Cortona

17-Settembre-2011

Dave and I came up with yet another new business plan.  This one is really great, far surpassing all the previous ones.  Foringer and Fredlund (F+F) Travel Agency…”Pay for us to go along, and we’ll show you a good time.”  We'll even take pictures.  We just need to find the right clients.

Dave drove to Cortona, the hillside with a town clinging to it.  All the hill towns have their steep sections, but Cortona is just one big hill with a cathedral on top.  And even higher, the fortress of the Medicis sits completely above the church.   

But as striking as the topography is, Mary and Becky were unimpressed.  For them, the pinnacle of Cortona was the shopping.  They went off singing to the tune of “My favorite things.”  “Leather boots and handbags and presents for Katie, these are a few of our purchases here…”  

Yes, the bag accompanied us home.

Speaking of our daughter Katie, Mary and I tried twice to get through to her using our phone card, but no luck.  Annoying that the pay phone tells you that you are connected, yet there is no one on the line.  Was it because we were calling a cell phone?  Who knows?  This is Italy.  But it did indicate that it was taking our money.  Such a deal!    Thanks to Dave’s iPad, we were able to send her a happy birthday e-mail.  First time in her 27 years that we were not with her to celebrate on her birthday.  Mary and I were very sad about that.  For 10 minutes.

Dave made it all the way to the fortress with me.  It’s quite a hike.  You go up and up through the narrow streets and alleys defined by the stone walls of the houses.  People live up here, climbing the steep incline every day.  It must be great for their hearts.  Eat all the pasta and sausage you want.  

You can sit on the steps and catch your breath.

The sounds of the town slowly subsided as we climbed higher.  Living here must be peaceful, and the views are fabulous.  Part way up, Dave pointed out how helicopters were flying below us, and later mentioned that he was sure this was the highest he had ever been above sea level without the help of an airplane.  At one of our rest stops, he confided that he felt good about making the trip without his heart exploding, particularly since his family history did not predispose him to attaining altitude on foot.  

 We explored the fortress for a short time. It's not surprising that the Fortezza was never overtaken.  

Yes Sir!  Now that we've finally climbed this mountain, you want us to scale what?

From the battlements, we drank in the vast expanse below. 

Soon we wandered back down to find the ladies at an outdoor café overlooking the central piazza.  We only stayed long enough to recover from the journey and enjoy a beer in the sun, since we were planning on eating at a restaurant that Mary had read about in the Rick Steve’s guide book.  And just long enough, of course, to record the Bloomie's visit to Cortona.

At our late lunch, La Bucaccia was rockin’ to the noise of the loud owner/waiter, and also to the anniversary-related celebration of the group of English surgeons next to us in the tiny dining room.  The volume peaked when the waiter served them grapa from a glass pouring device affixed to the bottle top.  First, he poured the powerful liqueur into the one of the raised shot glasses, which to everyone’s delight, immediately started to blink.  The doctor with the glass instinctively moved it as soon as it lit up, so the waiter was left with a bit more grapa left in the globular glass measure.  The waiter moved the bottle with the measure over the head of the doctor and began to slowly rotate the bottle so that the measuring glass would soon be upside down.  Avoiding disaster, the doctor rolled his head back and opened his mouth just as the grapa fell.  A loud cheer went up from all in the restaurant.  Mary commented, “I don’t want him operating on me.”  

Mary and I were pleased to have been able to return to Cortona.  Great town.  On the way back to the car, I showed Mary the shop where she bought her Etruscan ring the previous time.  “I can’t believe you found that shop.  I’ve been looking for it all day.”  So I can find a shop we went to once over two years ago, but I can’t remember where I left our passports, or what I had for breakfast.  First signs of mental decline, no doubt.  Or maybe the second sign, according to Dave…the first is smelling burnt toast when there is none. 

Back at Ortaglia, I finally hopped into the pool.  It was invigorating and enjoyable, though the water temperature was well below what any Italiano would brave.  And it was great to breast stroke across the placid pool and look out over the infinity edge toward the vineyard.   

