Our last morning in Florence was spent at the same little sidewalk café where we had spent every morning in Florence, starting the day with a pastry and the finest cappuccino. It was just around the corner from our hotel. Across the way reared the Santa Maria Maggiore church, the oldest in the city. It was early and the streets were quiet, lending to a peaceful atmosphere to spread the road map out on the table and plan our day. We were at that wistful point of the trip where all that remained was the final leg of the journey. For two weeks we had been in Italy, and only four days remained before we flew home. It had been mostly go-go-go. But now we would be slowing it down. Heading for the Tuscan hills, we were. Chianti... Wine... Medieval villages... And to celebrate Terry’s birthday.
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Lost in the Tuscan Hills
“This can’t be right,” emitted Terry, both hands gripping the wheel as she maneuvered around another deep rut.
I had to agree with her. The skinny dirt road that we were driving up was getting steeper and more rugged by the minute. But still… I was pretty sure we hadn’t made a wrong turn—until the underside of our Audi scraped over a big rock.
The drive south from Florence had been incredibly picturesque, the highway wandering through rolling hills of vineyards and olive groves, past wineries and farm houses and the occasional village. After twenty miles, at the town of Greve in Chianti, we turned onto a country lane that snaked up into wooded hills, gaining a thousand feet of elevation and passing a few more vineyards along the way. We had come close to five miles up this road when I spotted the tiny sign that I’d been looking for: Lionforti da Vico. Lionforti would be our lodging for the next three nights, while Vico was the old Tuscan settlement where it was located. Terry turned onto the dirt road at the sign, and we followed it up the hill and into the woods for a mile or more. Then the road got steep and gnarly. And then we scraped bottom. Yes, this couldn’t be right. Could it?
At the top of the grade was a lone farm house. Terry braked to a stop and I got out to see if anyone was home. A woman came out of the house as I approached the front door.
“Sto cercando Lionforti,” I explained.
The woman nodded, and then quickly rattled off directions in Italian that I interpreted roughly to mean that we had missed a fork in the road about a kilometer back. She pointed to the forested mountainside about a mile away, where we'd find what we were looking for—or at least that’s what I think she indicated.
Indeed, following the other dirt road, we came upon the settlement of Vico, which consisted of four or five 14th-century stone houses and a tiny chapel that looked even older. If Michelangelo himself would’ve come riding by on a mule, he wouldn’t have looked out of place.
The Lionforti was the first house we came to, and the innkeeper/owners, Salvatore and Silvia, graciously got us settled into our room. The back yard overlooked the valley and had a swimming pool. After the hustle and bustle of Florence, the quiet solitude of the mountainside was welcoming. Sunrises and sunsets were both resplendent. One evening, we sat on the back patio and listened to crickets, sharing a bottle of wine and munching on bread and cheese. That was dinner. The pace of life was slowing down. What else does one need? When in Tuscany…
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| The road to Vico. |
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| Lionforti da Vico |
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| Hanging out in the back yard. |
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| Tuscan serenity |
Greve in Chianti
The nearest town to our lodging at Lionforti was Greve-in-Chianti, twenty minutes down the hill. It’s a quaint little town, smack dab in the middle of the Chianti wine region where they’ve been making vino for at least seven hundred years. The countryside looks like our Napa or Sonoma (in fact, Greve’s official sister city is Sonoma). In addition to wine, high-quality meats, including wild game, are a specialty of Greve. The family-run Macelleria Falorni is the oldest butcher shop in Italy (over 200 years!) and it's still doing good business in the old town square. And then there’s the incredible cycling going on all over Chianti. A bicycle, a little wine and salami, and you’re good to go. Cin-cin!
During the day, it’s a placid town. But things liven up in the evening when the tourists and cyclists descend on the restaurants for grub. For Terry’s birthday, we dined at the swish Fuoripiazza, which means “out on the square.” Which is where we were seated: outside on the plaza square under a sunset sky. Our waiter even surprised her with an ornate dessert with a candle on top. (Honest honey, I have no idea how they knew.)
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| Chianti |
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| Greve in Chianti |
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| Wild boar in front of the Macelleria Falorni, the oldest butcher shop in Italy. |
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The Towers of San Gimignano
The medieval town of San Gimignano was on our list to see, though getting there from our hillside redoubt above Greve was somewhat circuitous. This is because the furrowed Tuscan valleys mostly trend north to south, and roads going east-west thus cut against the grain—and San Gimignano was three valleys east of us. First, we took the road down to Greve and crossed the river, then climbed over a ridge and descended to the Pesa River, and then up and over a pass to the Elsa River. But the scenery was gorgeous, so what's the rush?
