Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  As we laughed and celebrated our reunion, she called for the old-fashioned cage elevator to take us upstairs. When it came, Tim the claustrophobe balked at entering. As we pushed him inside, he said, “Well, I certainly hope this thing isn’t what it looks like—it’s shaped like a coffin!” It was—with the “foot” end just wide enough for a small child. We let Tim take it all by himself.

  Judy had really been lucky on that bus ride because her friend, an artist, had completely refurbished a fabulous space that looked right into a gorgeous, flower-laden courtyard surrounded by colorful antique tile roofs. It was tastefully decorated, completely outfitted with the latest in appliances and furniture, and it was air conditioned. If I hadn’t been so attached to Tim, I would have asked to become Judy’s new roommate!

  We had several great meals together in Florence during her stay, and she came up to the villa several more times to swim. One afternoon, as we sat in our wet bathing suits sipping cool drinks, trying to concentrate on the view instead of the temperature, she admitted that her enthusiasm about Florence had weakened during her visit this time, just as ours had. We valued her opinion since she was an intrepid traveler and a flexible person who knows how to adapt to circumstances on the road. When she said, “You know, Florence is hard to love in its current condition. I can’t wait to get away from this heat and dirt and congestion. In fact, I’m thinking of leaving early and going on to Germany,” we felt a little less like complaining American babies.

  Determined to be flexible, we continued to find ways to beat the heat. One morning, as I sipped my coffee, trying to enjoy the majestic view of Florence, the garden hose next to my feet jerked so violently that I jumped up and sent my cup flying. Tim stood at the far corner of the terrace, ready to begin what would become our daily watering ritual. He had yanked the hose to make it long enough to hold over his head, and he stood there, chuckling and smiling, pleased with this new idea. I giggled and joined him in our private wet T-shirt contest.

  “When we’re finished watering, let’s get out of here and go into the city,” he said. “At least we’ll find an air-conditioned restaurant, and maybe we’ll take in some sights.”

  He sprayed me with more water, which I relished. I had long since given up glamour. In that heat, hair wilted and makeup melted, no matter what.

  When we had dried off, we headed for the Tourist Office across the street from “our” parking lot at the depot, found a decent city map, and slogged to the Duomo, sticking close to the buildings and ducking into stores whenever we needed a breath of cool air. Lunch in an air-conditioned restaurant restored us, but by 2:00 p.m., with the temperature still rising, we realized that visiting a museum was out of the question. We could think of nothing but the pool. But the fact that we had made it that far made the whole adventure feel like a victory to us.

  ***

  The highlight of our summer in Florence was a ten-day visit from my daughter Robin. We’d been anticipating her arrival for months, and I hardly slept the night before she landed. We had stuffed the house with wine and food and put flowers in the small apartment above ours, where we decided she would stay. It offered two major attributes: instant access to the pool and those two magical words: AIR CONDITIONING. We left an hour early to fetch her at the airport to allow for our inept driving and Victoria’s general confusion in the tangle of Florentine streets, but Victoria was having a good day. We arrived in a hurry.

  How glorious to see our sweet, beautiful, bubbly Robin after such a long time! We all talked at once as we gathered her belongings and set out for home. But our harrowing route back quickly silenced us. In Florence, since there are so many one-lane and one-way streets, routes to and from a place are often completely different. The way Victoria chose to take us home was probably the shortest, but it involved climbing a narrow, steep hill that culminated in a turn so sharp, the car door drew to within a hair’s breadth of meeting a rock wall. We couldn’t turn back, because the hill was too steep. We couldn’t move forward without scraping the corner of a building. A high rock wall gave no quarter on the opposite side. Tim made his way around it one inch at a time. It was so terrifying that we couldn’t speak. When I glanced in the backseat, our poor jet-lagged daughter had pulled her sweater over her head. I thought I heard her praying softly.

