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Day 11 - What is Tuscany?

Radicofani → Acquapendente (23.5 km)

If you missed the other days, you can access them here.

The unruly geese were not to be ruled. We saw the man come, take them by the beak and try to bring them back into his garden. We passed by. Laviero asked whether we wanted some figs. Could we refuse?

“Make sure they try the plums!” his brother shouted as he drove by in a small old white Fiat. Laviero plucked ripe figs for us.

“They were just there and then I was on the phone and they came out on the road,” he said about the geese, scratching his head. He had settled there 30 years ago, now running the garden and the B&B. Half of it his, half his brother’s. Olive oil is not their business, but a hobby. He refused the money one pilgrim offered for the fruit. Laviero was not one to transact. He just invited.

He told us that Tuscany is about to end, as you pass by the little river. You’re then into Lazio territory. I asked whether I could take his portrait.

“Why do you do this?” he asked.

“I want to capture Tuscan hospitality,” I say.

And I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to do in the last 11 days. Figure out what Tuscany is and isn’t. My sample size is limited, of course. To understand the land, I know I have to come back to Tuscany. Its essence is elusive, but we may be able to extract some lessons from all the little observations and perhaps take them home with us. I warn you, this is a ramble.

Tuscany is walking alongside Italian Cypress trees, all lined up like a family on a stroll. Tuscany is walking past vineyard after vineyard and cheekily trying the grapes. Tuscany is in the legends about gentleman bandits and the stories of the Medicis. Tuscany is having multiple conversations at the same time at a long table with people who you’ve just met. According to non-Tuscan exaggerations, Tuscany is saying from the throat “Hoha Hola” instead of, you know, “Coca Cola”. Tuscany is old men in their ape (bees) - the 3-wheeled 1-seater Piaggio mini-vans. Tuscany sounds like dogs barking at you and spinning in circles and the orchestra of sheeps’ baaing and their bells. Tuscany is “Ciao ragazzi”, said equally to 5-year olds and to 40-year old road workers sipping on their cafe lungo at the bar. Tuscany is the clacking of cups and saucers and clearing the coffee machine for the next espresso. Tuscany smells like juniper after it rains.

Tuscany tastes a bit like fennel, after a finocchiona panino. Legend goes that because of fennel’s anesthetic properties, Chianti winemakers offered the salami to customers before tasting lower quality wines to mask the quality of their product. On top, Machiavelli apparently was big on finocchiona – I guess you may turn Machiavellian after eating too much of it.

Tuscany is the city states, always at war with each other, seeking to preserve their independence. Tuscany is the contrade of cities like Siena and Radicofani, the proud neighbourhoods that compete each year in the Palio. Tuscany is hearing the 49th parade of Siena’s Aquila contrada one morning in Piazza del Campo or Radicofani’s Borgo Castelmorro beating that snare drum at 10pm. Tuscany is the elaborate rules about determining which neighbourhood you belong to, depending on the position of your kitchen and bedroom. Tuscany is the local pride you sense in each person who tells you where they’re from.

Of course, no place is perfect. The flipside of the local pride can turn into what Italians call campanilismo - extreme attachment and exclusivity related to your hometown. You’ve heard it before: the North looking down on the South and the South despising the North, especially if you are transacting in generalisations and stereotypes. But we’re not here to do that. We’re here to invite pilgrims to try out fresh figs.

Tuscany is all of that and so much more. Out of it now, but hoping to return. Only then can I see if what I felt still holds. Today, walking on Lazio asphalt for 6 km really sucked. These trucks sure go by fast. We should probably finish what we started on the Pazzi conspiracy a few days ago. More on that after tomorrow’s 23 km.

Til tomorrow,

Florin