Rounding a bend in the road, we recognized San Gimignano at first sight, standing apart on a high hill, its stone towers piercing the sky. People have been living on this hill for over two thousand years, going way back to the Etruscans. Feudal walls encircle the old village where castle towers abound. By the 14th century, there were seventy-two towers gracing the skyline, but only fourteen remain today. The town is also one of the way stations for the Via Francigena, which is part of the old pilgrimage route that runs from Canterbury, England to Rome. Used extensively by Christian pilgrims in the Middle Ages, it has become popular with trekkers today.
We spent a few hours wandering the streets and passageways of San Gimignano, soaking up its Romanesque and Gothic charm. We had lunch and Aperol spritzes at a café on the main plaza, relaxing in the shade of an old tower. Then, more exploring. At the south end of town is the Museum of Torture—aptly, downstairs in a dungeon—and out of morbid curiosity, we dropped in. It was very authentic and unsettling. We didn’t stay long. But hey, the gelato shop in the plaza was awesome.
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| San Gimignano |
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| The furthest tower in the back is Torre Rognosa. Erected in 1200, it is the oldest tower still standing. It’s 167 feet tall, the second highest in town. |
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| Piazza Della Cisterna: the town's plaza center, where the public well and cistern in the middle dates back to the 13th century. |
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| Gothic arches |
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| Inside the 12th-century Basilica of San Gimignano. The church looks quite ordinary on the outside, but the interior is rich with early Gothic architecture and frescoes. |
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| Virgin Mary Shrine in the Basilica of San Gimignano. |
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| A medieval suit of armor stands guard at the entrance to the Museum of Torture. |
It was our last day in Chianti, and the plan was to check out the wine museum in Greve. We wanted to see first hand how they made Chianti the old-fashioned way—or at least that’s what the brochure promised. The thought of squishing grapes with my bare feet sounded primitive and enticing, and we were down at the museum at ten o’clock sharp for the tour, ready for some squishing, as were a few other people. The front doors were locked, so we loitered outside. Twenty minutes passed. Nothing. Finally, one of the other couples waiting for the tour ducked into the adjacent smoke shop and asked if they knew anything. The shopkeeper made a phone call. Turned out, the wine-making tour and demonstration had been canceled!
Now what? Ter and I trudged up a steep side road to the edge of town and sat in the heaven-sent shade of an oak tree. It was already getting hot—too late for a bike ride—and my enthusiasm was flagging. I reclined in the dry grass and closed my eyes while Terry searched for a Plan B on her phone.
“There’s a small village up the hill from here,” she said. “We could check it out.”
Hm.
“There’s an old church there… A restaurant... It’s not too far, we could walk it.”
Hm.
“Hey, listen to this: The house of Amerigo Vespucci is there.”
Huh? What?
Okay, now she had my attention. Without further ado, we plodded up the country lane for about a mile, past timeworn olive groves, to the top of the hill where the walled hamlet of Montefioralle crowned the summit. The initial church and castle houses were built in the 11th century, long before Greve existed. Most of the surrounding land at the time was divided among four prominent families—one of them being the Vespucci family. They were a well-to-do clan; part of the “in crowd” of cosmopolitan Florence. Many contend that Amerigo was born in Montefioralle, though historical accounts show that he was later raised and schooled in Florence. In 1492, he was commissioned by a Medici merchant company to go to Spain and look after their business interests. That was right when Christopher Columbus was discovering a bunch of islands and half-naked people on the other side of the pond. This would pique Amerigo’s interest in exploration and cartography, and in a few years, he too was venturing overseas, becoming the first to use the term “New World” in documents, and claim that a fourth continent existed west of Europe and Africa, and it wasn’t a part of Asia. Master cartographer, Martin Waldseemüller, agreed with him. His updated 1507 map of the world would show this yet-indistinct, murky continent, and he would label it “America” after Vespucci. The rest is history.
