“Under the Tuscan Sun”:

Ladies Bonding in Italy

by Tammy Jo Meier

Beginning Italy
“I want to go to Italy someday, and I want to go with you!” I had been hearing this for years from friends, so I suppose that is how this trip (logically named “Beginning Italy”) got its start. My love affair with Italy began in 1995, when Sister Monica, a dear friend of mine (recently deceased) who also happened to be a Catholic nun, “forced” me into accompanying her on a trip. She had a persuasive way about her. Eight trips later, and only one of those with Sister Monica, I found myself preparing for trip number nine—scheduled for October 2008.

By the summer of 2008, our little group was established. I had contacted everyone who ever expressed an interest in traveling to Italy with me and let the chips fall where they would. In the end, there were seven of us, many of whom did not know the others. Nancy, Eilene, and Lisa were friends of mine from my neighborhood, south of Denver. Nancy’s a career mom, Eilene’s in business, and Lisa’s a substitute teacher. We are nearly empty nesters—our youngest children are in high school. My sister-in-law Linda, a realtor, and Debbie, who works for a mortgage broker (and also happens to be my best friend from high school), no longer have children at home. Last but not least, Ninon, a co-worker from American Airlines and a recent retiree after 40 years, has her college grad son back home with her until he enters the Navy. We are all in our 40s or 50s.

The trip followed a very basic outline: We would spend 3 days in Rome and then 6 in Tuscany. After an unremarkable overnight flight, we check into the very charming Hotel Bramante, located, wonderfully, just 75 yards from St. Peter’s Basilica. There, the friendly English-speaking staff—unchanged for years—take care of our every need. The area serves as a gathering spot for priests, nuns, and pilgrims from around the world. I smile whenever I see a group of nuns walking along the sidewalk. I recall from a previous trip my own parish priest teasing Sister Monica, who no longer wore a habit, saying, “Now there are some real nuns!”

Exploring Rome
Our job the first day is to stay awake. We take the metro to the massive and crumbling Colosseum and walk the periphery. The ladies are in awe. They even have their picture taken with a “Roman soldier.” After a stroll past the Forum area, we end up at Circus Maximus (the site of early chariot races and an outside market), which evoked images of Charleton Heston and the film Ben Hur. It’s 80 degrees and sunny—just perfect. Ninon and Lisa had been to Rome as teens, but all of us, whether first-timer or not, really enjoy our first day.

We are so proud of ourselves after we navigate the metro back to the hotel that we celebrate with our first gelato. The artful presentation and endless flavors make choosing one difficult. Not for me, though—I go straight for the pistachio. Oh, boy! The velvety texture doesn’t disappoint, and it’s only the first of many I will enjoy on this trip. After all, why does one come to Italy, if not to eat gelato?

Speaking of food, that evening, we stroll along the Tiber River, past Castel Sant’Angelo (a castle landmark serving various purposes through the centuries) and onward to a favorite hangout, Piazza Navona, a lovely square complete with fountains and statues, searching for our first (perfect) dinner in Rome. Down a cobblestoned side street, checkered tablecloths appear everywhere, as if by magic. “Buona Sera, Signora!” invite the hosts of the restaurants we pass. We settle on one special place and, to the sound of mandolins, we arrange ourselves at the candlelit table. I look around at the beautiful faces of my girlfriends. Every one of them mirrors the same incredulous expression: “Wow, am I really here?”

We spend most of the next day inside St. Peter’s. Lisa’s knowledge of art history aids our exploration. Michelangelo’s masterpiece the Pietà and the magnificent alabaster window of the dove behind the altar inspire us with their beauty. The razor-thin alabaster looks like stained glass, but it’s not—amazing! For me, however, nothing compares with standing at the tomb of Peter, martyred here many centuries earlier. Debbie says walking in the footsteps of such holy people gives her chills. We all have chills.

In the afternoon, we take an English-speaking tour of the Catacombs of Priscilla (one set of many in Rome). The early Christians buried their dead here. We are privileged to see a Madonna and Child fresco from the A.D. 150, believed to be the earliest such depiction. Because of its fragile state, the tour guide uses a flashlight only intermittently. It’s an eerie experience. At this point, we are feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, and decide to return to the hotel. During our taxi ride, we befriend the very cute driver, Marco, who promises to also pick us up for dinner. Before we head out for the evening, I distribute my little gift to each of the ladies. I made us matching bracelets—green and amber beaded creations. All the tour groups in Italy seem to sport matching something . . . hats, visors, T-shirts. I think the bracelets will be a little more subtle yet still identify us as one group. The ladies enjoy the gift.

