourists. As we walked back to the car it was strangely quiet, like the city was abandoned. Curious, but a beautiful town.

 
Then more autostrade. We see the Leaning Tower of Pisa from afar, more autostrada and then we exit at Lucca, returning there but thids time staying overnight at the Hotel Rex, beside the train station, where the owner, maybe 80- or 90-something years old greets the girls with "bella bambina!" every time he saw them, and the concierge knows Victoria because he used to work on thne cruise ships. We crash for a bit then go down to the local pizza joint, with incredible pizza and not a word of English in sight.

The next day is one of of those near perfect days. I wake up early and go for a run around the city walls. Lucca is surrounded by an intact raised 200 year old wall, which makes a perfect running, walking or cycling route. The sun shines down on the churche spires, duomi, the towers of the town and the hills in the distance. The girls wake up and after a "bella bambina" breakfast and checing out we head into town. We go shopping, getting our "cool" Italian clothes before we head home, and looking for cheesy t-shirts that say such things as "add a little salt to your life." Then its on to the Palazzo Pfanner, a mansion with a garden that is filled with lemon trees and statues of the gods. We ponder buying the palazzo, inviting friends to move in with us, gardening and living la dolce vita. We lunch at the Canuleia, where we ate a few weeks before, dining al fresco in their garden. Rowan in in heaven  savouring her pecorino souffle with pear sauce. Tegan and I dig into our caneloni. We finish with a chocolate fondante cake and a cafe for me.

Back across town, poking into shops, past churches, through piazze, and to the car, and more autostrade through the hills of Toscana. now we aere back in familiar territory: Fulimico where we went to the waterpark, Grosetto, where we picked up Kath and Jodie at the train, Alberese, where we swam in the Mediterranean, and finally to Orbetello, Tegan's choice for the night, where we swim and play in the pool for hours, and go to the local festival, where we find a market of everything from antiques to organic liquorice to cheeses and provencal table cloths. The band places 70s rock and classic Italian songs, while the locals eat barbecue wild boar and drink bottles of the local vino on long tables. We take it all in and when we do lay down our heads, they are full and content, and anticipating the final adventure of Roma tomorrow.

Italia at 2000 metres

Cirque d'Aviasco, around 2100 m altitude, up in the Alpi Orobie range north of Brescia and Bergamo. I am slowly watching the world wake up. The stars and blackness give way to deep blue. The first sun hits the tops of the mountains to the west. Marmots start to whistle. My morning wake-up call. Small birds, yellow-winged and browns, flitter here and there. I watch the sun creep down the hillside, closer and closer to us, huddled together under our little, too little, grey tarp. Yesterday we made our way from the Baita (small cabin with hosts that us, serve meals, gave us shelter, cosy beds, wine, coffee and grappa, and wonderful company) Cernello, past a few other lakes, dammed over 80 years ago, along Lago Aviasco and up to this meadow.

Baita Cernello

In the afternoon we settled here, just past the abandoned shepherd hut, among the wildflowers and rivers, under Mt Pradella. Then we watched the sky's fluffy white clouds turn grey, then black. We dove under the tarp as hail pounded down, slid in drifts off the top of the tarp. We heard the rumble of thunder off behind Mt Pradella. we talked of options: waiting for a calm spell and making our way to the rifugio at Lago Nero, staying here, going back to Cernello. My brave adventurous girls wanted to stick it out. We still had hours before sunset, so I kept an eye on the sky.

A little while later there were patches of blue, and Rowan and I went for an explore up the side of Pradella. Patches of snow, beautiful striped stones, perhaps trails or a route up to the peak, or at least to the cirque's ridge. When we came down we saw Tegan in the meadows dancing around in her bright green raincoat and blue polka-dot pajamas.

A long wait for undercooked pasta and then we ducked into bed, reading about Rome, our toes taking a while to warm up. We slowly drifted off to sleep, cozy in our sleeping bags.

climbing the rock gully to the ridge of Mt Pradella

On Pradello, just above Lago Gelato

And now it is morning. A brilliant morning sun rising over the lake. The meadow all in sun, though dew and frost remain. The everpresent song of the stream is just below us, a cool breeze from above. The girls are now awake. A cup of tea. Tegan munching on porridge, questions about bugs from Rowan. We survived a night in the cool alpine, and wake to a cloudless day of blue blue sky. I am pround that my girls are strong, fearless, adventurous, slightly goofy and so full of trust and love. Another glorious day in the Orobie.

lokking down on Lago Aviasco and our
meadow

Opera by moonlight

The big round moon rises over the arena

as it has for thev past two thousand years
we sit on the stone, carved by slaves when Rome ruled the world
voices of the performers rise and fill the arena,
lifting out into the starry night
lights turn the stone bleachers lilac, then gold
costumes sparkle
the chorus dances
discussion and laughter from the nonnas behind us
as they share their picnic and their own history
it ends with applause and fireworks
and the thousands in suits and shorts, gowns and jeans
stream out and fill the cafes of the piazza
then disappear into the night.

another hot night in Verona
between Venice and the Alps and the Lombardy plain
i lie in bed, i can't sleep
maybe it is the expresso i drank two hours ago, thinking about the next stage of the journey,
or because i should not be asleep yet
the breeze flaps the awning on the balcony, blows over me
but it is still heavy with the day's heat
and then i hear it,
the rich deep voice of a tenor, drifting across the evening
Nabucco is proclaiming at the old arena
just a few hundred metres away
the old Babylonian is craving power,
pursuing love,
conquering and being defeated
as he can only do in opera
i go out into the night
stand on the balcony
and listen to the voices, to the violins and drums,
to applause under the stars
on a hot Verona night

Venezia

Melting heat, day after day. Meandering. The word was made for this city - through streets, lanes, calle, campi, over bridges, alongside canals, past yet another stunning church, ruined ca' or palatial edifice. I could wander endlessly through the streets for days, though my feet are sore and tired. Yet another bridge, another alley, another corner and another neighbourhood, world opens up. Our hotel, la Caneva is a bit of a dive, though a well-located dive, between the Rialto Bridge and a short walk from San Marco. some disappointment when we arrived because we are in a dfifferent building from Kath and Jodie, there was a shared bathroom, and no air conditioning in the heat, but we are in Venice. Our room overlooks a canal, it is close to all, and cheap! We are getting to know the characters around here: at night we hear the gondoliers  on the steps that disappear into the water across from us, chatting, waiting, having a break; in the morning it is the men loading the garbage boat, waving up at us; and there is the scuzzy manager who will do anything to eke another euro out of us. And there are the bells, bells, bells, from all over, chiming, gonging, more times than the hour.

The garbage boat just went by. It's name? Veritas: Truth.

Again we are in a place that has been painted by images - from books, from films, from photos. The girls and I explored the work of Cornelia Funke's The Thief Lord (read it before you go to Venice!) on Tuesday night. We didn't find the Stella, the theatre where the kids are hiding out, but we did find the Calle de Paradiso, where it should be. No palazzo where Scipio lives, but there was a beautiful building on where it should have been on the Fondamente Bolani, just past the Accademia Bridge.

Such a photogenic city too - every canal, derelict or gorgeous building and church, courtyards, and, off the main dragsd of tourists, the people of the city are there, real, living out their lives. We walked past the locals having their evening drinks and ceccine (hors d'oeuvres) on ther street and beside the canal, chatting like in any other town, shopkeepers visiting with each other, sharing a laugh. Sure it is mostly overpriced, but you can still find a slice of pizza for 1.50 E or a gelato for less than 2E.

