On the piazza steps in Cortona,
site of the movie Under the Tuscan Sun

Toscana Americana: It’s All Good
Under The Tuscan Sun

(continued)

By Linda Oatman High

It was really hard to get up at 8:15 this morning, after the too-short celebration sleep. I dragged myself up and put on my Converse sneakers, because today is the day that we walked to Cortona. This is not just an ordinary walk: this is one steep and winding walk; 700 meters, to be exact.

After two cups of steaming espresso served by the ever-smiling Andrea ("Andrew in American"), I was semi-ready for the trek. I think we did pretty good for over-a-certain-age people from the United States of McDonald's burgers. We only rested on benches two times. We saw ripe figs and big fresh olives and a lady hanging out of her upstairs window, yanking up a rope holding a basket of bread. By the time we got to the top, where there's a good wall for sitting and a statue of the soldier who united Italy, I had to find a ladies' room.

"Scuzie," I said to a group of women in a restaurant. "Toilette?"

"Oh, yeah, the Ladies' Room is down those steps," said one lady. "I'm American, too."

Turned out that the group was from Florida, and there were librarians. School librarians! Well, of course, I had to dig out some business cards and schmooze them up with my children's books and all that. You just never know when — or where — you might find a networking opportunity.

We did some shopping and then some more shopping, we said "Bon Journo" a lot, and I used the Internet/telephone place while my students were busy scribbling the assignment I'd given: to write from the point of view of an inanimate object witnessing the celebration in the streets last night. The results were amazing.

Holly wrote about an unlit cigar in the pocket of an old man who unwrapped himself like an Italian flag to stand and light his cigar when his team won. He was Signor Cicconi, who sits on the bench with his cronies in the piazza. There really is a group of old men who sit on the bench. I call them my men. I love them. They're so quintessentially Italian: the Roman noses and the ornery smiles and the jaunty caps and the cigars clenched between their teeth. They just watch the world go by.

John wrote from the point of view of a stone in the street, and it was deep. Thought-provoking and philosophical. I really like my students, which is a lucky thing, as we're spending lots of time together this week.

I mentioned the idea of a teen writing workshop to Patrick, and he seemed to like it. We also talked about a writing conference, with agents and editors and authors and artists. I can't wait to work up a proposal. I MUST return here, now that this place runs through my veins.

I'm also planning to write a children's book set in Italy. There wasn't much in the gift shops, except for Pinocchio. I love Pinocchio, but it's time for that wooden growing-nose dude to have some competition, and I may just be the writer for the job. You see, I really need to come back and have some book signings and stuff. Frances Mayes, look out. You're not the only author who can claim Cortona!

So now I think I'll take a little snooze, because I have work to do. There's a workshop proposal and an Italy book and — oh, yes! The 3-hour dinner at Trattoria Toscana tonight. Takes a lot of energy to eat that much.

Ciao.


Tuesday
11 p.m. In the room that has become almost home

Nighttime in Tuscany is a beautiful thing. There's that word — beautiful — again. Still, it's the only word that works.

Our nighttime began with a wine-tasting at Il Pozzo, an eclectic gallery of photography, watercolors, etchings, maps, handmade papers, leather-bound books, Venetian glass pens, and hand-cast jewelry. It's a lovely place, and the owner (Giovanni, Ivan for short) is a tall and lovely man with a quiet charisma. He turned off the lights after we entered, saying, "And this is the best thing about my shop."

Ivan pointed at a circle of glass that had looked like a coffee table display area in the light, and there was a collective gasp. Before our eyes, down in the ground below the glass top, was an 11th Century well. Goldfish swam within, and there was a light that shimmered in the waters of the well dug long ago by Etruscan hands. It was a magical moment, full of wonder.

Ivan also showed us the cross over the doorway leading to the alley, explaining the religious significance, along with the fact that donkeys and horses were allowed to sleep inside the house back in those long ago days. We stared and marveled and clicked pictures and raved about the art in Ivan's shop, as well as the beautiful work in creating the gallery. Ivan designed it, and it's incredible. Ivan, however, was modest, dismissing his talents and turning the conversation back to his uncle's wonderful photography.

Ivan Botanici looked a little bit like John Corbett of Sex and the City, and he knew the show. We now knew Ivan (it's not difficult to make friends in this neighborhood), and he invited us to "come back anytime. Anytime, I will have a glass of wine for you."

Dinner at Trattoria Toscana was fabulous (what else is new?!) and a bit giggly, thanks mostly to Holly and me. Okay; thanks totally to Holly and me. Sometimes we Americans just have to let loose with a hysterical laughing fit while in an amazing place. It's a moment of grace: a release of work and worries and worldly concerns.
The nighttime tonight is quiet. The horns have stopped blowing, and nobody's singing. People are sleeping, and soon, I will be, too. The stars sparkle. A dog barks. A confused rooster crows. The wind lifts, as I lower my head to the pillow.

Tomorrow: Florence. Dreams start to come, and I'm ready to go.