|
(l to r) Patrick, Linda, Holly, and John in Florence
Toscana Americana: It’s All Good
Under The Tuscan Sun
(continued)
By Linda Oatman High
After cocktails at La Saletta, we walked down to La Grotta. This is
a great place, and it feels like, um, a grotto. There was lots of good
discussion and brainstorming about more workshops for Patrick. I came
up with a kind of "women who run with the wolves" theme idea,
with Vespas for women to ride. The wind blowing wildly in their hair
would be a fine thing. Patrick has the idea of offering something including
St. Frances of Assisi, and his values of peace. Patrick is a peaceful
man. He never seems to be in a hurry, never impatient, never perturbed,
and the vibe is rubbing off.
Our little group is really clicking, cosmically connecting on a spiritual
level that comes when one is away from ringing telephones and stacks
of bills to pay and yards to mow. We talk about life, and we talk about
death. We talk about joy and sorrow and trains and babies. We talk about
angels and saints and prayer and peeing. (My class has all taken diuretics,
you see.) We think that Patrick should perhaps add something in his
FAQ section. ("Will my ankles swell in Tuscany?" "Maybe.
Bring diuretics.") We talk about yesterday and today and tomorrow.
There's always tomorrow... We hope. Patrick has good plans for Toscana
Americana to expand beyond Italy, building bridges between the nations,
but he's patient. There's time. In Italy, there's always time.
The taxi driver picked us up at 11, and Patrick conversed in rapid
Italian with him. Holly and I know what he's saying: that we need to
be picked up at 4:30 a.m. on Saturday morning. The cabbie isn't happy
about the time, but he accepts it. "It's my work," he says
with a shrug. "It's just my work. For me no problem. For you no
problem."
And so now here I am: in my feels-like-home room below an orange moon.
It's not quite Burnt Siena; the hue is more of a sheen. It's the brightest
moon I've ever seen.
Friday morning of the last full day in Tuscany
10 a.m.
It's just another beautiful day in Paradise. I'm sitting in the same
place where I began this story, on Sunday. It's now a Friday, morning,
and the mourning dove is cooing. The fountain splashes, the valley is
awakening below, and there is the peace. Always the peace.
One of my ankle bones has reappeared, and I think that the other one
is working on it. I'm patient. I can wait. Things take time, and I've
got lots of time while in Cortona. The watch clicks differently here,
at least my ten-Euro Gucci watch that has no numbers and really, really
tiny hands. This morning I was out of bed at 7, thinking it was 8. The
extra hour is a gift, though, and so I thank my hard-to-read pink Gucci.
I washed a few skirts in the sink, hanging them from the windowsill
like a local. I like this. The sun dries them in no time, and I'll take
home a splash of Tuscan sun and breeze, burned permanently into a couple
of American skirts. I also cleaned out my hair brush, releasing a handful
of hair into the air, so that maybe birds will use it to build nests
for their babies.
Andrea/Andrew in the dining room is cute in an Italian Austin Powers
kind of a way: bowtied and bespectacled and very, very eager to please.
He laughs like Austin, and I'd just love to hear him say, "Yeah,
Baby, Yeah" in Italian. He likes American girls, and the discotheque.
He was born in 1974. I know this because he showed me his license, after
inviting me for a drink in Cortona. I politely declined, saying that
I was having dinner with Patrick and The Group. We are Family: Patrick
and The Group. It's all good.
Next on the Toscana Americana agenda is a Contemporary Music Festival,
and the teacher has arrived. I envy him: his week lies ahead. Still,
the week that lies behind will be part of me for all of the weeks to
come.
I flicked on the television set this morning, and saw that the violence
in the Middle East has escalated. There's been a bombed train in Bombay.
More than 100 rockets have been shot somewhere. I turn it off. It matters,
it hurts, and it means too much. My brain is taking a break from world
news, and my heart needs to remain unbroken, here in this place that's
part of the world yet not.
My class used the wine cellar as part of the writing prompt this morning.
It's cool in there, and the wooden kegs are nice to touch. There are
antique chandeliers, and a statue of some pudgy amused saint. The windows
are deep, so deep, and I feel insulated from the world. I'd like to
be a bottle of wine in this place: chilled, calm, getting better and
better with time. We had the hotel employee flick off the lights for
a few seconds, and I gave John and Suzanne glow sticks to use as inspiration
for their stories, in which I instructed them to include color, the
wine cellar, and two universal themes picked from a deck of Brainstorming
for Writers cards. We came outside. We're writing. It's sublime. I feel
as if inspiration is running in my veins in this place. I can understand
why Toscana Americana offers painting and art and photography and music
and writing and journaling here. If you can't connect with creativity
here, in Cortona, it just ain't gonna happen. Yeah, Baby, Yeah.
Friday, 4 p.m., last full day (for now) in Cortona
I'm sitting in an open-air café, savoring the solitude and the
late-afternoon passersby and the Coca-Cola Light. There's a terrace
above, with an flag softly faded from sun. An art gallery advertises
on a sign reading "Tomorrow Last Day" and the words resonate.
Tomorrow is the last day.
Friday, midnight-thirty, after lots of fine wine and other dessert
liquors
Dinner tonight was a celebration and a farewell. We ate, and ate, and
the desserts kept arriving. We shared bites, because after all, we are
Family. We laughed and laughed, which was good because it kept the crying
of good-byes at bay. My eyes brimmed earlier in the day when Ivan bid
me a sweet goodbye with the traditional European two-cheeked kiss, and
the words "I am sorry when you are gone, but I know you will return."
I said not good-bye, but ariva derci. Till we meet again.
Saturday, 3:30 p.m. here; 9:30 a.m. there
or 9:30 a.m. here and 3:30 p.m. there.
Neither here nor there; somewhere in the air
I'm over the ocean, in a plane, approaching Ireland and heading for
America. Lunch has just been served: chicken and potatoes. It was not
like the meals in Cortona. I just viewed some of the photos from the
week on my laptop. Mama, Mia. I need a diet. Maybe I can lose the weight
before the next time.
There will be a next time. For me it is no problem. Patrick says that
I'll be back, and I trust him on this.
Toscana Americana's varied workshops and events may be seen on:
www.toscanaamericana.com.
Linda Oatman High's next writing workshop in Tuscany will be held on
May 12-19th, 2007. Info may be found on www.lindaoatmanhigh.com.
|
