Morning in Tuscany
Sunlight streams into the open windows of my bedroom, accented by the coo of pigeons and the morning crow of a nearby rooster. The entire rustic scene is quite delightful, and I wallow in the golden light of morning till the nearby church bells peal eight bells.
Breakfast is provided by the hotel, and I dine on a pleasant supply of croissants and fresh fruit; the latter of which is delightfully ripe. As midday approaches, John, Meredith and I make an effort to reach Siena, some 70km away over twisting mountain roads. The tiny Fiat Panda struggles over the hills under John’s expert control, and we join the parade of tiny cars, darting in between trucks and marveling at the suddenly large proportions of an Audi A3 that passes us every once in a while.
Siena, proves too much for our itinerary, and we stop at a random restaurant at a random town in the middle of nowhere to grab our midday meal. Meredith and I order the menu del gierno, which proves to be a large order of random things that we don’t quite understand. After we order, Meredith pulls out her phrase book and we make the realization that I had just ordered a plate of “boiled meat.” Which later turns out to be veal boiled in a lemon sauce. The pasta ragu is welcome, as the past two days have been the meager affair of airplane food, but the boiled veal in lemon sauce proves to be too much, as does the insalata, which is a dismal affair with only oil and vinegar to serve as dressing. Like the day before, the lettuce is an old and bitter plate of fail.
The server takes personal offense to our not cleaning our plates, and I wonder if we’ll always have to vacuum our food to avoid the hurt puppy dog eyes in the future. We take our leave, and head back in the direction we came, leaving the random stop in the middle of Siena province.
Our next stop is a remote villa where the wedding will be held, the next hill over from our own hotel. We navigate a treacherous gravel road towards a grand manse next to a pool overlooking the valley. Within we find our friends who are to get married on the morrow, along with their extended the family. The property is a rustic affair with all the trappings of modernity. Apparently the property it sits on, and the surrounding country side, is a historical landmark; purposely tilled and planted, the entire area is done in such a matter since the 14th century to fulfill the aesthetic needs of painters. The property itself boasts a pool with a sauna and underground shower, and I take the opportunity to take advantage of the facilities in the warm midday sun.
Shuttles are supposed to run from the main road, back to the villa, and we all watch amusedly as they struggle with the hill and sharp cutbacks. The bride and groom are my friends Brian and Alyssa, and they’re struggling with unwanted last minute woes. The wedding planner has charged them twice, and despite getting the charge removed from their credit card, the charge is coming back time and time again, despite frustrated phone conversations. Nothing like arguing money in a foreign language to make one frustrated.
Rehearsal Dinner
In the evening, we partake in a rehearsal dinner back at our own hotel at il Poggio. Though the meal is scheduled for 6:30 to take advantage of the golden hour for photos, numerous holdups ensure that the party does not arrive till an hour later, well into blue hour. Everyone looks sharp and dapper, Alyssa looks particularly stunning in a modern white gown of some sort that I could never hope to identify and we all sit down to enjoy the best that Il Poggio offers. The food is all local, hand crafted on the spot, and is indeed one of the best meals I’ve had in Italy so far.
And while all the vegetables are hand picked right here on the property, I wonder if Italians ever heard of salad dressing, what would they think when I put a bottle of “Italian” salad dressing in front of them, or better, a big ol crock of ranch? The appetizer is a spread of assorted cured meats and local baked bread. The main course is a pasta in spicy sauce, which is well reduced, but hardly spicy. The pasta is handmade, and while the unevenness of the fat noodles is particularly quaint, it’s hard to say that they’re particularly better then any other pasta I’ve ever had, except perhaps for the roughness of their texture, and how it allows them to absorb sauces better then the machined pastas we are typically used to. That being said, I’m a fan of angel hair pasta, that fine, delicate strand of pasta that requires the sweet precision of machines to create. Thank goodness for the tomato, to think that Italians probably used half a dozen ingredients for over a thousand years, and when the tomato was brought over from the new world, they suddenly had seven.
The wine flows freely into the evening, as everyone gets to know each other, raucous stories are traded, and the laughter intrudes on whatever delicate affair the Italians on vacation are used to. Though some of our party hints that this night could go on well into the evening, we all bid adieu, as we all seek some shut eye before anticipation of the big event that looms before us on the morrow.