You can’t beat the view from a hilltop medieval castle village, and Montefioralle is a prime example. We lost ourselves in the solitude of cobbled streets that were not much wider than an ox cart. The village is small. Quiet. There are no hotels. No gift shops. If you get hungry, there are three quaint restaurants to choose from. Indeed, the longer we lingered, the more we liked the place. In due course, we did locate the Vespucci ancestral country home where Amerigo was supposedly born. Above the doorway, a stone plaque in the wall is engraved with the family coat of arms: a shield with a banner of wasps (the Vespucci surname is derived from “vespa,” which is wasp in Italian and Latin). Should I knock? Nobody seemed to be home. The address is 21 Castle Way. If you ever get to Montefioralle, rap on the door. If anyone answers… Ask ‘em if Amerigo is home.
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| A view of Greve from outside the walls of Montefioralle. |
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| The streets of Montefioralle. |
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| Hitch your horse here. And pick up your horse poop. |
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| Lost. In a good way. |
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| Lunch with a view. |
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| Amerigo Vespucci |
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| The Vespucci residence. |
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| The Vespucci house cat? |
Ritorno a Venezia
“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music creep in our ears.”
—William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice.
Inevitably, all good journeys come to an end. We packed and departed Greve in Chianti after breakfast, heading north with Tuscany in the rearview mirror. Three hours later we were dropping the car off at Marco Polo Airport, and then catching the water bus out to Venice—where it had all started. It was our last night in Italy. We sprung for a suite on the Grand Canal.
After spending three days in Venice on the front end of the trip, it didn’t take long to get our bearings again. We wandered the San Marco borough; browsed through the shops one last time; found a romantic, out-of-the-way restaurant for dinner. Then we joined the throng in Saint Mark’s Square at sundown, pigeons wheeling overhead as the voice of a woman singing opera drifted across the plaza and the day succumbed to the night.
La fine.
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| The view from our hotel. |
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| Drinks in Saint Mark's Square. Cin-cin! |
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| A little opera for ambiance. |
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| Sundown in Saint Mark's Square. |
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Trip Summary...
We logged 890 miles on the Audi. Though we didn’t need a car in Venice (no streets!), and it was parked the whole time we were in Florence, it was definitely handy everywhere else along the way. Terry loved the car. It had cup holders.
The Italians call it “La Vita Bella”—the beautiful life. And they don’t mean a “luxurious life”, but rather a relaxed, family-centric lifestyle that puts quality over quantity. There is no such thing as Italian fast food: their culture transcends “quick and cheap.” Meals are eaten unhurried. At restaurants, food servers won’t bring your bill until you signal for it—dropping it off before you ask is considered rude. Italians love their vino and can be the zest of the party—but over-drinking in public is considered boorish. And they don't rush around clutching a to-go cup of coffee: they relax and sip their espresso at a coffee bar or bistro table. There is much more emphasis on how time is spent rather than being on time. Family is everything and extended-family dinners on Sundays are common.
THE FOOD
Italian cuisine is the bomb. That is all.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking: What about all that fancy French food? Well, it came from Italy. Remember Catherine de’ Medici, the girl from Florence who married the French prince and later became Queen of France? She was appalled with the mundane food of French royalty and their habit of eating with their fingers, so she brought her own chefs to Paris—including Ruggeri and his top-secret ice cream—and transformed their abysmal diet into what we know as French cuisine today. Also, she introduced them to the dinner fork. No more fingers. But back to Italy: If I had to pick some meals from the trip that stood out above the rest, they would be the beet ravioli at the Lagazuoi Rifugio; the lasagna in Cortina d’Ampezzo; and the roasted wild boar in Canazei. They were incredible. Oh, and pizzas were popular everywhere and they were all good.
THE TOAST
One night, a waiter poured our wine and said “Cin-cin!” when he was done. It sounded like he had said “ching-ching”, like the sound of two glasses clinking together in a toast. Later I discovered that it means “To your health,” similar to “salute” or “cheers” or “tally-ho” or whatever. Cin-cin. I like the ring of it.
BREWS & LIBATIONS
Beer-drinking seemed to be more prevalent in the mountain towns, though we didn’t sample many. Pale lagers such as Peroni are popular. My favorite was a Moretti La Rossa (red ale?). Down in the warmer climes of Venice and Tuscany, there were a couple of summer drinks that are uber-popular with both locals and tourists. One is the neon-orange Aperol spritz, made from Aperol (a citrus/rhubarb liqueur), Prosecco (an Italian white wine), and soda water. The other is the Negroni, made with sweet vermouth rose, gin, and Campari (a liqueur of fruits, herbs and spices). If these drinks aren’t your thing, there is always plenty of Chianti wine. As I said earlier, the Italians love their vino—and they drink more of it per-capita than the French.
Cin-cin!
PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE
