The towns of the Tuscany and Umbria regions and the artfully arranged countryside between those towns now rival Provence as a travel fad.
The formula works this way: An author settles into a house in an attractive section of Europe and writes about the experience. Thus inspired, readers flock to that same area for a brief stay and make their own discoveries.
They find out the author did have good reasons for choosing that segment of the world: beauty, charm, wonderful food, friendly neighbors, a potential movie deal.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” the starlet pouts. And don’t hate northern Italy because its beauty seems ephemeral, unreachable, a destination exclusively for authors with hefty advances, or a paradise available only to the glossiest of the glossy travel-magazine subscribers.
In this village of San Gimignano — a regional stronghold until the mid-14th Century that has held its rugged, medieval looks –I walked into a parklike area called the Rocca, where crumbling walls mark the site of an old fortress. I climbed a few narrow steps to the top of one wall and saw a magnificent valley below.
There was the Tuscany that had always tickled the imagination. Gentle hills golden with wheat and barley, silver with olive trees, green and purple with vineyards and stands of cypress spread out toward the western horizon. From my perch on the wall, Italy looked pristine, peaceful and very old. Vehicles only occasionally traveled the winding farm roads, beneath the sort of pink clouds that angels in Renaissance frescoes gambol upon.
At the base of the wall, a man played the flute, sprinkling the little park with aimless New Age riffs. That made the atmosphere even more heady, and as I descended the steps toward the man and his music stand, I tried to ignore the fact that he had CDs for sale.
The historic towns of north-central Italy in the height of tourist season do have many things for sale and thousands of visitors willing to buy. Yet, on that Saturday morning, a farmers market bustled with locals just outside the 11th Century Romanesque church, the Collegiata. Residents formed queues at the post office near the Piazza del Duomo. In their eagerness to squeeze tomatoes and pick up mail, they ignored the crowds who were there to see the sights.
We visitors milled around the plazas and wandered the streets where souvenirs and specialty food products vied to draw attention away from the town’s famous towers.
The full name of the village is San Gimignano delle Belle Torri, and the towers are indeed a fine attraction. Of the original 72 — built in the 12th and 13th Centuries, supposedly to symbolize family wealth (or perhaps merely to hang their fabrics up to dry) — 13 remain.
I missed the frescoes in the Collegiata, because it was closed for a wedding. But the bride did wave from the broad steps, and again we were reminded that even a venerable survivor of the Middle Ages can be a setting for the everyday lives and special events of the people who live in and around this “museum” of a community. A marriage here instantly acquires the patina of time.
After another hour or so of meandering through the well-fortified streets, I heard voices raised in song as I approached the north end of Via San Matteo. The sisters of the choir of St. Agostino rehearsed in an open-windowed hall beside the sanctuary. Their hymns accompanied clusters of visitors as we strolled through a sanctuary filled with 15th Century paintings and frescoes.
It would not be Italy without great art — or creative food. The Piazza della Cisterna circles an old well surrounded by cafes and gelaterias, the customers of which sat around the rim of the dusty cistern licking at their ice cream cones. I wanted something heftier, so I waited until the Ristorante le Terrazze opened for lunch. The restaurant, on the mezzanine of the Hotel La Cisterna, was dark with heavy beams and stucco and massive furniture. But its windows were wide and plentiful, so that the room became a kind of camera obscura, framing still more wonderful views of rooftops, chimney pots and the Tuscan countryside.
I ordered duck breasts with a walnut sauce, potatoes seasoned with rosemary and a sublime lentil soup that the menu claimed was a Tuscan specialty — thick and generously infused with olive oil. Indeed, the menu promised that the entire bill of fare would reflect the region’s gastronomy.
It was “plain and country-style” cooking, said a blurb rendered in English on the back of the menu. “The smelling logs give the grilled meat the special taste of hills and woods . . . so like these people it is ironical, simple and a bit sharp. . . . Its aim is a genuine taste like the Tuscan bread which got Dante to say that the other bread tasted salty.”
I told the waiter, who inquired frequently, that all of it tasted superb, but my eyes kept straying from the food to the window and that now-familiar patchwork of gold and silver, green and purple — rolling toward the south like a windblown quilt.
And all this was a day trip from my home base in Siena, about 25 miles to the southeast. Siena makes an ideal gateway to central Tuscany. Smaller towns like San Gimignano are just up the road, while Siena provides a bit of cosmopolitan dash, still more artistic riches and a nightlife that persists while the rest of Tuscany sleeps.
Originally an Etruscan settlement, Siena became a robust city in the latter half of the 13th Century, when leaders known as the Council of Nine initiated a gothic building boom. The tower of the city hall stood proudly 330 feet high, casting interesting shadows over the Campo, or central plaza, and the magnificent cathedral began taking shape.