We opened a bottle of wine at poolside and enjoyed the dropping temperatures.  After dinner at a roadside pizzeria that was quite good, we did a final walk around at Montepulciano before heading back to pack and listen to overly loud Bostonians keep us awake.  





We awoke to find that we had committed a faux pas the previous night by going right to bed instead of going down to the kitchen to have a drink with Terenzio and his wife Mara.  Before we went off the eat and say farewell to Montepulciano, he had asked us to drop in for grapa.  None of us really wanted any of that particular beverage, having experience with the drain bamage it causes, so we went to bed.  But the communication had been imperfect.  What he really meant was that they wanted to have a farewell drink with us.  Wine, water, whatever.  It would not have bothered anyone if they hadn’t waited up…but they did.  Too late to do anything about it, I apologized for the misunderstanding and cultural ignorance.

“You’ll have to come back so we can do it next time,” he offered.  

Works for me.

Montepuciano from Relais Ortaglia

Firenze

16-Settembre-2011

Firenze today.  Why is it that the Anglicized version is "Florence?"  Is that supposed to sound better?  Is it that Firenze is too hard for English speaking lips to pronounce?  Why not Fear-rent-say?  It just does not make sense to one from Nuovo York.  Qualunque! (or whatever the real translation is for, "Whatever!").

I drove up the A-1 (Ahh-uno) to the “Firenze Sud” exit.  Then we wandered around until we found a parking spot on the banks of the Arno, very close to where our son David had classes when he studied in Florence.  Not fully understanding the parking signs, Becky investigated what we needed to do by fluently asking a passerby in English, “What’s the deal on parking?”  Directed to the nearby Tabacchi (convenience store and more), we went back and forth with the helpful counter girl whose kindheartedness allows the linguistically challenged to get parking passes.  Our multitude of lottery-like parking passes on the dash, we crossed our fingers, abandoned the car and walked into town.  

No way we did that properly, particularly since we didn’t see any other cars with a pile of the passes on the dash.  The plan was to go on foot straight to the Gallerie dell'Accademia to see the statue of David… Michelangelo’s, that is currently residing in Florence, not ours, who currently resides in San Francisco, the American city, not the Italian monastery. 

But Florence is not a place where one can just dash from point A to point B.  The streets are much too crooked, and incredible sights are everywhere.  So it took us much longer than just walking time to get to the museum.  Particularly since Becky and Dave had never been to the marketplace, 

or seen Palazzo Vecchio, or the Duomo, 

or…or…or…  

To our good fortune, we were very pleasantly surprised by our ability to spend a few extra Euros to get tickets with reservations that got us in almost immediately.  Why were those others standing in the hot sun and waiting in line when four Euros gets you right in?  Particularly when you are a tourist squandering them at a record breaking pace, and you can use the time you save to squander even more Euros.

Michelangelo's David impressed, as always.  That such a figure emerged from a single block of marble is absolutely amazing.  And what a figure.  And what a pity that I conformed to the "No Photography" regulations.  The notes in the tour books say that the statue is perfectly proportioned, but I can’t agree.  I tend to think that the hands are far too large.  Dave pointed out the same for the feet, and also added that the old adage about the size of a man’s feet related to the size of other parts was clearly not true in this case. 

We window-shopped on the way to eat.  Unfortunately, Dave could not find his recommended trattoria, and due to the late afternoon hour, the one that had been recommended to me by a one time resident was closing.  So we settled for another that was a bit off the beaten path and happy to serve us.  Not only that, the food was quite good.  

Ponte Vecchio across the Arno

The value of the trip was soon confirmed.  Becky found herself some fine leather boots.  Not wishing to be outdone, Mary picked out a necklace in a window on the Ponte Vecchio.  As the proprietor buzzed the door open, a sinking feeling came over me.  Danger, danger, Randy Fredlund!   

Upon closer inspection, the necklace revealed itself to be truly lovely and unique, and valued by the merchant at an amount equivalent to taking another two people with us from the US to Italy.  We thanked the lady and departed unladen to find gelato.  “Whatever size gelato you want, Mary.”  I’m a big spender.

