During our six-hour train ride from Milan, down through Genoa, and along the shimmering coastal waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, my head bobbed on and off my husband’s shoulder. My thoughts kept the beat of the moving train—click-clack, click-clack—as I remembered with fondness how this trip to Italy had come about. It began when I found an ad for a rental listed in a San Francisco magazine: “Charming, Tuscan farmhouse, deep in the hills of Etruria.”
I recalled rolling the word Etruria off my tongue as I dialed the Bay area number in answer to the ad. I knew nothing about Italy, much less Tuscany, but the provocative sound of Etruria resonated through my mind. With very little fuss, my husband and I found ourselves seated in a small San Francisco coffee shop across a table from the owner of the ad and of the ‘charming Tuscan farmhouse’. Lisa appeared to be a quiet woman, was modest of dress with an unassuming manner, but she immediately surprised us when she boomed, “Do you want to visit Tuscany, or do you want to experience Tuscany?” Her blue eyes sparkled as her eyebrow arched to accentuate her point.
“My home is high in the hills of Etruria of southern Tuscany—in Poderi di Montemerano. This is where you will meet the real people.” Our souls lit up from the inside.
“When are you planning to go?” Lisa prodded us.
“We were thinking September would be lovely . . .” I started to answer.
“Ah, then,” she interrupted, “go the very first weekend. You can attend the Feste. It’s the harvest festival. You simply can’t miss it.”
As the train continued along its coastal route, my eye caught glimpses of snow on the mountain slopes north of Pisa. Surprised to see snow so early in September, my husband and I pressed our noses firmly against the glass for a better look. Then a rail yard blurred past us with palettes of white stone spread as far as the eye could see.
“Aha,” I said. “That’s not snow we’ve just seen. We’ve just seen patches of white marble—Carrera marble—the same marble Michelangelo made famous with his sculptures. We grinned at each other obviously glad that we had solved the mystery and that we had indeed packed enough warm attire. We settled back into our seats, but kept a watchful lookout for the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I must have drifted off to sleep when my husband murmured, “I think we missed it.”
“Missed the festival?” I mumbled out of my fog. “That’s not possible. She said we can’t miss it!”
“Who said you can’t miss it? What festival?” My husband looked confused.
“Lisa said, ‘you can’t miss it, because the festival will be right on our doorstep.’ Don’t you remember? Her arms were sweeping above her head and her voice was booming with such exuberance, ‘There will be traditional foods, music and dancing… All will be there for you to enjoy. I will come too, and show you around.’ That’s what she used as an inducement for us to come. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, and the foods,” he drooled, “she told us the foods will be molto delizioso.” He rolled the words off his tongue as if he knew what he was saying.
“I can’t wait,” I said. ‘Only made in Poderi,’ she said, ‘and only made for the festival.’ Do you remember when she asked us if we liked Italian food? Don’t you remember how hard we laughed?”
“All she had to do was look at us! Why, we don’t miss a meal,” he shook his head with vigor. We settled back into our seats, with Cheshire cat grins swathing our faces. Yes, Lisa’s invitation was too seductive to resist?
“‘Come,’ she had said. ‘You will love it, and the festival will be a perfect introduction to Tuscany. You will revel in our beautiful hills, our delectable wines and sumptuous foods, but the people—they are the heart beat of Tuscany. Come!” And, so we came.
At Grosseto, a city halfway between Milano and Roma, a flood of relief swept over me as we stepped off the train and heard a familiar voice shouting, “Buòna sera!” and in English, “Good afternoon! Welcome to Tuscany!” Lisa, along with her dear friend, Cècilia, embraced us like we were long, lost friends then efficiently maneuvered us out of the station and into their waiting car. Within moments we, along with our bags, were stuffed inside the tiny vehicle and Lisa quickly headed out of the city traffic and into the golden Eturian hills. The sunlight fell in diffused webs over vineyards and olive orchards and dust lay lazily across rich, emboldened fruit, but we raced past.
Our excitement intensified as Lisa told us—again, with arms flapping in the air even though she was at the wheel—of the preparations going on in Poderi. “Today is the day of the Feste,” both she and Cècilia giggled like school girls. They had been helping with preparations all day and were excited to show us.
After an hour, she wheeled up a narrow road and parked in an open field under a banner which stated, Feste.
“There’s no room at the top,” she said, as if that was explanation enough. She helped us drag our bags out of the car and up a long hill to her house.
“I’m sure you are wondering where the village is, si? Well, Poderi,” Lisa said as a form of explanation, “is a 12th century feudal term which means farm. It refers to the land which was owned by the lords of the nearby castle of Montemerano.” She waved one empty hand to an out-of-sight hillside as she clutched a valise in the other.
