Ivans gallery
Toscana Americana: Its All Good
Under The Tuscan Sun
(continued)
By Linda Oatman High
Thursday, one minute past midnight in Tuscany
There's an orange full moon ("La Luna Rosa," as John says)
hanging low, glowing brilliantly, luminous over the valley. The day
has been as full and as colorful as this moon. It was a Siena day. (Did
you know that Crayola got the name "Burnt Siena" from the
buildings in this city?) Toscana Americana tailors each workshop individually,
but many include two day trips. This was our second.
We took the train to Siena after espresso and pastries. I'm really
digging these trains (as well as the pastries). Our group sat in an
elevated section of three curving blue seats facing three other curving
blue seats, with big picture windows behind us. This train is smooth,
and the view floats rather than whizzes. And what a view it is: valleys
and hillsides, rolling and rising, the same yet always surprising.
The bus ride from the train station to town has somewhat of a subway
vibe. It's first-come first-serve for the seats, and latecomers hold
the poles.
Siena is a city with a true medieval feel. The piazza is huge, framed
by gelato shops and apartments and vendors plying their wares. This
is where the Il Palio horse race is held. It's a famous race, at least
in Italy, and it takes place in the summer. The 17 sectors of the community
compete against one another, and the stakes are high: community pride.
We went to the Reliquiario Della Croce Santa Cortona, where we saw
religious paintings and artifacts and statues. My favorite was the reliquary
of Saint Somebody's bones: glass and gold, ornately carved, holding
a skull and bones tied with bows of shimmery gold. I couldn't stop looking
at it. It was gruesome yet gorgeous; strange yet everyday. These bones
have been here for a thousand years, and they'll be here for another
thousand, long after I am gone. I'd like if someone would do this with
my bones: wrap them up like carefully chosen, lovingly given Christmas
gifts, and display them just right (skull in the middle, of course).
It was a tender memento, and a fine tribute to Saint Somebody. I wished
I had known him (or her) in flesh and blood.
We met Patrick, who was taking a break on the steps outside, and strolled
to lunch. I like the strolling. People wander; they sashay. Patrick
saunters. In America, at home, in the real world, I rush. I hurry. Not
here. There's no hurry, for these things have been here for a long time
for all time and they'll wait. They're not going anywhere.
An accordion man entertained us with Italian music spattered with shades
of Mexico. He had one eye that wouldn't open. Patrick opened my eyes
to the fact that here in Italy, those with "disabilities,"
as we say in America, are much more integrated into society. Nobody
stares at a club foot or missing fingers or an eye that won't open.
It's just... The way it is.
The accordion man saw me fishing for my wallet, and so of course, we
were serenaded with another song. A few coins dropped in his hand, and
the music man was on his way: to another table, in another place, to
play the same songs. He knows these songs by heart.
After lunch came a movie about the horse race. My favorite part was
about how the horses go to church to be blessed before the race. Even
the animals get some religion here.
Splitting up for souvenir shopping, we visited leather shops and art
stores and ceramic displays. I bought a red purse, soft and buttery
as the Tuscan sun, and a leather keychain for my son. The leather shop
smelled really good. I also bought a tiny sunflower-painted ceramic
plate, a few Pinocchios, and then it was once again time to go. It's
always eventually time to go. But the leaving is okay, because we're
simply going to another place.
Stopping for Coca-Cola Lights in the train station, we discussed our
swollen ankles, comparing bloated flesh. It was the oddest thing: we
four American tourists from the ankles down looked to be 9 months pregnant
and "retaining water." The edema was intriguing to me, as
I've never seen my ankles look quite so poufy. The puff isn't attractive,
but it's interesting. We deliberate whether it could be salty pasta
or mineral water or lots of walking or the heat or the altitude or the
plane ride. We decide it's either all of the above, or none of the above,
but it's okay. To me it is no problem, as I've been hearing a lot here
in Cortona.
Patrick led the way (Patrick always leads the way; we've come to depend
upon him. He's taught us how to cut Tuscan toast and how to swirl the
wine in circles before we taste. He's taught us how to say Please and
Thank You and You're Welcome.
Patrick has taught us how to read the train schedules and how to just
trust him on this. It's his favorite saying. And guess what? We trust
him. Patrick has taught us how to... Just... Be.)
Back on the train, much more crowded now, I closed my eyes, drifting
in the motion of the train and the various voices speaking in a language
that I'm just beginning to comprehend. I'm starting to... get it.
|