Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 62 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
"How can it be here?" the four of us wondered as we stared through the dusty windows of our rental car at the marble-sheathed base of Pisa's leaning tower.
Instantly, two shiny Carabinieri cars spilled uniformed officers on both sides of us. Cathy, who happened to be at the steering wheel, rolled down her window. The officers told us in emphatic Italian, with gestures, what we were guilty of, but we already had a good idea. Larry and I knew a little Italian, so we tried to communicate that it all was a mistake.
"Abbiamo fatto uno stupido errore," we admitted.
Instantly, two shiny Carabinieri cars spilled uniformed officers on both sides of us. Cathy, who happened to be at the steering wheel, rolled down her window. The officers told us in emphatic Italian, with gestures, what we were guilty of, but we already had a good idea. Larry and I knew a little Italian, so we tried to communicate that it all was a mistake.
"Abbiamo fatto uno stupido errore," we admitted.
Sherrill, Bruce, Larry, & Cathy on patio, Migliarino Cathy and Larry and Sherrill and I were staying in an updated 1750 farmhouse in the Tuscan village of Migliarino between Lucca and Pisa. The trip had been organized to celebrate Larry's 70th birthday. One evening, when we'd joined them for dinner at home, Cathy had surprised him with a cake decorated with a green, white, and red frosting map of Italy and a miniature Italian flag and handed him a binder with details of the trip. Now, it was happening.
As stupido as we might be, sometimes, we'd known better than to drive into the center of Florence, so we'd parked in Pisa and ridden a local train the rest of the way for our second of three days exploring the city. Now, we were in Pisa again, on the way—we hoped—back to the farm. The town, however, was a jumble of one-way streets. Somehow, we'd got trapped on one so narrow that it was impossible to turn around, but with no cross street onto which we could escape. The only person we passed was a man who gave us a perplexed look as he folded a sidewalk cafe umbrella. Then, we saw a pair of open gates ahead.
As stupido as we might be, sometimes, we'd known better than to drive into the center of Florence, so we'd parked in Pisa and ridden a local train the rest of the way for our second of three days exploring the city. Now, we were in Pisa again, on the way—we hoped—back to the farm. The town, however, was a jumble of one-way streets. Somehow, we'd got trapped on one so narrow that it was impossible to turn around, but with no cross street onto which we could escape. The only person we passed was a man who gave us a perplexed look as he folded a sidewalk cafe umbrella. Then, we saw a pair of open gates ahead.
Cathy nodded toward them. "I'll turn around in there."
It seemed like the only option, but as soon as we passed through the gates we confronted Pisa's famous campanile and its guards.
The officer at Cathy's window copied information from her license while tossing out a series of questions in rapid Italian. Eventually, though, he seemed to relent and told her how we could get out of Pisa, despite the one-way streets, and onto the road for Migliarino. It probably was obvious to him that we weren't clever enough to be terrorists. As soon as we were back in our little two-bedroom, two-bath apartment, we opened a bottle of wine and celebrated our escape.
It seemed like the only option, but as soon as we passed through the gates we confronted Pisa's famous campanile and its guards.
The officer at Cathy's window copied information from her license while tossing out a series of questions in rapid Italian. Eventually, though, he seemed to relent and told her how we could get out of Pisa, despite the one-way streets, and onto the road for Migliarino. It probably was obvious to him that we weren't clever enough to be terrorists. As soon as we were back in our little two-bedroom, two-bath apartment, we opened a bottle of wine and celebrated our escape.
Puccini's Torre del Lago We'd already had several good days in Tuscany. We'd discovered a local deli just up the road from our farm, become friends with Maria, its vivacious proprietor, and found a little market for basic shopping. We'd explored the historic center of Pisa, begun our pilgrimage through Florence's many treasures, and visited Puccini's atmospheric tower and villa at Torre del Lago on the edge of Lake Massaciuccoli. We could visualize more easily than in most homes of the famous, the handsome, dapper, cigarette-smoking genius who lived, worked, and entertained there—even composing on his piano while behind him his pals played cards.
We'd strolled atop Lucca's thick Renaissance walls and through both its Piazza San Michele, where a Roman Forum once stood, and the Piazza dell' Anfiteatro, which followed the shape of an ancient amphitheatre, then wandered along its narrow winding streets until we found a tiny outdoor restaurant for dinner. Lucca wasn't as spectacular as some Italian cities, but felt comfortable, like a friendly neighbor who'd welcome us whenever we dropped in.