Marco arrives to take us to our first destination of the evening. Traffic in Rome astounds me. The lines on the street seem meaningless. Traffic lights don’t matter much more. Taxi drivers simultaneously change lanes, honk their horns, and turn around to conduct an animated conversation with their passengers. How does this all work, I ask?! In just a few minutes (that seem like an eternity), we arrive (safely) at the Trevi Fountain. Marco jumps out and opens the cab’s doors. As we disembark, he gives us a kiss goodbye on each cheek. Ciao! Grazie! What a country. Where else would that happen?

Many Americans recognize the Trevi Fountain from the film Three Coins in the Fountain. Legend holds that to ensure your return to Rome someday, you must stand with your back to the fountain and throw a coin into it, over your head. I must say that it works for me every time. I guess Eilene really wants to be sure, though: As she throws her coin in, her new bracelet flies off her wrist and lands in the fountain, too. Ninon wants to go in after it, but thankfully changes her mind. That may have earned us a trip to the local polizia station, as interesting as that sounds. . . .

We meet up with my friend (and Italian native) Caterina and her boyfriend, Massimo. In 1999, Caterina lived with us as an exchange student for a year, and our families have visited each other ever since. It is a good thing we walk up and down the Spanish Steps first, because the dinner has no end to it. After much discussion, Caterina and the waiter come up with a meal for the Americani.The courses keep coming, each one outdoing the last. Il conto, the bill, is finally placed in front of me. It is a yellow sticky note with “360 euro” written on it. At the current exchange rate, this turns out to be about $52 for each person. Not too bad for such exquisite and endless food and wine. However, we decide we need a pizza and salad night to keep our budgets in check. What a day! Can we squeeze in anything else? OK, how about a nightcap on the rooftop courtyard of our hotel?

The next morning, I ask Lisa to take everyone through the Vatican Museum to see the Sistine Chapel while I do a little shopping and prepare for the drive to Tuscany. For those unfamiliar with a Fiat Ducato van, let me just say it is huge. It holds nine passengers, has six gears, and is now double parked in downtown Rome, waiting for us to load it up, and find our way out of town and onto the Autostrada. First things first, though. I hang “Sister Mary Kilometer” on the rearview mirror. She’s a little nun ornament (you thought she was real?)—part mascot and part good luck charm—that I take on road trips to help us find our way. Once everyone’s gathered, we all hold hands, bless the van, and say a short prayer for our safety. Off we go.

On to Tuscany
We made it! That evening we arrive at Hotel Villa Belvedere, our home in San Gimignano for the next five nights. Although it’s difficult to choose, San Gimignano is probably my favorite town in all of Italy. It is a medieval Tuscan hill town from the 1200s, with cobblestoned streets that go either up or down but are never level. Linda amazes us all as she navigates these streets daily—in heels. There are towers to climb, frescoes to see, a torture museum (once was enough), and views all around. If someone were to grant me a last wish before I leave this world, I would select Vernaccia (the local wine) and panna cotta (a fabulous dessert). San Gimignano is home to both. The town bustles with tourists during the day, but at night things quiet down and enchantment reigns. By evening we find ourselves seated at an outdoor table in the piazza, with a view of the ancient cistern and old world architecture. We now call each other bella, which means “beautiful.” Linda buys all of us “bellas” a drink to celebrate our arrival. Nancy and Eilene smile. Life is good.

At 11 o’clock on Sunday morning, we attend an English-speaking Mass. The American priest apologizes for his accent, as most of the attendees are Scottish. I find this humorous. Later, Linda and Debbie climb the tower. Too many steps for me. Back at our hotel, Ninon hangs her laundry outside the window to dry. I guess we’re trying to blend in with the locals, who routinely air-dry their laundry. We venture out in the afternoon to another Tuscan hill town, Monteriggioni. I am guessing that you could put the entire town inside a typical American football field. It sure is cute. We find the local wine agreeable to our palates, and Ninon finds the winery owner agreeable to hers. He is handsome, but then, they all are. We purchase a few bottles for later.