We have been to some of the sights - San Marco, the Doge's Palace, through the Grand Canal, to the islands of Murano and Burano, to see the glass and lace respectively, and today we go to the Peggy Guggenheim Museum (modern art: Picasso, Pollock, Miro and Peggy's other friends) the Jewish Ghetto, and will sneak into the Basilico San Marco when the others siesta. More exploring. Soon we'll head off for our breakfast of brioches and capuccino by the Rialto fish and fruit market, and then on to the rest of the giornata.

Ciao, Toscana

gelato in Fulminico

walking on the promenade beside the beach

umbrella stretched as far as the eye can see

our last day spent at the waterpark

brown and bronze bodies in barely-there bikinis and speedos

young men in baggy shorts egging each other on, being chastised by the lifeguards, who seem more into their image than safety, flirting with the girls

a dj who doesn’t stop talking, playing pop music with a good beat but words i  don’t understand

we leave and head for the hill country,

vines on the slope,

stone buildings in various states of ruin or disrepair,

olive trees planted in neat rows,

fiats flying past us on the autostrada, in and out of tunnels, twisting through the hills

the sun fading, but shining golden on the vines, on the trees

dappling

we prepare our last meal here

ingredients gathered at the morning market

sausage and fish, beans and aubergine,

all with plenty of herbs, garlic and lemon

a bottle of rich red brunesco, from not too far from here

we eat, talk about moving on tomorrow

watch the moon rise

the stars come out

the light dims until we are left with only the silhouettes of the hills

and skin that remembers the day’s heat

E alora, as they say here, today we move on. The final couple of weeks of cities and mountains. Arrivederci alla Toscana, the hill country, the wine country. To our little town with its evening crowds in the piazza, the ragazzi, the kids, running wild while the adults share a glass or a caffe. Arrivederci to the morning rooster and the pack of barking dogs at dawn, to the trucks passing through and the calls of ‘buongiorno’ across the square. To the intense light, the heat, the rain and the thunderstorms. To the neighbour’s calls of ‘Pamilla!’ as she calls her cat, the sound of the fountain, the eyes watching us, friendly, curious, yet not so much to come up and say ‘ciao,’ except for my friend the communist chef from France.

Today we leave, by autostrade and twisty roads to San Marino and on to Venice domain. It is beautiful here – the light, the hills, the forest, and there is so much yet to see, but I am not taken with the place like in l’Herault. Maybe it is the language or being a tourist, maybe the crowds. I do like that we have stayed for two weeks here in Monticiano, this unspoiled Italian town, and went to the the non-touristy city of Fulminico yesterday, where we heard no English and saw no cameras, only a few tourist shops for the visitors from Rome or Milan or Firenze. Maybe I just have to live here for a while, learn the language, let Tuscana get under my skin, make connections, eat more pomederi (tomatoes) and basilica that taste so fresh, but still I do not dream of a life under the Tuscan sun. Give me the towns and garrigue of Languedoc or the coasts and forests of Vancouver Island instead.

Stuck in the piazza watching the race with thousands

Saturday night in Siena. The rain has stopped. Rowan and I are standing in the Campo in Sienna, the central square in front of the Palazzo Pubblico, the town hall built in the 1300s, complete with 330 foot clock tower. We are not alone. There is the woman from Hamburg on one side, down in Siena for her annual week-long trip to Italy; there is the family from Belfast, the father who works in Dunmurry and mother who is a personal injury lawyer with lots to say about safety and liability in Italy, and their three kids; there are the three women behind us, one Japanese, one from Eastern Europe, and a third whose accent I can’t place, talking in broken Italian and then switching to broken French; and then there are the tens of thousands of others that have packed the square wearing and waving flags and scarves of the seventeen ‘Contradas,’ the different districts in the town. We are all there for the Palio, the bareback horserace around the half-moon shape piazza that has been run since 1283.

