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Toscana Americana: It’s 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.