  We made it, but on future excursions in that direction, we carefully studied the route to avoid the turn from hell. When we told Francesco and Martha about that scary moment, they shook their heads. They knew the spot well. I think they were impressed with Tim’s fortitude and driving skill, because even they as natives said that they, too, would go miles out of their way to avoid that infamous, dreaded bottleneck.

  Robin’s sunny disposition and offbeat sense of humor brought a fresh perspective to our doggedly hot days, and we loved showing her the magnificent gifts Florence preserves for the world. Even its decrepit state couldn’t mask its beauty.

  Martha and Francesco also invited us to bring Robin to Porciano. An hour-long, winding drive away through the countryside, the Casentino Valley boasts several castles and many picturesque towns along the way. Martha’s parents, in collaboration with the Italian government, restored the castle’s tower in the sixties, making a modern miracle out of a ruin.

  As we rounded a corner to begin the final climb to the castle, Robin cried out in delight, “Oh, this is unbelievable. I’ve seen your pictures, but I didn’t dream of its being this gorgeous. Didn’t you tell me that Dante stayed here?”

  “That’s what they say, and as they excavated for the restoration, they found evidence that humans were living here long before the castle was built in about the year 1000,” I said. “When Tim and I stayed here, I was alone for a few minutes in the castle. Everyone had gone out. In the profound silence I swear I could hear people rustling around. It was a little spooky, but they seem harmless enough. Martha claims that it’s not haunted, but she also has told me that she has never stayed all night by herself. When she comes up here alone, she uses one of those small apartments on the castle grounds where the town folks used to live.”

  When we arrived, the elegant Francesco was stretched out on a lounge chair under a tree, reading in the garden. He greeted us with double kisses and his lovely chuckle, and took us inside. Porciano’s fairy-tale exterior includes Juliet windows and several small balconies. It is wildly romantic, dressed in lavish climbing greenery that turns deep dramatic red and gold in the autumn. Positioned on a hill, the tower faces directly across the valley toward its sister castle, where Dante wrote a portion of the Inferno. Perhaps Dante, too, was home free and just mooched from castle to castle.

  A small museum and conference area now occupy the first three floors. The family’s living quarters begin on the fourth floor and are surprisingly homey, with comfortable overstuffed chairs and sofas in lively prints, a long refectory table with twelve chairs, and cushioned window seats in each graceful window. The kitchen is small but efficient, with a little step-out balcony and bird’s-eye view of luscious farms and grazing land surrounded by rolling Tuscan hills. Several more stories house beautifully decorated bedrooms and lead the way to an enormous terrace at the very top, the perfect venue for cocktails. The Spechts, Martha’s family, installed a small elevator, but it’s only big enough for two people. When it’s time to repair or reupholster furniture, the workmen must do it within the castle. There’s no way to get the furniture down!

  After the castle tour, Martha took us farther up the hill to the start of the Arno, the 150-mile river that runs through Florence before flowing into the Tyrrhenian Sea near Pisa. Here, it was a country stream no more than six feet across. I found it hard to believe that a brook could become such a mighty waterway. It pooled into a green swimming hole not far from the castle, shaded by ancient trees, and then tumbled over a small dam on its way to Florence. We watched children splash and play on the banks and wished we could jump in with them. It was lovely to see people having fun in such a peaceful spot. A country fix was just
what we needed after the bedlam of the city, and we were glad to give Robin a different view of Tuscany, one that she would never have seen from a tour bus.

  We took everyone to lunch in Stia, the picturesque Tuscan village at the foot of the hill, and chose a favorite restaurant from our first visit. “Robin, you are about to have one of the best meals you have ever had,” I told her excitedly on the way down the hill.