The structures remain standing within protective walls, linked by an equally protective huddle of old masonry and narrow streets — some lit by vividly painted sconces festooned with tiny bulbs.
All of it flows gracefully into and around the Campo, as if the main square were a body of water instead of a terrazzo expanse. Nine contrasting segments of stone fan out across the Campo floor from the medieval town hall. A fountain decorated by reliefs depicting Adam and Eve, Mary and baby Jesus and the Virtues stands exactly in the middle of the opposite end.
All of it would be fabulous — but dead — clay and brick if it weren’t for the other aspect of the surroundings — cafes and shops filled with people, more people swarming in the middle of the plaza, or sitting and reading, or sunbathing, or trooping from one sight to another behind a dogged tour-group leader. The Campo is the Spanish Steps, the Marais, the Rambla of rural Tuscany — a great place to hang out.
For such a small town, Siena has more than its share of important sights to see — 14th Century paintings from the influential Siena School, the colorful and sculpture-laden gothic Duomo, the carvings and frescoes inside the Duomo, the church of San Domenico with its frescoes depicting the life of St. Catherine (1347-80). (The saint’s mummified head is framed and hangs in a place of honor on a side altar, an unmistakably medieval touch.) Her house stands a few blocks away, a shrine for the religious as much as a curiosity for tourists.
The narrow streets that curve around the Campo, or set off from there toward mysterious destinations, allow wanderers to become delightfully lost amid evocations of past centuries. Something wonderful, or simply human, is sure to turn up around the next bend.
One evening, on the marble veranda of a neighborhood church, some 50 people sat around a long table, carousing and eating pizzas delivered by boys from the restaurant around the corner.
Two uniformed young women behind the counter of a gelateria mugged for my camera, then smiled and waved until customers demanded their attention.
Two boys twirled blue and white banners in a tiny courtyard, while another tapped an incessant tattoo on a snare drum. They were practicing to someday participate in the Sienese Palio, the famous horse races and surrounding pageantry that have been taking place virtually every summer since 1283. Riders, flag throwers and other contestants representing the city’s 17 districts — or contrade — take over the Campo. Colorful banners fly from the surrounding buildings, costumed drummers parade, spectators fill every square inch of the Campo “infield” as the horses gallop around them. The boys I saw that night were playing at it with their flags and drum.
Besides the drumming, Siena echoes with other stirring noises at night. Knives and forks clink against dishware, waiters call out orders, people laugh and talk and sing.
I was advised to find a restaurant up one of the side streets, rather than dine in a cafe beside the Campo. Most of those are expensive and mediocre but worth it for their views of Campo life. I decided to take my cappuccino there and my dinner at La Trattoria Torre on Via Salicotto, a dark, narrow alley branching off the Campo in a southeasterly direction.
The entrance was little more than a splash of light breaking up the shadows, but the interior glowed with bright, bare bulbs and good will. A young woman and an older man tended the open kitchen and another man, older yet, came to my table and explained a menu that needed little explanation. Choose a pasta to be shaped from the flour-dusted sheets of dough spread over the adjacent work tables. Choose a meat. Choose a wine. Leave the rest to us.
So it was spaghetti with cream sauce, chicken, spinach, salad, the house chianti — simple and simply delicious. By the time I finished, about 7:30, a small crowd had formed outside the door. I headed for the throngs promenading along the Campo.
Cafes were so crammed together that I’m not sure which one finally served up the cappuccino, but it didn’t matter. I sat back and watched. Residents and visitors alike appeared to be fully engaged and excited to be there in a place they could count on to provide . . . what? It might have been a big night in Siena, as were most of the other nights, and I could imagine that the sense of celebration dances on through the calendar.
The next day seemed fine for a drive through the country. I headed east and slightly south over smooth, uncongested roads. My goal was to reach Assisi, the birthplace of St. Francis, early in the afternoon, and that left time to wander. On the way, I explored back roads in the southeastern portion of central Tuscany, amid fields much like those I saw from the wall of the Rocco in San Gimignano. This time, the light filtered through mists, turning the darkest greens black and rendering hilltop castles and farmhouses more dramatic. There would be long stretches of silence, interrupted by the whump of distant thunder.
That prodded me to find the main highway again. I caught up with Highway 75 just west of Lago Trasimeno, a large body of water ringed by houses and a castle or two that looked a bit forbidding in the gathering storm. The region was Umbria now, but, of course, the scenery remained the same — just slightly more rolling.
Soon Assisi beckoned, a crescendo of pink marble walls and terra cotta roofing rising abruptly from Mt. Subasio.
