A Summer in Tuscany

As our family prepared for our summer in Italy, we listened to Italian tapes and often had rudimentary Italian practice conversations. Our dialogue was impressive to our non Italian speaking friends, but silly if you knew Italian. We had only one rule: KEEP TALKING. The English translation of one of our typical 'Italian chats' was:
'Good day.
How are you?
I am thirsty.
Are you British?
I am hungry.
Can you repeat that please?
The bank is closed.
Would you like something to drink?
Fill it with gasoline.
How much do I pay?
Lire is the plural of lira.
I would like Antipasto, please.
What's your name?
I don't know, I am a foreigner.'

Learning a bit of Italian allows the traveler to dine better, to shop more wisely, to locate and blend into the local life off the beaten path, and best of all, to make Italian friends. Read it, say it, then say it with attitude.

Across the road from our Tuscany villa was a chicken coop that I had idly suggested we should buy and 'fix up.' I walked over to take some photos. The coop was a crumbling two-story, two-room stone structure, previously (that is, about a hundred years previously) a Contadino's house; a farmer's house. Behind it was a smaller stone house, pictured, that once lodged a working frontoia; olive press. The dilapidated olive press had become a roost. Our potential villa nestled on a gentle, down-rolling hill that looked to San Gimignano. Ducks and geese swam in a pond to the side of the house. Vineyards zigzagged down the hill, then disappeared into a small forest of oaks in the valley below. I guessed there could be four acres or a couple hectares of land to work with.

The landlord of our villa, whom we called 'Max' since we couldn't pronounce his entire name, had explained that Tuscany has strict rules for building and remodeling -- most strict if you are not a Tuscan. Rather than tear down a house and build from scratch, you had to remodel the existing structure. You must stay within the original footprint, he told us. You must also keep the original structure's use -- or darned close. Max told us quite seriously that it was a good idea to become a member of the local Town Council if you wished to do any extensive remodeling. He said that best of all, you should become Mayor of the Town. That is how things are accomplished in Tuscany and in the rest of Italy, too.

I realized that the project was futile, but in a romantic mode, I had daydreamed a renovation of the chicken coop. I had joined the San Gimignano Town Council and turned the chicken coop into a house; a beautiful villa. When I became Mayor, I converted the olive press into a greenhouse with a sprawling terrazza. The duck pond, of course, became the swimming pool during my second term as Mayor. While I was considering the possibilities of the transformation and the difficulties of getting elected, I began to see the cracks that crazed the coop more as structural problems than photographic opportunities. That was when the rain began. Putting away the camera, I escaped to an oak next to the chicken coop for refuge.

The turkeys and chickens and geese and ducks stayed outside the coop to peck in the mud. A fat, colorful rooster strutted from inside the coop to the doorway. He reviewed the damp situation, puffed himself up, and crowed an announcement, like a bugler: 'Get in out of the rain you birdbrains!' He fluffed his feathers, turned on his heel militarily, and retreated inside. The soggy hens obediently followed him, one by one. The turkeys, a motley rearguard, filed inside behind the hens. The geese left the pond and called to the ducks. The ducks waddled from the pond to follow the geese in their pecking order. The waterfowl remained outside with me, eyeing each other, perhaps taking the first watch. 'We don't mind the rain,' they seemed to be chuckling. Each of these birds had its own personality. I could see why Beatrix Potter was so fascinated by her barnyard animals. You can see the world in a drop of water if you look closely, and on the face of a wildflower, too.

When the downpour stopped, the birds returned to their previous stations. I took a few more pictures. As I did, the adage, 'room service, not debt service' hit home. I was happy as could be in our simple stone house. I had enough work to do at our own home in California. We didn't need to buy a fixer-upper villa. And I'd make a lousy politician. I'm much better at taking pot shots than I am at dodging bullets.