  The tiny place was beautifully decorated in soft greens and pale pinks with crisp linens and sparkling cutlery. It was so elegantly turned out that it could have fit perfectly into a big-city neighborhood, yet here it was, in a tiny country town. Everything was pristine and understated—except the food, which was over-the-top haute cuisine. The owner’s mother, the chef, outdid herself with two kinds of homemade ravioli, one with meat sauce and one with cream sauce, both delicious. Her risotto with beet sauce was outrageously good, and I found the dessert of caramelized fruit in a flaky crust with homemade ice cream practically a religious experience! We ordered everything they offered; each of the fifteen dishes we sampled was memorable. Robin, who was sitting across from me, rolled her eyes throughout the meal, a family signal that means “This is just about the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth!” I was thrilled to watch her have such a good time. She was her usual entertaining self, and even the owner and his mother joined in our fun.

  After lunch, we strolled to the town church, where Martha introduced us to the chubby little priest. He was very happy to have visitors and proudly showed us the highlights of his little church. We chatted with him for a moment. When he left, Martha said, “There are people in this village who would like to kill that man.”

  “Why on earth would that be?” I asked.

  “Because he rings the church bells every hour on the hour, seven days a week. He’s got the bells electronically programmed and they are loud.”

  “Well, that’s one of those things I guess you could get used to if you lived here.”

  She laughed. “Not if you own the hotel next door. Nobody ever stays in that place more than one night. The owner is practically going broke, and nobody can get the priest to quit ringing those damned bells. I think they’re having another town meeting tonight, though I doubt it will do them much good. He’s a very stubborn guy.” Martha raised both hands heavenward, palms up in the classic Italian “what’re you going to do?” gesture of surrender we’d seen many times since we’d been there.

  Before Robin left, we made several very short visits into the city center to show her the highlights: the Ponte Vecchio Bridge, museums, monuments, and major churches. We drove her to Siena and took a train to Venice, but in the punishing heat, our trips were brief. Instead, we spent a lot of time at the pool. Robin was kind enough not to complain, even though her vacation turned out differently than we had hoped because of the heat. Even so, it was wonderful having her with us because we were able to focus on one another without the distractions of children and social obligations. We had the luxury of playing cards, having long, leisurely chats, and catching up on the little things we miss when we are gone so long. And best of all, we laughed constantly because Robin is one of the funniest people I know. She’s been amusing me all her life with her wacky sense of humor and fertile imagination. We were so grateful that she came to be with us and got to experience a slice of our new life.

  After we saw her off for the long trip home, Tim and I were quiet and a little sad. We worked on our projects in the afternoon while we tried to stay cool and distract ourselves from boredom. It was just too hot to think about going into the city and although we tried driving out of town for a change of scenery, it was just as hot there, too, so we would scurry home to our fans to wait for sundown. Tim sat at one end of the dining room table with a fan blasting at him, making headway on his detective novel. I sat at the other end, fiddling with my article for the Wall Street Journal. For over a month, I had been trying to work up the courage to send it to the newspaper.

  The idea of moving from my homey little blog to submitting my work to the Wall Street Journal terrified me every time I thought about it. Tim was the writer in the family. I was just a dilettante, a dabbler!

  Poor Tim had listened to me read it so often that I’m sure he wanted to bash me over the head with my computer. Instead, he politely said, “Honey, I think you should probably just bite the bullet and send it now. It’s fine.”

  I appreciated his encouragement, but I was still terrified of embarrassing myself and being told “Thanks, lady, but no thanks.” Finally, I was so tired of it myself that my finger hit the “send” button before my brain could stop it.

  I expected the article to languish in cyberspace for a while and maybe, just maybe, one day someone there would bother to send me a kind rejection note.

  Instead, to my utter surprise, I received a response within a few hours: the Wall Street Journal had accepted my story idea! We were thrilled, of course, and had no idea just how much our lives would change with that news, or that the next month would be our last bit of lollygagging for a long, long time. We hadn’t a clue that our roles were about to change. But that night the Chianti flowed and we rejoiced once more at the power of saying “yes”!