My solitude had come to an end. Assisi’s main parking lot teemed with cars and buses and disembarking passengers. It was a Sunday, which contributed to a general Sabbath spirituality: Tourists mingled with devout pilgrims.
Two severe earthquakes on Sept. 26, 1997, have left many of the city’s buildings wearing scaffolding or large patches of new stone. The lower portion of St. Francis’ Basilica, a 13th Century marvel, remained open to visitors, although the upper church — where four people were killed in the quake — remained under reconstruction. Pilgrims and tourists alike descended to the saint’s tomb (he died in 1228) and paid their respects, then emerged to admire the vaulted ceilings and frescoes depicting biblical scenes, the life of St. Francis and the history of the Franciscan Order.
The remaining parts of central Assisi were horrifying and uplifting at once. The large extent of the damage was still apparent, but churches were beginning to shed their scaffolding, and new masonry already started to take on some of the grime that would help it eventually to blend in with the surviving stone. St. Clare’s Basilica was open again, more proof that the town had responded swiftly to Pope John Paul’s urgings when he visited back in January of this year.
The pontiff had encouraged citizens to bear up “in a Franciscan spirit” and swiftly heal the buildings “so that damaged homes, churches and other monuments may return to their earlier charm.”
Assisi seemed well on its way toward reaching that goal. Elderly women tended their little gardens, or leaned out of windows to get better reception for their cellular phones. Lovers nuzzled in the St. Clare Basilica courtyard with a backdrop of lovely Umbrian farmland and untamed forest just below the hill.
Brand-new cars plastered with decals promoting a major bicycle race filled the Piazza del Commune, while merchants on the square welcomed a steady stream of visitors to their souvenir and crafts emporiums.
I took a seat on the balcony of Ristorante Metastasio, which commanded another view of the countryside. Sprinkles of rain spattered on the umbrella above the table, and the land turned an even more brilliant green.
Soon after I returned to the highway, the rain began coming down in sheets. Dips in the pavement became miniature floods. Visibility neared zero — except for the view from my mirrors, where Assisi held fast to its summit and inspired courage. Sunday’s lesson: Even the most overpowering violence of nature brings the promise of renewal.
IF YOU GO
GETTING THERE
Most direct flights between Chicago and Italy land in Milan or Rome. To complete the journey to Florence — the major Tuscan gateway — take a domestic airline, Alitalia or Avianova, the rest of the way; or use Italy’s excellent rail system; or rent a car. Sabena Belgian World Airways does offer a Chicago-Florence hookup, which means a Chicago-Brussels flight connecting to a Brussels-Florence flight. The lowest roundtrip fare for that is about $850.
GETTING AROUND
Trains and inter-city buses connect many of the towns, and guided motor coach tours abound. But a car remains the best choice for moving about and exploring the less-traveled byways. My basic Fiat 4-door had a manual shift, but it did include such amenities as air conditioning and power windows. It rented for $339 a week. Naturally, prices will vary according to season and the type of vehicle desired. For the best rates, arrange a car through one of the major U.S. rental firms before leaving the States. Most of the big companies are represented in Italy.
LODGING AND DINING
Before and after the major tourist season in July and August, hotel rooms in most price categories should be available. Local tourism offices at train stations and central locations often can make reservations on the spot for a nominal surcharge and a refundable deposit. I did this in Siena last June and was directed to the Hotel Moderna in a non-historic part of town but still within walking distance of the Campo. My single room came to $59.20. It was small, but comfortable enough. A bit of shopping and a willingness to pay about twice as much might have turned up something more charming. But even so early in the season, not many places had the three nights that I wanted. Booking ahead through a travel agent with European experience will cut down on the spontaneity but open up a large choice of lodgings. I was deliberately trying to wing it.
I dined casually most of the time, one big splurge coming at the Ristorante le Terrazze in San Gimignano (see main text), where the excellent Tuscan lunch came to $17.53. (I had far more expensive meals at plaza-side cafes in Siena and Florence, but there I was paying more for the location than the rather ordinary food.)
When seeking out restaurants, ask around. Residents I met seemed to know the best places and took pains to steer a stranger in the right direction. Sometimes, I had to decide if food was more important than setting. My salad at the Metastasio in Assisi was less than overwhelming, for example, but the view amply compensated. In Siena, the food quality seemed to rise as the overhead got lower. A simple dinner at the back-alley Trattoria la Torre, complete with a good chianti, cost $22.70 and probably would have been twice as much along the Campo — without the freshness, flavor and homey ambience.
INFORMATION
For more information about Tuscany and Umbria, contact the Italian Government Tourist Board, 500 N. Michigan Ave., Suite 2240, Chicago, IL 60611 (312-644-9174; fax: 312-644-3019).
———-
Robert Cross’ e-mail address is BobCCross@aol.com