 Museo del Bargello, Florence |  Brunellesco's Pazzi Chapel, Florence |
When Sherrill and I visited Italy with our daughter back in 1978 we encountered far fewer tourists. We'd had no trouble just walking up and climbing Pisa's leaning tower, but in 2005 we had to go online before we left home to buy advance reservations for both the tower and the museums next door—just as we had to buy advance reservations for the Uffizi gallery in Florence. As the days vanished under our weary feet, the four of us, determined to make the best use of our time in each town, walked almost without stopping, it seemed, from church to museum to palace to cathedral.
Friends enjoying the best of Tuscany Florence almost overwhelmed us with its riches. We crowded in one experience after another, from the magnificent trio of the Duomo, baptistery, and campanile to the fortress-like Bargello palace to the restrained, humanist beauty of Brunellesco's Pazzi Chapel to the art-filled rooms of the Pitti Palace sprawling on the hill across the Arno. It was impossible to study every single object in either the Uffizi or Pitti Palace, so we split up and focused according to personal taste and interest. At the same time, could anything capture the power of the human spirit as dramatically as Michelangelo's David, standing tall, ready to battle evil, in the Academia? Well, maybe the gelato that we indulged in from time to time.
Knowing where we'd put our heads every night made it easier to wander and explore each day, maybe taking a picnic lunch, maybe trusting to fate that we'd find a perfect cafe. Why not just head into the hills beyond Lucca, for instance, to seek out the elegant summer villas built by the city's elite when it was at its economic peak? Why not stroll among their gardens and prowl through the grand houses that now were open to the public? Even though they were built by bankers and merchants, they reflected the ideals of the renaissance, and their vast gardens adorned with grottos and fountains, lakes and arbors, transformed the landscape surrounding the villas into a civilized paradise. We even picnicked (discretely) on an old stone wall by one of them.
 Villa Oliva, near Lucca |  Cathy & Sherrill picnicking near Lucca |
It was inevitable, however, that as we wandered we'd get lost, miss a turn, read the map wrong, aim the wrong direction, but the local people were unfailingly friendly and helpful—whether we could understand them, or not.
The young man gassing up his motorcycle certainly was friendly and willing to help. He listened patiently to me and seemed to understand my Italian and answered my question with great detail, even as he got ready to get back on the road. The problem was that half of his words were lost in the plastic dome of his helmet. Then, before I could ask for clarification, he grinned, jumped on his motorcycle, and shot off with a roar.
Somehow, though, we always made it back to Migliarino.
The young man gassing up his motorcycle certainly was friendly and willing to help. He listened patiently to me and seemed to understand my Italian and answered my question with great detail, even as he got ready to get back on the road. The problem was that half of his words were lost in the plastic dome of his helmet. Then, before I could ask for clarification, he grinned, jumped on his motorcycle, and shot off with a roar.
Somehow, though, we always made it back to Migliarino.
Sherrill, Piazza del Campo, Siena We couldn't miss Siena, extravagant, unpredictable city of the notorious Palio horse race, seventeen neighborhoods in death-defying competition. Although we weren't there for the race, we explored most of the city and the great sloping brick Piazza del Campo where it took place every year and managed a reunion lunch with some old Berkeley friends who also happened to be in town. Even Siena's cathedral was out of the ordinary—the plague had interrupted its construction, so what had been intended as a side arm of a much larger building became the center aisle and front. The alternating zebra-like black and white stripes of both the church and its campanile added to their magnificent weirdness. Sherrill bought a copy of one of the distinctive Palio banners and decided that we needed to return sixteen more times so she could collect all seventeen—one at a time, of course. I made no promises.
Every morning, a chorus of excited birds babbled at us through the windows of our apartment on the farm. A drive north one morning to La Spezia and then a train got us to the rugged Cinque Terre with its dramatic cliffs plunging straight to the sea, then—although the day was a bit drizzly—we alternated hiking along the cliff-side foot paths with riding the local train as we explored the five little towns with their brightly colored buildings piled like children's blocks on the cliffs. Sometimes, from certain angles, they looked as if they were starting to tumble down to the rock-littered beaches. A few years later, the towns and the trail connecting them were seriously damaged by an earthquake. Even before that, local government had set limits to the number of visitors allowed to invade at one time—to preserve the local culture, they said, because cruise ships were starting to turn the place into a Disneyland, just as they already had with Venice.