Ristorante Panoramico has always been my choice for dinner. While there still is some light, we enjoy magnificent views as far as the eye can see—the kind of landscapes found on postcards and calendars. If you are lucky, a full moon will make an appearance. There is nothing like “la luna”—an Italian moon—casting its glow over such beauty. The restaurant offers my personal alpha and omega, Vernaccia and panna cotta. The in-between is nothing to sneeze at, either. Everything is homemade, with only fresh ingredients. Pastas of many shapes, truffle sauces, ravioli, grilled vegetables, and wild boar are on the menu. English-speaking couples stop by to chat with us at dinner. Later, around dessert time, the wives sneak back to tell us they wish they were with our group. I think we appear to be having too much fun. Il conto never arrives unless you ask. “Take your time; savor the food, wine, and company; and stay as long as you like” is always the mood.

The bellas never seem to want the day to end. With some Vernaccia or a little amaretto, we wind down each evening as a group, in one of our rooms. Solving the world’s problems, reviewing the day, talking about life and our families, and laughing until it hurts are perfect endings to our near-perfect days.

On Monday we are on the road again, with a few picnic items. We are headed to the Abbey at San Antimo, built in the 700s (imagine!) to listen to monks in white robes sing their afternoon prayers. We hit a big snag trying to find our way around Siena, however. Roundabouts are everywhere, with as many as four exits off each one. Whenever my amazing navigator Lisa and I are unsure where to exit, we simply keep going around and around, discussing our options. I have no doubt we appear ridiculous to the locals. A few of us say “Sister Mary Kilometer, help us!” Eventually, we figure it out. Thank goodness, because the scenery on the way to the abbey is unforgettable. Villas, cypress trees, olive groves, and vineyards surround us as Andrea Bocelli serenades us from the van’s CD player.

We arrive at the abbey hungry, and we set up our own little tailgate party. I think we look somewhat out of place—a gathering out of time—until I notice the satellite dish protruding from the monk’s sleeping quarters. Once inside the abbey, though, I do feel transported back in time, as I listen to the chanting, rendered more haunting by acoustics that are possible only in places as old as this. Afterward, we linger awhile outside in the sunshine, taking in the glory around us. On the way back to our hotel, we stop off in Montalcino for a snack (a gelato, of course) and a sampling of their local wine, Brunello. Nancy finds a comfortable pair of shoes in a local shop. Her face says it all: relief! On our return trip, we mercifully manage to find a bypass around Siena and arrive back in San Gimignano with no trouble. Life is good again.

On Tuesday we opt to hang out in town and do a little shopping. The suitcase is not large enough to hold all the treasures to be had. The shops are filled with beautiful ceramics, linens, olive wood products, and pashmina scarves. We go on an afternoon outing to the neighboring town of Volterra, home to the ruins of a Roman theater built in 10 B.C. The town is also known for alabaster that has been mined there for 2,500 years. I indulge in two knickknacks: a little dish and a rooster. Oh, so pretty!

Time to Say Goodbye
I begin to notice a hint of sadness in the bellas. I am sure everyone is thinking the same thing: It is almost over, time to go home. A little gelato always helps. We find a spot and try a few new flavors. This routine, by the way, goes on daily.

On Wednesday I put our art historian, Lisa, in charge of the day. I drive the ladies to the station and drop them off to catch a local train to Florence. I spend the day back at the hotel, repacking my suitcase and preparing for my next group, “Advanced Italy.” On Friday I will fly to Sicily to meet with another bunch of friends, with whom I had traveled before.

When I pick up the bellas at the station that evening, Nancy and Linda step off the train with new suitcases to transport their souvenirs Stateside. Of course, they had a lot of stories to tell about their day in the city. Most disappointing was that scaffolding covered the copy of Michelangelo’s David in Piazza della Signoria.

As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. It was refreshing that for 9 days we could get by without electronics—no TV, Internet, or cell phones. Several of the women did not know one another before this trip, but we now have an everlasting bond. My dear friend Sister Monica had been living at the Mother House of the Sisters of Charity in her final stages of Alzheimer’s disease while we were away. If she had been well enough to understand, I know she would have been delighted about this adventure. Her insistence in 1995 that I accompany her to my “wannabe” homeland (I am, by birth, German and Irish) has led to endless laughter, friendships, and memories. Molto grazie, my friend!

Links
The Italian Government Tourist Board
The CIA Factbook—Italy
Lonely Planet: Italy
Italy magazine