Toscana, Italy

Under The Tuscan Moon

A high-soaring bird and a distant, silent airplane pass slowly through one another in the space above the city's duomo tower. Far beneath us all, the Tuscan landscape splays itself open into the distance, and everything is washed in a thin orange haze. From the lofty heights of Volterra, summer sunsets last hours.

The cute overworked waitress brings me a third glass of deep red wine, delivered with a little wink.

"Sulla casa."



Tuscany has welcomed me with nothing but warmth and sweetness, if perhaps to excess on both fronts. My time drifts slowly down fiascos of darkly floral, spicy Chianti, along tables of richly exquisite culinary delights, across vistas of sharply jagged ranges, their green tips singed to sienna in the acrid sunlight, amidst endless arrays of vineyards, all stretching their little grapevine sprouts skyward to the infinity of a cool indigo midnight.

This must be the vacation part of the trip.



A calico kitten follows me contently around a tiny graveyard outside Tavernelle, purring quietly and rubbing itself against every gravestones we pass.

A single rebellious cloud perches high in the cerulean sky, and the only sounds are of the soft breeze, when it happens to turn over in its afternoon dozing.



Everything here is startlingly angular. The landscape resembles enormous expanses of broken shards, scattered and stuck into the earth at odd angles to one another before they were draped in lush foliage. The hills never gain much elevation, so from many points you can gaze over these views until they fade forever into the dim haze of distance. A soft distance of beautifully shattered paradise.

I've never seen sunlight so orange as it is here. How on earth can light be a different temperature?



I am riding on the back of an indifferent horse named Nora (later discovered to be "in Calore"). I'm fortunate to have a guide, because Nora couldn't care less about where I want to go. Olive trees scrape the dry air around me, and the air smells of sweet jasmine, even when there is none to be seen. Little red poppies are scattered like raindrops, reminding me briefly of California.

The two of us ride high into the hills, defying the approaching thunderstorm. I give the horse a little kick to try and catch up. Nora yawns.

I swear to God, yawns.



It hasn't been all quiet though - the week's most adventurous moments involve a rented Fiat Punto, the nonsensical streets of Florence, and a total lack of experience with manual transmissions. The story beyond that warrants a more personable dictation.

Travel is sometimes about unexpected lessons.



A week in this life begs only for another week. It wouldn't be so difficult to whittle down the days amongst these bright angular hillsides, waxing poetic in entry after entry of delightful surrealist anecdotes and bribing immigration with hospitality. Alas, a great city now beckons.

Leaving civility for civilization...