“Only in the past 150 years have families been allowed landownership, so Poderi was never a town. It was simply a wide spot at the top of this hill where a cluster of farmhouses were built. My husband and I fell in love with the area and the people, so this is where we lived and raised our sons. You may meet one of my sons soon.”
By this point we had puffed up a very steep hill and paused to get our breath. We were sheltered by immense plane trees and surrounded by overgrown vineyards. I hoped we were near the top. But, now we could see across the open vistas Lisa had referred to and, on a promontory five kilometers in the distance and perched in the sunlight, was the silhouette of a medieval walled city with a square keep from a castle towering above all.
“That’s Montemerano. And, just beyond Montemerano,” said Lisa pointing to hills just beyond, “is the ancient termé of Saturnia. I’ll take you to the Roman baths there. It’s quite relaxing. . .”
Before she could continue, we heard a multitude of voices rise in a cheer, and we turned to round the final curve and there before us was a raucous crowd filling the street. We inched slowly forward, dragging our bags across the stone road, past a band shell and came to a stop in the heart of the throng. Jubilant faces foisted themselves into ours. Kisses smothered Lisa, Cècilia, and now us! The cacophony of Italian voices grew and I could barely hear myself think. Lisa was pointing up. Over our heads, I could almost make out a string of buildings on either side of the road—some with honey-colored stone façades and others, white stucco. Various styles of wooden shutters had been flung open as children along with hovering mothers hung out of the second-story windows, laughing and shouting to the crowd below. Fuchsia-colored roses cascaded past their noses and along the outside of the structures to brush against the entry doors. And as we stood in the throng trying to figure out what was being said to us, Lisa turned to us and pointed again at one doorway. Over the din, she said simply, “In the States we would call these condos; here we call them farmhouses. You are almost home.”
“And, see,” she said, “the festival—it is right on your doorstep.” She laughed heartily as surprise registered on our faces.
She strode through the crowd, embracing one person, then another, kissing this person and then another, before leading us into her home. Many hands helped us drag our bags in the door and up the stairs to the living quarters above. The lower quarters, she told us, had been relegated to storage—after the farm animals no longer had residency.
While contemplating the concept, we began to look around. The living room was open and spacious. Hewn timbers crisscrossed the high ceilings, and a coat of white paint covered all the walls. Near the center of the room was a dining table splashed with a yellow Provençe-style table cloth. Four chairs with red print seat cushions sidled up beside. On the far wall was a stone fireplace which had served as the only source of heat for over one hundred years. Two roomy bedrooms were tucked behind the wall of the fireplace, with windows which opened onto vineyards, farms and across the way, to the village of Manciano. The bathroom was compact, but convenient and the kitchen was roomy with voices floating in the open window from the people in the street below.
After our quick tour through her house, Lisa quipped, “The Feste will start in an hour, so rest up, as it lasts until tomorrow.” She prepared to slip back out of the house and into the street where her friends awaited her when we asked, “Aren’t you staying here with us?”
“Heavens, no! This is your time. And your place for now. If you need me, I’ll be staying across the street with my friend, dear Margarita,” and she was gone.
Before we could even unpack, we collapsed on the bed, hot and sticky from our day’s journey, too tired to move. We dozed off, but were slightly aware of a low, mournful, almost Arabic-sounding chant that echoed up the stairs from the street below. The voices were first sonorous, deliberate and lyrical then ended abruptly with great laughter and applause. Then, another vocal utterance would take up in response, and would continue with a vibrant beat. Not a word could we understand. I was not certain if these mournful poems were part of my sweat-soaked dreams or the reality of—where was I? My husband forced me into wakefulness, as we crawled off the bed, along the floor in order to peek out of the kitchen window.
Directly below us, a multitude of faces focused intently on our doorstep which, by now, had been transformed into another stage. A contest of sorts was being held; indeed, a poetical sparring, known as a Tuscan Contrasto. Lisa later explained that the audience provided each team a spur-of-the-moment theme of contrasts, and in eight-meter improvised rhyme, the men hurled their words like lances at each other. This event, which had been performed since medieval times, signaled the beginning of the Feste di Poderi di Montemerano. We were just in time.
Pushing through a thick gauze of sleepiness, we quickly sponged off, changed clothes and headed down the stairs. As we stepped into the street, Lisa met us and began to introduce us to her many friends. This one was from Switzerland, that one from Sweden; this one from Germany, and that one from—of course, Poderi. We immediately felt included for they were as warm and welcoming as she had promised. And, fortunately for us, all but those from Poderi spoke English.
Then, like lava flowing down a mountain, the crowd began to ebb along the stone roadway with us caught up in the current. All were moving toward the festival grounds at the bottom of the hill. Smoke from the pits of braising meats tantalized us, along with the intoxicating aromas of simmering pasta sauces. The crowd turned toward the ticket booths as the excitement grew. Music, laughter and the banter of their melodious language filled the air. Because we understood very little Italian, Lisa recited the menu in English in the most delectable detail. We hungrily placed our orders.
