Il Viaggio
Travel changes the texture of your life. The texture of my life has sometimes been smooth, silky, soft. A slip which is barely felt or the nightgown I wore on my honeymoon. It was made of crème silk with an abstract print. A loose watercolor of pale pink flowers. Roses maybe. At other times the texture is one I can hardly tolerate. Almost repulsive, but not quite. I can’t remove the scratchy wool or smooth the nubbiness which refuses to lie flat. Lots of earth colors which are often my favorite but when hot, heavy and oppressive, I want only to shed them. And there is everything in between. Years of dance and travel, relationships with a full texture of men and the birth of my precious son. Birth and death, divorce and reconciliation. The textures continue to vary and my emotions reflect this constant change of wardrobe.
A chance encounter while traveling in Italy a few weeks ago turned out to be the most magical among many such moments during my solo odyssey. I was returning to Rome after a 10-year hiatus and not been to Florence for over 30. The anchor for this trip was a writing retreat in Tuscany which was bookended with visits to the two cities.
Bound for Zurich in the most economical of airplane seats the hours crawled. An annoying bout of lower back pain had me standing as often as possible, stretching limbs in the crowded vestibule outfitted with bananas, chocolate bars and packaged cookie duets. Finally, we touched down. A brief layover and a less arduous flight to Rome. I had arrived!
Over the next number of days as my back pain lessened with each espresso, I rediscovered the brilliance of Italy…the food, the art, the history, the people, the gelato. As my long-studied Italian improved I made friends among the hotel staff and the lovely women who scooped my gelato at Come il Latte. After five glorious days, with a few tears and some hugs, I joined the coterie of writers for our Tuscany retreat. Like Rome, but different, this time for writing, feedback and reflection unfolded almost seamlessly.
Early on day six my fellows departed for the airport or other points to conclude or continue their Italian adventures. I had reserved a 3 pm train for Florence so after packing and a round of goodbyes, I decided to walk to Trequanda, the tiny hill town we could see from the grounds of our Fattoria del Colle. I had traversed the route previously with Suzanne, a new friend, so was confident I knew the way. Unbeknownst until much later, I took an alternate path which led to the two-lane road still at least 20 minutes from town. Two women came walking as I approached and we conversed in a mix of Italian and English, I learned their names and that their destination was also Trequanda where they walked several times a week for groceries and other necessities.
We chatted. Chiara and her mother Silvano. The daughter younger than me and the mother somewhat older. In town I suggested coffee or lunch to thank them for guiding me, but they proposed lunch at their home which was just a few meters from where we had first met. And so the texture of feeling somewhat frustrated that being lost might compromise my morning evolved into absolute joy. We returned to the front gate of the property they had owned for 35 years. Replete with olive trees, an ancient oven and a stone well. Two small cottages outfitted with antiques and a multicolored cat. In a small kitchen Silvano prepared lunch as the duo discussed options. Risotto or pasta? Some homemade bread, local cheese and a special prosciutto.
We decided pasta would be quicker as Chiara and I departed to walk the property with its breathtaking views of the landscape. I photographed all of it, including the vista leading back to my Frattoria del Colle. Of course, I said, I would not put any of the pictures on social media. They were not interested in visitors or Airbnb. Chiara talked about her family including a brother in Paris with a wife and 3 sons who often visited. She was obviously so fond of her nephews. She worked in Milan where she and her mother lived when not tending to the olive trees. Her father had died five years earlier, and mother and daughter were committed to maintaining this family acreage.
Lunch was delicious. I marveled at how effortlessly it all appeared. The table was set with amber glassware and white linen. “My mother always likes a bit of wine,” Chiara smiled. I declined with the prospect of needing to be fully present to navigate the upcoming journey. My Italian had become easier and more natural since my arrival, and so I chatted with Silvano who did not speak English. She had been a Classics professor and I shared family stories. There was time for an espresso and then they escorted me to the front gate. There were hugs, a What’s App number exchange and invitations to meet again someday…Milan or San Francisco. Chiara escorted me to the trailhead and Silvano waved enthusiastically from behind the gate.
Chiara said it had been so wonderful to meet me. That they rarely met anyone outside the family when working, or relaxing, in the country. Within 20 minutes I was back at the Fattoria with time to spare before my train. I texted to tell my new friends I had arrived. Later, as I watched the country side from the train tears of gratitude softened the roughness of leaving.