The Duomo was closed to visitors by the time we returned, so we stopped for a drink and some WiFi at a café.  Dave decided he wants to own a scooter dealership in Florence.  But his dealership will be different, because they’ll be selling diesel scooters.  “They’ll sell like hotcakes.”

“And everyone will drive them over to my chain of restaurants, Funghi E Formaggio.  Or maybe Porcini E Pecorino. We’ll just call the places Mushrooms and Cheese in the American tour guides.”

We were happy to find no disaster messages from the US of A on Dave’s iPad.  At least not yet.  I sent a note to both our David and our Kate.  We will call her tomorrow on her birthday. 

We finished the Florentine tour with a stop at Piazza Michelangelo, where a bronze copy of the marble original gazes out over Firenze.   

 The sun was setting over the city, and the colors were especially vivid.  The reflected sunlight lit up the river and all the buildings of Firenze spread out below us.  Fading pink and orange clouds completed the vista.  

Back at Ortaglia, the heat of the day and the strain of the drive home went down the drain with the bathwater.  Only the memories of the great day remained.  I wandered through the villa and found Terenzio watching TV.  I told him we had seen the statue for which he had modeled.  He looked puzzled.  “David, of course,” I added.

He roared.  Grabbing his ample belly, he said, “Yes, but that was 30 years ago,”

Toscana

15-Settembre-2011

Sitting with your feet in the warm spring water of Bagno Vignone is a great pleasure.  Touring the tiny bath town favored by Etruscans, Romans and Pope Pius II is also great fun.  And all this after a stop at La Foce, where the famous zigzag driveway of Tuscany can be seen, makes for a very nice morning. 

 The water bubbles up into a large pool that substitutes for the town square.   Bathing is not allowed, but I’d be willing to guess that prohibition began after the reign of the “colorful” Pope.  

 The water runs under the street to the ruins of the Roman baths perched on the edge of a cliff.  The calcified water has built itself a ramp where it leaves the cliff and launches into the air high above the little stream they call a river far below.  High atop the opposite side of the valley, a castle rises from a promontory.  Striking, and also peaceful.  A great place to linger.

But not for too long, since there is so much more to see.  We followed a tour bus through the hills, which gave me a good excuse for stopping for frequent photo ops.  Before long we arrived at the Abbey Sant’Antimo.  Our timing did not allow us to hear the monks chant, or to see the angle of the fading sun light up the airborne dust in full splendor, but the building and grounds are still stunningly beautiful.  Charlemagne showed good taste in liking the area.

Prior to our departure, Terenzio had drawn a straight line on the map that represented the path through the farmland that was the shortcut to Banfi.  This resulted in two learnings…the differing interpretation of a straight line between Italians and Americans, and firsthand knowledge of why so many of the cars in Tuscany are covered with dust.  

The five-course lunch with Banfi wines was outstanding, and the dining room and grounds were every bit as memorable as the food.  All American wineries should be required to have a castle, don’t you think?  Afterward, Dave drove on to Montalcino, where the Florentines finally subdued the last rulers of Sienna.  We strolled through the town, shopping and taking pictures until we got tired.  I subdued numerous photons with my camera.

Dog tired in Montalcino

There are numerous towns in the province of Sienna that have names ending with “ciano.”  Asciano, Chianciano Terme, Monetpulciano, Moniciano, San Casciano dei Bagni... I told Dave that I thought “ciano” in Italian was something like “ville” in English. 

“Oh, so you mean like Churchciano, or Scottschiano or the Last Train to Clarksciano?”  Close enough.

Reflecting on Italian Real Estate

Back at Ortaglia, we sampled some of the wine Terenzio had stored in our rooms as we watched the setting sun.  Then made short work of the salami and cheese we picked up in lieu of dinner from the frommagio vendor in Montepulciano.  As best we could, we had asked what would be the proper accompaniment to Tuscan wine.  “Con vino? she repeated, “Soltanto Pecorino con vino.”  Well…OK.  We’ll only eat sheep cheese with wine.  When in Tuscany…  

Retiring to a table above the vineyard, we solved the problems of the world while gazing up at the what we thought was the Big Dipper, but in Toscana, it's really Ursa Major in the Latin sky.    

