The Road to Italy, Part III…Val d’Orcia
Italia! O Italia! Thou who hast the fatal gift of Beauty
Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
Pigeons…I’ve traveled ten thousand miles to wake up to pigeons.
The Pretty Blonde, courtesy of ear plugs, lies bone-still next to me, oblivious to the incessant rapture of coo-coo-c’too’s. Then again, the flowing river of red wine from last night’s gastronomical extravaganza at Osteria La Porta may have also contributed to her state of comatosity. Daria Capelli, the charming trattoria’s winsome proprietor and the reigning queen bee of the Tuscan hamlet of Monticchiello, took a fervent personal interest in our merriment, ensuring we would memorialize this magical evening with our tummies as well as our hearts. Lucky for us our hotel in Pienza was only a stone’s throw away. Otherwise the woman of my dreams whom I married thirty years ago would have spent her first night in Tuscany sawing logs in the back seat of our rented Fiat.
Our initiation to Tuscany’s Val d’Orcia kicked off early yesterday, and it was more fun than cocktails with George Clooney. Our hosts Susan and Alan led the charge of course, bypassing the mundane Italian Autostrada and instead taking us on a series of Tuscan roads-less-traveled, traversing undulating green (and I mean GREEN) fields of wheat, vineyards and olive groves. A pit stop for coffee and pastries at San Casciano de Bagni was followed by a trek through the delightfully tiny village of Bagno Vignoni, where 14th century Christian pilgrims on their way to ransack Rome luxuriated in the town’s thermal baths. The village’s main piazza is a massive basin of steamy hot water, where reflections of sandy stone buildings and potted geraniums dance across its surface. Susan warned me that the pool was not open to the public, but I’m certain Alan would have joined me if I had found the guts to take the plunge. Perhaps if we had both had a few glasses of grappa for breakfast.
Speaking of alcohol, our next stop was the hilltop heartthrob of Montelcino, the cradle of Brunello wines. Considered one of Italy’s most exquisite (and expensive) wines, Brunello di Montelcino is produced by over 250 local wineries. Determined to give this nectar-of-the-gods the Pepsi Challenge, I parked myself at a picnic table inside Enoteca La Fortezza, a medieval walled fortress that today protects prospective oenophiles from advancing Florentine armies (or crowded tour buses, whichever comes first). A series of sniffs, swishes and tastes results in love-at-first-sip, and soon a bald gentleman resembling a Sicilian version of Popeye is selling me on the highly questionable concept of “free shipping.” Tomorrow’s itinerary includes a three-hour cruise through the medieval Renaissance hill town of Montepulciano, where the homegrown Vino Nobile wine is considered one of the town’s four major food groups. I’m sure I’ll be bringing some of that home as well.
All supplied and satisfied, we head to Pienza, our Tuscan home for the next three nights. Courtesy of the late afternoon sun, the rolling hills of Val d’Orcia extend like a van Gogh landscape, the golden glowing purifying everything it touches. The rows of Italian cypress trees provide the perfect break to the sea of green, their narrow shapes guiding your eyes to a magnificent villa located at the end a long, winding gravel driveway. What, I keep asking myself, would it take to live here?
Pienza is a jewel, though it’s not really a town; it’s more like a Tuscan amusement park, a harmonious fusion of cozy pads, pleasant stores and quaint restaurants that would look at home inside Disneyland’s Epcot Center. Rebuilt by Pope Pius II in the 1400’s to be his own personal Trump Plaza, Pienza now exists primarily for tourists. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The same is true with the local staple found inside nearly every store; Pecorino cheese. There’s are many reasons why I packed several pairs of “fat pants” in my suitcase, and pecorino cheese is one of them. Last night’s dinner at La Porta was a second reason.
Morning has arrived, though I can’t confirm it because I purposely forgot to set my alarm clock. Anxious anticipation races through my mind, the pigeon symphony notwithstanding. Room 302 of the Hotel Il Chiostro, a modest room with a view I’d recommend to everyone, is practically pitch black. Slivers of sunlight framing a window shutter tease me out of bed, and I tiptoe my way around the suitcases to open the bathroom window. What greets me is a brilliant salvo of dramatic Tuscan landscape welcoming the dawn of a brand new day. I dreamt of this view for years, and it’s better than I ever could have imagined.
I woke up in Tuscany. How on Earth did I ever get here?