The road back to the Hotel Oasi Neumann.

Toscana Americana: It’s All Good
Under The Tuscan Sun

(continued)

By Linda Oatman High

Tuesday, Midnight in Italy

Florence — Firenze — is a remarkable place. We walked in the footsteps of Dante and Donatello and Michelangelo. There was the Piazza della Signoria, where the infamous Bonfire of the Vanities happened, and Cellini's Perseus, holding the severed head of Medusa. There was the Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge) built in 1593, dripping with the gold of glitzy jewel traders.

Florence is somewhat of an Italian Manhattan: bustling, busy, with lots of commerce booming among the ruins. Patrick led us through the huge Central Market, where we gawked at skinny roosters with the heads still attached, rabbits, octopus in all their 8-legged glory, cow stomachs, pig livers, cheese wheels that could probably support a sporty Italian automobile, logs of salami that take two hands to hold. One cheese vendor gave us each a chunk of something, and the pungent and aged taste remained in my mouth for an hour. Then I washed it down with some Coca-Cola Light: the Italian version of Diet Coke. I guess one doesn't mention the word "Diet" here.

We browsed the many street vendors, selling everything from knockoff purses to hand-embroidered velvet and lace pashninis to Pink Floyd T-shirts. There were wooden Pinocchios everywhere, and leather so soft and supple that you'd think the cow was still living. Oh, and the soccer shirts. Everywhere, the soccer shirts. I bartered for a few pashninis, and a pink "Gucci" watch. It was ten Euros, talked down from twenty.

In the Museo del Bargello, we saw cases of doorknobs that were so huge and ornate they made you wonder what kind of door they opened. There was also very antique jewelry, ceramics, and a bronze cannon elaborately decorated with the most intricate carvings. Patrick said that it was probably a ceremonial cannon, and we agreed. John and Patrick know a lot. We're all learning... A lot. I feel like a sponge here, soaking it up. I'm soaking up the sights and the smells and the sounds and the tastes. I touch things: marble and stone and linen and wood. This is a tactile place. As Patrick is prone to saying: It's all good. He says that a lot, and it's true.

There were rows and rows of scooters in Florence. Men and women of all ages rode motorcycles in lollipop colors — red and green and purple and pink — and it wasn't uncommon to see a grandmother biker with silk scarf flapping behind her.

We stopped to gaze at the river. I was wishing to see a river rat. No rats, but the sight of the water cooled us ever-so-slightly on this very hot day.

There was the Medici Palace and Chapel, the Bargello, the Uffizi, and the Duomo. There was the restaurant with a print of Nantucket on the wall. John and Suzanne have a home in Nantucket, so it felt like a serendipitous moment. Our little group liked to attribute a lot to serendipity, which became one of the words of the week.

Lunch (again!) was fabulous, and I (again!) had spaghetti. You pronounce the Ts distinctly here, as if savoring a noodle as it slides down. I'm learning to twirl. Oh, and Patrick has also taught us how to cut the bread, from the soft inside out to the crust. It works.

We stopped at Gran Caffe Siubbe Rosse Restaurant for gelato. I had strawberry and lemon: Perfecto!! Lots of famous writers have been to this renowned literary café, and now we've joined them.

Our group passed some street people on the way out of the city, and I noticed that they use more of a religious ploy here: begging on knees with hands outstretched. There was one young man with a twisted foot and a white dog, and his face haunts me still.

The train was late, so we had water in the station. I've consumed more water here than I do in a month in America. Carbonated, non-carbonated ("with or without gas"), poured from lovely jugs. I'd like to have a wall of these beautiful bottles and jugs.

Finally, the train came and Patrick shared his train tactics: "Sit on the opposite side, in the sun. You'll be shaded on the way back, and have a nice view of Cortona as it approaches."

The air was noticeably cooler in Cortona, and it was good to be "home." Patrick and the taxi driver chattered, and I thought I heard the words "aroma" and "orgy." We wondered if perhaps the driver thought we smelled bad. Turned out that he was talking about Rome (Roma) and Today (oggi.)

Taxied straight to Fufluns for dinner. Holly was craving a cheeseburger and fries, and some time was spent in deliberating various ways to request a burger (folded in a calzone? In a Panini?).

Participants paying package prices for Toscana Americana's all-inclusive week are well-satisfied, as Patrick is more than magnanimous with menu choices. ("Whatever you want" is another Patrick Mahoney favorite. "Whatever you want.") It was here at Fufluns that I decided to try just a tiny taste of wine, lifesaving Epipen at the ready in case of anaphylactic shock. Guess what?! No reaction. Suzanne clicked a picture, and we all studied my skin for hives. None. Another sip, then another. No wheezing; no swelling. I was just fine, and drinking wine. Patrick attributed this to the fact that I was now drinking a wine that had integrity. No Boone's Farm here, just the fruits of nearby valleys in rich shades of claret and burgundy and crimson. I don't remember the names, but it was all good.

After a plateful of Fuma pasta (another one!) and a lemon frozen, hollowed, and filled with refreshing lemon gelato, another night had ended.

Toscana Americana not only covers the food and the tours and the rooms and the view, but they've got your back when it comes to cabs, too. We were taxied happily through the week, whenever we wanted, wherever we wanted.

Bidding Buona Notte to our cabbie, we headed back into the Hotel Oasi, reclaiming our heavy room keys from the ever-cheerful desk clerk, and went off to sleep the sleep of the blessed.