Getting There

Preparazione…13/14-Settembre-2011

I went to visit my Mom and Dad after finishing my work responsibilities.

“How you feelin’, Dad?”

“Numb,” he replied.  I burst out laughing, along with my Mom.  After chit-chatting for a while I headed home, but not before I had my usual hall consultation with Mom.  She almost always accompanies me to the outer door from their apartment so that she can have a word alone with me.

“He only had one small problem last night.  But other than that he was pretty good.  He slept in his chair a lot.” 

“That’s better, but you shouldn’t have to clean up after Dad every day, all day.  Vicky is looking into Monroe Hospital for Dad since they have an Alzheimer’s care unit with the best reputation in town.” 

“Well, I don’t want to move.  I have friends here now.” 

“Mom, you don’t have to. I understand that there is another resident here who goes to Monroe every day, you could tag along.” 

“I really don’t feel good about being apart.”

“But you can’t provide the level of care Dad needs now, and it’s not good for you to try.  Moving Dad is as much for you as it is for him.” 

“I don’t know how he is going to take the idea.” 

“I’ll tell Dad the same thing I told you.  I think he will understand.”  I hope.  Because his reason for living has been to see that Mom is cared for.  “And one more thing Mom…let me be the one to tell him when I get back.” 

I need a vacation.

**********

We picked up Mary’s car at the shop after they told us nothing was wrong.  There was a minor charge for their time, but I managed to leave with what I thought would be $500 of damage when I turned short around a concrete light pylon I never saw.  I was distracted by a car-carrier truck beginning his move to the exit, two women walking across in front of me and the low fuel alarm going off.  The sun was at a low angle over the dealership building, and that lit up the dirty window such that it obscured the light post rising from the concrete that ended slightly below window level.  The light post shadow must have been on the support between the front and back windows.  Lots of factors, but I can’t ignore that once again I was in a hurry, this time to beat the truck to the exit.  After hearing the awful crunching sound and feeling the scraping, I got out to inspect the damage.  Not good.  I backed the car off the post as gingerly as possible so as not to cause any more damage.  I sighed and resigned myself to driving home disgusted.  And I couldn’t help but notice that the truck I was trying to beat to the exit was merely moving forward for a better angle to back up and unload. 

I really need a vacation.

**********

Mary is running all the time.  She takes care of many of the needs of her Dad, who is in assisted living, and helps out with my parents as well.  She curls with me and is an avid rower, heavily involved in the activities of the Genesee Rowing Club.  These include all manner of coordination and organization of everything associated with getting a new club off the ground, including construction of an impressive boat house.  And once in a while, she actually gets to row.

Mary works as hard as anyone I know.  She really needs a vacation, too.

**********

Gail took us to the airport where we met the Foringers being dropped off by their daughter, Heather, and her two little girls.  After the appropriate amount of fawning over the little ones, we were off to the usual airport routine. 

“Please remove your belt sir, everything through the machine, even your hockey pucks.” 

“Hockey pucks?” I asked. 

“Training is starting,” he said, jovially “you never know.”  Another interminably long sports season has begun. 

Waiting for boarding, Dave took a picture of Mary and Becky sporting their “Bloomies,” the ridiculously tacky costume jewelry the greater group of girls bought on a trip to Gail’s condo in Florida.  Mary says they have to get pictures of the Bloomies on statues all over Italy.  I’ll have to Photoshop the Bloomies on Michelangelo’s David.  

Mary sent the picture to Lorrie, who was originally part of the group going to Italy, along with Gail.  “Nice. Have fun!” was Lorrie’s text reply.  I know she was disappointed that it hadn’t worked out that she could go, but she showed incredible restraint by not adding the word “Bitches!” to her text.