The premise is simple: riders from 10 of the contrade race three times around the piazza. First to pass the finish line wins the Palio, the banner of the Madonna, and glory for their contada until the next race. Of course the practicalities of racing around a piazza with sharp corners, thousands of spectators, and no rules really is a bit more interesting. In one of the lead-up qualifying races, one of the riders was thrown, trampled and killed. Still the race goes on. Of the ten riders that started, maybe five finished, the others having crashed into the pads that line the corners, been thrown, knocked into or over. There are horses running free everywhere, crowds rushing onto the track the moment the race is over, and all of us crammed into the square. By 4:30, most of the entrances to the piazza were blocked off so Rowan and I had to make our way round to the back of the Palazzo Pubblico, past the old synagogue, through the police security check (no bambini, strollers, no WCs, no food – but we saw lots of kids aged 2+ and a stroller), through the crammed like sardines passage, along with drunken Englishmen and rowdy Sienese youth, and into the piazza. We were told we had to be there by 4:30, but the gate wasn’t closed until at least 6:30. The square also wasn’t nearly as crowded as we expected, once we got in. We had room to move around, sit down, though not quite as comfortable as the seats in the windows overlooking the piazza, for the low low price of 300Euros per person. We were fine on the ground, with our pastries and water and chocolate. We couldn’t see  much of the race, but we did get a good view of the far corner and home stretch.

When we were in, the procession had already begun. Each contrada had flagbearers, drummers, knights in full armour with swords, pages, banner carriers, horses, and they paraded around the race track, stopping occasionally for the flagbearers to do a routine of flag waving and throwing high into the air. We got to recognize most of the flags and colours of the contrade: the Tower, the Panther, the Shell, the Wolf, the Dragon, the Forest, the Goose, and all of the others. It was a step back to Renaissance ceremony. There were fanfares, men in tights, page-boy cuts (sadly they were only wigs), and at long last (we had been crammed into the Campo for over 2 hours) the ship pulled by oxen with the city fathers, also in Renaissance garb. The crowds waved their flags and scarves as the ship passed. Finally the ship stopped in front of the archway to the Pallazo, the noble lords got out, and a city worker in grey coveralls drove the ship off.

A quiet fell over the Campo, incredible that such a huge crowd could be so silent. A man on a balcony called out the names of the Contrade, the order to line up. The horses fell into place. One, Bucca (the Caterpillar) wouldn’t settle so they were all walked around before being lined up again. There was the book of a cannon and then they were off.

The next minute or so was a blur. I lifted Rowan to see better. We got glimpses of the horses, with and without riders as the rounded the far corner and came towards us, each time fewer in contention. A green and yellow rider seemed to be out in front. Another lap and then another boom, the crowd spilling onto the course. “That was it?!” asked our Northern Irish neighbor. “We crammed in here for hours just for that?” The whole race had only lasted just over a minute. None of us knew for sure who had won. Then the horses and riders and flagbearers lined up. The Palio banner was passed down from the balcony, and they all paraded around again. This time Oca, the Goose, with its green and yellow flag, was out in front. Apparently they had won.

It was an experience. Now we can say we’ve seen the Palio, been part of the mass from all around the globe that was there on that day to watch Oca win the race. Was it worth it? I think so. The energy was incredible, the site beautiful; I got to share something with my daughter, meet good people from all over, and be transported back 600 years. I just wish I had bought an Oca scarf instead of Selva, the Forest, as they hadn’t even qualified. Maybe next year.