Another push from the crowd propelled us into the nearby tents, where we were once again greeted with hugs and kisses by those who were already glowing with amiability—and wine. Lisa wedged us into the two remaining seats beside her in the middle of a long table filled with twenty or more of her closest friends. We had barely been seated when a trumpet sounded and the feast began.
The doors to the kitchen were flung open and local waiters proceeded in great numbers to the tables with plates of bruschetta, toasted bread covered with rich, local olive oil, chopped fresh tomatoes and succulent olives. Bottle after bottle of homemade wine began to magically appear—some from the kitchen, some from under the table. Again, the waiters swung out of the kitchen. For the prima piatti, or first course, platters of fresh pasta were served. Plates of tortoni, Poderi’s specialty pasta—delicate pillows filled with cheese and arugula—were reverentially placed before us covered with a bubbling, robust marinara sauce. The masses swooned with appreciation.
Lisa leaned over to us and whispered, “I had to live here over twenty years before the older women of Poderi allowed me into the kitchen to help prepare their beloved tortoni. And, the recipe? Don’t even ask! It is still a much guarded secret.” She laughed with bravado.
Sweet, yet quiet Cècilia leaned over the table and said, “They’d perhaps have to keel you!” She grinned and sat back as hand-made gnocchi with meat sauce and pasta e fagioli were whisked to their designated places along with baskets of Tuscan bread to sop up lingering juices.
For our secondo piatti, or second course, sizzling grilled meats of beefsteak, pork, chicken or sausages-on-spears were passed down the tables. Then, contorni, or vegetable side dishes, of white beans, fried potatoes or mixed green salads, followed the meats. Gasp!
Filled to the brim, we all leaned back to gather our collective breath, but to no avail. Next, we were being tempted with the formaggio, or cheese course. And then, another highlight of the evening, the dolci, which was presented with a final flourish. Lisa told us we were to choose from either Mousse di ricotta, which was a sweet, creamy custard made by Lisa’s neighbor Margarita who sat across from us at the table and was mouthing a few words. I could not make out her words over the noise.
I turned to Lisa for an explanation and she said, “Margarita used 72 eggs! 72 eggs to make the Mousse di ricotta! Can you imagine that?”
And, then we were given another option. A salame, which was not a sausage at all, but a rolled cookie filled with chocolate cream. This was prepared by dear Amelia who waved to us at from the end of the table. Of course, we tried a little of each; we had too. Each was delicate, light and sumptuous! Wine continued to be poured throughout the meal, and when one bottle was emptied, another would appear.
As the evening flowed into night, the air filled with music from a local band in the piazza back at the top of the hill. The rhythm reverberated throughout the tents, and the crowd once again was on the move. Following a festoon of colorful lanterns, people of all ages made their way to the top of the hill. Wizened old women in their best black dresses, shiny from use and a heavy iron; short, rotund old men in their best suits, a bit rumpled from the lengthy dinner; young couples in sensually-loose clothing looped together like knots in a tie; giggling children in shorts and tee-shirts, now grabbing up sweaters handed to them by caring parents; swaddled babies snuggled down in the arms of protective grandmothers; and the likes of us, middle-aged folks laughing at shared stories enjoying another paper cup of wine—all climbed the hill to the beat of the music.
At the moment of reaching the top, the harvest moon broke out above the rooftops and sent golden light cascading onto the heads of the villagers below. In spite of—or because of—being thick with food, wine and the beauty of the night, everyone began to dance. The music was a captivating mix of old and new, some rock and roll, some lilting Italian melodies, and even some familiar American pop tunes. But, when the waltzes began, my husband and I stood back to marvel at the grace and elegance of the more skillful dancers. We love to dance but we were not worthy.
“Watch for dear Mondiale,” Lisa shouted to us, “for he is the most exquisite dancer of them all.” And there he was: the burly town butcher from Manciano, just a hillside away, guiding and gliding his partner with finesse and grace across the ancient stone street beside us.
“You are, indeed, a lucky woman to be able to dance with Mondiale,” Lisa whispered to us, as he wrapped his arms about her and whirled her away.
As night became morning, the townspeople, undaunted by the late hour and copious amounts of wine, continued to dance. We were no match for these stalwart sorts, so we crept back up the stairs to our newfound home. With exhaustion cleaving to every part of our beings, we pushed open the bedroom windows for just one last look. The moon spilled into the room and across the bed filling it with light. It flowed like mercury over the ancient hills and valleys beyond us. And, there silhouetted against the night sky, was the medieval fortress and clock tower shimmering on the highest hill in Manciano. Awash with exhaustion but gratitude for having experienced the beauty of both people and place, we slid into bed. Our eyes flickered closed as the final songs reverberated from the streets below—or was that the heart beat of Tuscany we were hearing?