**********

Dave is the general manager at the #5 Chevrolet dealership in the US of A.  If you need a car, you really ought to drop into Bob Johnson Chevy, Ridge at Mt. Read.  Best deals in town!  Corvettes galore!!! And not only that, you’ll be supporting Dave’s escapades in international travel.  


But he really wants to be an inventor.  Or if not an inventor, a consumer products entrepreneur.  His pre-flight luggage stuffing exercise made him think that a hair dryer attachment that creates a vacuum for vacuum-bagging your clothing would be all the rage.  Perhaps a good idea, but I’m willing to bet that with the additional space, you’d just take more stuff.

Or maybe Dave just needs a vacation.


**********

It was another less-than-enjoyable hop over the pond.  I can never get comfortable.  This trip was no exception.  I am just not someone who can sleep in a sitting position.  But after seeing how Dad has mastered the skill, I’m guessing that when I am well past the inclination to fly, I’ll be expert at sit-sleeping.  Since I couldn’t sleep, I watched a movie.  I always try to watch something I’d never see with Mary.  This time it was the sci-fi flick, Battle: Los Angeles.  Glad I did not pay to see it in a theater. 

When we landed at Pisa, customs was a joke.  “Passaporto? Sì? Arrivederci.”  (“Oh, you have a passport?  See ya.”)

We picked up the car, and of course, it was not the wagon we had requested.  After trying to force our luggage into the trunk of the Mercedes sedan, we went back to get a different car.  Our ride became a Ford Kuga small SUV, with a sticker price of €25K, I found out later.  Dave, the Chevy dealer, said it was pretty OK for a Ford.  At least we could get all our luggage into it. 

We drove off toward Firenze, turning off the highway towards Sienna.  I realized my reaction time was not what I was used to as we went through roundabout after roundabout in town after town.  The uncomfortable flight was showing its effects.  Did I sleep a total of one hour?  Seems to me that for such flights, the passengers would be more comfortable standing in slightly reclining “beds” where they could extend fully.  Close enough to vertical to allow full extension yet reclined enough that the passenger’s feet would not be supporting much weight.  Maybe add a touch of nitrous oxide for a little push in the proper direction.  Just extract it from the air outside and reduce greenhouse gasses at the same time.  Fly the sleepy skies…

We stopped as San Gimignano, the tower town, to look around a bit and get a bite to eat.  It was incredibly hot.  I can’t imagine what it must be like in July. 

Torre Grossa

Italian national pastime

I was beat.  I remember getting peach gelato, but not what I ate for lunch, other than a piece of Dave’s pizza.  And there must have been shopping...Mary and Becky were there.  I had to look at the pictures the next day to enjoy the visit. Closer to Montepulciano I pulled over and asked Dave to drive.  A somewhat mature decision, I suppose.  Then I navigated with a horrible map in Rick Steves’ book on Tuscany.  I was disappointed in myself for not jumping out asking directions when Dave pulled into the driveway occupied by three people, but I was completely played out from the flight and not on my game for finding Italian words.  And I’ve always hated asking directions, no matter what the language. 

Disappointed though I might have been, I was pleased to see Dave ask, “Dove Montepulciano?”  after saying, “Non capisco.”  Though the sounds continued, most of the audible communication ceased at that point.  They spoke no English, and Dave had already used up most of his Italian.  But that’s all part of the fun.  The three argued about how far it was, but their directions weren’t bad.  And pointing works.

We got to Relais Ortaglia soon enough and received the tour of the beautiful grounds from Terenzio, the owner.  Both the hilltop villa and the views from it are striking, no matter how tired you are.  Getting settled in our room, Mary tried the hot water and it did not work, so I went downstairs to see what could be done. 

“What, no hot water!?!” exclaimed Terenzio.  He leapt into action, disrupting the entire household.  Soon the maid came up to check.  “Is OK,” she said and sure enough, she was right.  We were so tired we had forgotten C was for caldo (hot) and F was for fredo (cold).  More evidence that my self-taught Italian fails when I am tired. 

After a fine dinner at a place Terenzio suggested in Montepulciano, we all passed out in our rooms without any resistance at all.