Leaving Castelnau

Leaving Castelnau

Funny how you can get so connected to a place in just a few weeks. When we pulled out of Castelnau de Guers for the last time on Sunday, we were all pretty sentimental. We hugged and did our bisous to Corinne and Selma, got in the car, and I felt a bit teary as I looked in the rearview mirror, drove past the Mairie, St. Sulpice and Tegan’s school, and away from our family for the past month. Yes we were on our way to the lake, to Menton, on the French/Italian border, and on to Tuscany, but Castelnau, the farm and Pezenas felt like, feels like a good place to be. We were welcomed so well, and even though it took me a while to connect with Corinne, the days before we left we had some great talks, recognized our similarities, appreciated each other, and sensed that it was coming to an end. When we left we all said our goodbyes and that we would look forward to when we would next meet – when that will be we have no idea. Rowan will be back in France in two years for an exchange, perhaps next summer for Jun and Raphaelle’s wedding, but not likely, and will Corinne and Selma ever make it to the West Coast? One day maybe, but it will be a long time away. Same with Julie. When we left her at Lac Salagou after a picnic and swim,  more bisous and hugs and see you sometime. With Julie, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if she showed up on our doorstep in the fall or spring. We will be back, who knows when, but I have a feeling that l’Herault is now a part of us, as are the people, and we will walk the garrigue and go to the boulangerie in Castelnau and visit the market in Pezenas again.

There was no big fuss for our departure, but there was the fete at the farm on Friday night. Cathy and Corinne Legumes (not to be confused with our host, Corinne Tisane) had been on the farm for 15 years, and had just paid it off, from what I gathered. They, or should I say Corinne, decided to invite their friends and customers from the Sete market and Friday marché at the farm for a soirée. All the food would be local and organic, from the farm and from Corinne and Cathy’s friends and suppliers. We were preparing most of the day, setting up tables and chairs, Pepé stringing up lights, Cathy making a massive jug of Sangria. I did my final bits of work on the farm, gathering more vervenne, bagging dried herbs and drying flowers and vervenne, and then I was busy getting ready for the marché and the party. Burying electrical cords, wiping down chairs and tables. Late in the afternoon I went back to get the three girls, Rowan, Tegan and Selma.

The evening was amazing. There was an accordionist who made us feel like we were in Paris rather than in the middle of a freshly mowed hayfield. There were bales of hay to sit on, tables set out under the coloured lights, a fire pit where mussels in massive pans were steaming and fresh lamb on the barbecue. Corinne was serving sangria and in all over 100 people had come. The wind had calmed a bit, and as the evening wore on the sun began to set over the fields and the stars, incredible bright infinite stars, came out. At a break in the music, Tegan and Selma played a duet on violin and piano, a song they renamed ‘When Selma Smiles,’ and then Tegan did a few fiddle tunes, and impressed the locals. Time passed, ad couple danced to the jazzy accordion among the bales of hay, under the stars, Corinne Legumes got out her alto sax and played a few tunes, introducing them in her broken English, Tegan and Selma chased dogs, boys, and each other, Rowan and I talked of life and moving on and philosophy, and we ate and  ate and ate. Past midnight, Tegan and Selma had disappeared to nap in the car. It took a while so say my goodbyes, receiving compliments on Tegan’s music, talking about our trip and what an opportunity it was for the girls, and inviting new friends to visit us in Canada.

In the morning I went to the farm one last time to help tidy up, after a final run through the garrigue and to the hermitage on the hill beside Castelnau. Already too hot to run at 9 in the morning. At the farm I was invited to have a café with some friends of Corinne and Cathy’s, talking about ‘camping’ around Italy in camper-vans and rv’s, European style. I helped Cathy load a truck with chairs, filled a box with fresh tomatoes and melons and carrots from the farm, and had another sad goodbye. Come next year on in twenty years, I told Corrine and Cathy, and I hope they will.

And now we have moved on to the final part of our trip: more moving around from place to place, but this time in another language, in a new country for all of us, to a place where we have images of renaissance towns and artwork, of palazzi and rolling hills with rich red wine. And while we continue our travels I will keep Castelnau and our community there with me, along with all of the books and tisanes and sirops and wine that we acquired along the way. Andiamo al Italia.

Toscana

It feels like we’ve fallen into a movie. We have arrived in Monticiano, our home in Tuscany for the next two weeks. We arrived close to 9 o’clock last night, having driven from Menton, the last city in France before you cross the border. The early morning sun shone through the window, dappled hills out over the terrazzo, the fountain gurgling away in the piazza; I should be sitting on the deck with an expresso. Domani.