 Corniglia, Cinque Terre |  Sherrill, Manarola, Cinque Terre |
Historic bridge, marble quarries, Carrara The marble mountains of Carrara, 60 miles north of our farm, had been quarried since Roman times, but still seemed to be yielding countless blocks of their famous stone. We could picture Michelangelo stomping through marble dust, eying and rejecting hunks of marble and then finally approving one for the job he had in mind. Oddly enough, he didn't look like Charleton Heston, at least to me, but more like his painting of a muscular God the Father giving life to Adam. We could see that modern machinery now was cutting and moving the huge hunks of marble, so it seemed that only someone with such power could have done what Michelangelo did almost to the day he died.
Life before and during the renaissance was hard and violent, so you had to be strong and well prepared to survive. As we explored Tuscany and environs, we saw proof of this in palaces that were more fortress than home and defensive towers into which besieged occupants could retreat. The walled hill town of San Gimignano was the supreme example. Like many towns of the time, the population regularly broke into quarreling, battling factions, which led to the famous towers that thrust up like stone arms and fists across the town's hills—as well as a once-secret network of underground passages. Sherrill and I knew from trips to other countries just how deadly quarrels between neighbors could be.
San Gimignano piazza and towers "Why," I asked the others, one evening on the way home, "do we always end up aiming for Bologna?"
It was true, as we drove between towns, carefully following our maps in that pre-GPS era, sooner or later we saw that we were targeting an exit that would take us to Bologna. Whoever was driving then had to do some fancy maneuvering to keep us from being swallowed by that huge city. We decided that it was a plot of whoever had put up the road signs, but we defeated their evil intent and enjoyed dinner accompanied by a show of fireflies back at our farm.
It would've been a challenge to say which of the hill towns we visited—Monterchi, Pistoia, Volterra, Barga, Cortona, or another—was the most beautiful, but the most memorable for us may have been Arezzo, where Piero della Francesco spent most of his life—and where we toasted Larry at his birthday dinner at an outdoor restaurant on the Piazza Grande. Of course, we prowled around the city, seeking out Piero's paintings. At one point during the day, while Larry—the art historian among us—was explaining some of the technical aspects of renaissance painting, other visitors began gathering around, also listening.
It was true, as we drove between towns, carefully following our maps in that pre-GPS era, sooner or later we saw that we were targeting an exit that would take us to Bologna. Whoever was driving then had to do some fancy maneuvering to keep us from being swallowed by that huge city. We decided that it was a plot of whoever had put up the road signs, but we defeated their evil intent and enjoyed dinner accompanied by a show of fireflies back at our farm.
It would've been a challenge to say which of the hill towns we visited—Monterchi, Pistoia, Volterra, Barga, Cortona, or another—was the most beautiful, but the most memorable for us may have been Arezzo, where Piero della Francesco spent most of his life—and where we toasted Larry at his birthday dinner at an outdoor restaurant on the Piazza Grande. Of course, we prowled around the city, seeking out Piero's paintings. At one point during the day, while Larry—the art historian among us—was explaining some of the technical aspects of renaissance painting, other visitors began gathering around, also listening.
Sherrill being attacked by Florence wine bar sign, with Larry and Cathy "Is this a class?" somebody asked. "Can anybody listen?"
"No, it's not a class," Cathy answered. "He just knows a lot."
With a smile, Larry told them that they could listen if they wanted. They gratefully accepted his offer and even asked questions. After a while, we continued along the Piero trail, seeking more of the master's paintings.
It hardly mattered which town we were in, we always were surrounded by beauty, both natural and manmade—as well as superb food and wine.
"And gelato," the others would be quick to add.
"Why don't we stay here?" we asked each other more than once, meaning Italy. "Can it get better than this?
Right then, I'm sure that all four of us would have agreed that life couldn't possibly be any better.
To be continued....
"No, it's not a class," Cathy answered. "He just knows a lot."
With a smile, Larry told them that they could listen if they wanted. They gratefully accepted his offer and even asked questions. After a while, we continued along the Piero trail, seeking more of the master's paintings.
It hardly mattered which town we were in, we always were surrounded by beauty, both natural and manmade—as well as superb food and wine.
"And gelato," the others would be quick to add.
"Why don't we stay here?" we asked each other more than once, meaning Italy. "Can it get better than this?
Right then, I'm sure that all four of us would have agreed that life couldn't possibly be any better.
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
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