  The next day over breakfast, as we felt the temperature climbing yet again, I said, “You know, honey, I realize that we have paid for several more weeks here, but I’m not so sure I can put up with this for much longer. Maybe we should pull a Buenos Aires and just bite the bullet and get out of here. What do you think?”

  Tim thought about it. “It’s been on my mind, too. And I’ve even looked around at some possibilities, but we still have those opera tickets in Verona. I would really love for us to see Aida and Turandot in that fantastic Roman arena. I think we should wait it out for the next few days, go to the operas, and then make a decision, okay?”

  He made the right call. We fought truck traffic all the way to Verona, but it was worth the effort. The pedestrian-friendly city was a joy. It was cooler than Florence, pleasant enough to enjoy an evening stroll, and we loved its pretty buildings and immaculate, tree-lined streets. The relaxed, welcoming people matched the slow, easy pace perfectly. Verona is romantic, its reputation assured by a certain famous play of Shakespeare’s. We even managed to negotiate our way through the hordes of tourists to see the balcony where Juliet never stood.

  At lunchtime, we stopped in one of a long line of restaurants that face the arena on one side of the square. The food was excellent. We started with a crisp cool salad, welcome in that climate. That was followed by a sublime pizza, a delicate, perfectly made crust with just the right amount of cheese and excellent Italian sausage. Our efficient waiter’s eyes had a twinkle of humor that even his dour expression that invited little conversation couldn’t hide. We joked with him, saying that we’d return for dinner that night if he’d save a front-row table for us. Sure enough, when we returned for dinner before the opera, he spotted us and escorted us to a table for two in a prime people-watching position. We were surprised that he remembered us.

  Again, the food surprised and delighted us. The seafood risotto was creamy and full of luscious scallops, shrimp, and octopus. Tim enjoyed tender, flavorful pasta, and this time, the waiter treated us as if we were old friends. We were flattered and a little puzzled because he lavished so much attention on us.

  The mystery was solved when he brought the check. He hesitated for a moment, then pointed at the silver skull ring Tim wears every day in homage to the Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards. The waiter smiled and pushed back his sleeve to reveal a silver bracelet of linked skulls. We expressed our delight and inspected it carefully. His smile got bigger as he opened the neck of his shirt to show us a skull pendant on a leather thong. His smile grew even larger when he quickly opened and closed his shirt. Underneath was—you guessed it—a big, heavy-duty black skull on his T-shirt. People stared as all three of us laughed like lunatics! Who would believe that a skull ring would result in the best table in the house and royal treatment
by a world-weary waiter? It proved once more that Italians, like people everywhere, respond to warmth and respect and that we all have more in common than it may seem at a glance!

  After dinner, we approached the ancient arena. The stone facade glowed pink in the sunset, giving more definition to its graceful arches, and we entered through the same portal that has welcomed millions of visitors through the millennia.

  No one should miss the opportunity to see grand opera in such a magnificent setting. We found our seats and looked out at the audience as the sun began to set behind one end of the oval. Four tall arches, the only remnants of that original tier, stood in relief against the sky. “Now watch this,” he said with a note of pride, as if he were the director. Just then, thousands of tiny candles began to flicker, held by each person who entered the arena. The astonishing sight offered the perfect beginning to an unforgettable event.

  A third of the oval arena was dedicated to the stage. The ancient colosseum was built in AD 30 to accommodate thirty thousand people. At one point, while two white horses pulled a chariot onto the stage, forty men dressed as Roman soldiers stood evenly spaced on the top tier, holding fiery torches aloft while the entire cast, three hundred strong, sang at top volume. For two evenings, we were completely immersed in lavish spectacles of light, costumes, staging, and music on a scale that I do not think I will see again. I’ve seen many big productions in New York, London, Hollywood, and Los Angeles, but the combination of stagecraft, setting, and musical presentation was like nothing I could have imagined. Tim, who is a true opera fan, had been to Verona before and enjoyed not only watching the show, but seeing me ecstatically appreciate such a rare treat.