Yesterday was a baking hot day that started with a walk around Menton, on the Cote d’Azur, beaches, sea-side cafes, markets, local lemons, our last patisseries francaises, and a Jean Cocteau museum which didn’t have any on their Jean Cocteau on display. Tant pis. We had had a meal the previous night at a waterfront restaurant called La vita e bella, pizza, pasta, risotto, and gelato with brownies.

We took the autostrada (autoroute) along the coast, and it was more viaduct and tunnel than regular highway. It must have been an incredible effort to construct, to engineer around the deep valleys and ridges that cut along the coast. Far below us were the seaside towns, with beaches and marinas, houses and churches. All around us were terraced farms and greenhouses. After a few hours we passed Genoa and cut off the highway to find a beach. Not so easy. Signage in Italy is nowhere near as clear as in France, where there are numerous arrows pointing everywhere. Here signs are optional and the motorcycles are even more crazy than in France. After exploring Ziglisomthingia, we ended up in Lavagna, just before Cinque Terre. A random sign with waves led us to the beach, well, a little strip of public beach between two private beaches for patrons of the restaurants there. We successfully negotiated the parking ticket machine, glad that out Euros still worked here, and then headed to the sand for a dip and a picnic. The sand burned our feet but the water was warm. At the bottom it was even cool. It took no time to dry off, and we had to hide in the shade to not melt as we ate – baguette, tomatoes, jambon cru, but now known as pane, pomadoros e prosciutto. Voices and accents all around us told us we were not en France any more. Another dip and then back to the autostrada.

With Rowan to guide us and Tegan to entertain, or nap, we followed the road into Tuscana. Mountains, big ones with snowy peaks, loomed to the north. The land turned more pastoral, and industrial at the same time. We came across fields and fields of sunflowers! More than we’ve ever seen. Mythic places passed by – Pisa, Firenze, the Arno, and then, cutting of the highway and winding down twisty roads, more towns with almost unpronounceable names and three-wheeled Biaggio mini-trucks, and then we were at Siena. Glimpses of the Duomo through the trees. It seemed surreal that we were finally here! Though not quite yet.

Another almost hour or so winding down the SP73, not quite sure if we were on the right road, and then Rowan springing to life, saying this is it, its just a bit more! Rolling hills, forests, vineyards, more sunflowers, and a sign that actually said Monticiano! We roll into the piazza – there are shops here, and restaurants. There is the church. But where to find Raphaella and the casa? We park after two wrong turns, me a bit grumpy and tired, not letting Tegan search for her flats just wanting to get to the casa. The older couple watches us park. I ask them if they speak French. Non. English? Non. So with the magic of hand gestures and slow speech and a the few words of Italian I know, I was guided by the nonna to Raphaella’s building (her dress shop now closed, and her away as she was expecting us on Saturday – despite my email last week to Giacomo, the agent). Someone greets us and tells us to park in front. I say my mille grazie to the couple and we finally get to bring our things, so much stuff after two months of travel – I think I bought too much wine and to many books – up to the apartment.

We are a bit disappointed. Maybe it is hunger or exhaustion or too many ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’ type films. It is an apartment overlooking the village square and church. It is fairly modern, the square loud, we have barely any food, but it will do. There is a great terrace overlooking the hills. Sure the bar/café was loud last night and the pack of local ragazzi (kids) were biking and scootering and yelling, but we are in Tusany! I grilled the last of the baguette with chevre and the fig jam we made in Castelnau on Saturday, cooked the beans and carrots with Corrine’s herbs, and opened a bottle of Gamay from the Loire. It could be worse! I just met the neighbour and had a conversation, more or less, where we talked about the weather and where we are from and how we slept and I introduced myself, and she offered her herbs and any help necessary. It will be good. We need to settle in, accept the life here, that people live con gusto, speak loudly, enjoy life, and in a month’s time we will be chatting away. Buenvenuto alla Toscana.