The Cycling Tuscan

I was born into the peasant class in the heart of Tuscany, a small valley known as the Valdiniebole. Some speculate the name origiantes from ‘valis nubula’,  Latin for valley of fog, while a more probable name derives as the valley of the Nievole River which originates on the Appenines slopes just north of Montecatini and flows south towards the Arno Valley. We were ‘dirt poor’ but we did not know it. We thought we were rather well off especially when compared to the others nearby. Most of all we were happy. It was a small farm, very small, but it sustained our family. All was on a small scale and intended for family consumption, except perhaps for the annual calf raised for sale or the abundance of vegetalbles brought to market in the summer. We made wine, raised two pigs and slaughtered them to make prosciuttos, salames and sausages along with pancetta and trays of snow white pork fat laced with rosemary for cooking.  Chickens and rabbits and wheat and corn and some fruit and nut trees. We had no machinery, but all was done by hand or powered by our two milk cows that would be hitched to the plow to work the fields.

MY FATHER PLOWING ONE OF OUR FIELDS IN 1961

Water was drawn from the well just in front of the house and the bathroom…well…it was just to the side of the pig sty and indoor stalls. There was no running water or electricity.  Life was simple. Saturday afternoons and Sundays would be for rest, recreation and church. Once in a while we would go to the movies to one of two theaters in nearby towns. We would go by bicycle as no one had automobiles. In fact when a rare auto would drive by I would stand by the side of the road in awe. Probably looked like a true ‘country bumpkin’ with mouth agape. Once per week my grandmother, Agnese, would rise before dawn and light the fire to provide embers for the brick oven. She was dressed in black: black stockings, black dress, black apron and head scarf. That was the traditional Tuscan style for older ladies. She would spend most of the day making bread for the family for the week. They were those wonderful, golden, rustic textured, oval loaves with hearty crust. By the end of the week the bread got a little tough. One day in 1953 electricity arrived. What a change. No more oil lamps and we even got a radio.

My uncle, grandfather and aunt each had farms adjacent to ours. Another uncle had escaped the farming scene and had settled in the city of Florence working as a ‘carabinieri’. I loved to see him in his navy blue uniform with white belting and gun and all. Another aunt had married a frenchman and lived in Marseille, an aunt and uncle had emigrated to America…San Frnacisco area and yet another aunt was married and lived in La Spezia on the Tyrrenaum Coast near Cinque Terre. This was my paternal branch…then there was the maternal side…aunts, uncles, cousins…suffice it to say that we had a large family. But that was typical back in those days as labor was needed to work the land.

There was an aunt and uncle that I particularly fancied. They were butchers and had a shop in the nearby town of Pescia. They lived in a nice flat over the butcher shop, with a fancy heavy wooden front door, marble floors, rugs, electricity, running water and…yes…even an indoor modern bathroom. I remember being afraid to flush the toilet as they had the overhead water tank and it made a terribly loud, rushing noise. They also had two children, my cousins, Giuseppe and Antonio. Giuseppe was two years older and would take me around Pescia when I visited. I was country and he was urbane. He had toys and went to the movies and had lots of friends and I hung around as the cousin from the farm. They would talk about girls, the latest toys in shop windows, shoes and clothes, motor scooters and lots and lots of comic books.  My cousin had a motor scooter when he was very young. They seemed terrbly sophisticated and exciting. Pescia to me seemed like a big city; there were cars and the streets were paved and lots of city noises. All was such a nice contrast to the dirt and smells and quietness of the farm. I always had a special, exciting place in my mind  for my cousin Giuseppe and his family and Pescia.

In 1956 I came to America to live with my aunt and uncle in San Francisco. I did not realize it then..but…that was the single greatest stroke of luck in my life. America….better than all the money in the world. Over the next half century I would visit my family in Tuscany on a regualar basis as circumstances, personal commitments and finances would allow. Each time, however, there would be the next episode of ‘Giuseppe’. He was a high energy, big ideas, big talk, devil may care type of guy. In the sixties he set up an ice cream shop in touristy Montecatini and coupled that with a fashion business. His father financed and Giuseppe put on the big show. Cars, night clubs, schmoozing till the creditors knocked.  When all was hopeless he grabbed his passport and hightailed it to Rotterdam where he got a job cleaning oil tankers.

In the seventies I found myself in Fulda, Germany serving in the U. S. Army. After a few inquiries I discovered ‘Giuseppe’. Yep, he was close. I was in Fulda and he was some seventy miles away in a small town near Kassel. We visited him and laughed. He was working for an international company as a waiter going from place to place. He had entertaining friends, lots of girl friends as he was now single and seemed to be enjoying ‘life in the moment’.

In the mid seventies I found him back at Pescia making amends with his family. All was quiet…but as time would tell…not for long.

In the late seventies I became involved in the bar and restaurant business and on my next visit to Tuscany discovered that Giuseppe had married a German girl….one of the girl friends I had met while in Germany…and was setting up bars and night clubs in Germany. My uncles were going up to visit and all seemed to be going splendidly.

In the early eighties I was a restaurateur and found time and resources to visit often. Giuseppe was back in Itlay. He set up a night club in super toursity Viareggio just north of Pisa. The club was on the beach with dancing and shows etc. It was a flop. Soooo….Giuseppe….with his strange mind pondered for a week…and ‘voila’…we are now a gay night club. Frau Marleine!!

The next year when I returned….Frau Marleine was a huge hit. Gays were coming from Florence, Pisa, Lucca and all nearby areas. Giuseppe was somewhat of a celebrity. We would go to restaurants and all would know him and send us drinks. It was a continuous party.

The next year Giuseppe got one of my uncles involved in the business and bought a fancy coofee, tea, pastry bar with formal piano, recitals, silver, crystals, solid dark woods…etc. They spent a fortune. It was in the center of Lucca on Via Fillungo. It was beautiful and pleasant to have coffee but I could see that it was well on its way to being a flop.

The next year, mid eighties, Giuseppe was back in Germany. It seems that the mafia wanted a little piece of the business…the cash rich Frau Marleine. Well, Giuseppe, in his best cavalier attitude told the heavies to ’stick it’. Like in the ‘Godfather’, in the middle of the night cars came and fired multiple gunshot into his house. I suppose that was the ‘horse’s head’ that convinced Giuseppe that perhaps he WAS a bandleader. He sold all quickly and with equal adroitnes sped over the Brenner Pass into Deutchland once again.

In the subsequent trips I would hear rumblings of his adventures. He seems to have quieted a bit…I suppose age may have a hand in that. Whenever I think of Giuseppe I can’t help but laugh. He’s one of those rascal figures that always pops up somewhere with the next scheme. He never looks back, never regrets and brings a smile to your face. All in all, that’s not a bad thing.

Early records (951 a.d.) refer to Pescia (Pehhia) as a Longobard city built on both banks of the Pescia River. The commercial portion surrounds the long oval Piazza Mazzini with shops, residential area and government buildings and the flower market. The opposite bank housed the cathedral and hospital…the same hospital which was moved from Altopascio and its long history along Via Francigena (see Riding Around Altopascio). Midieval defensive walls along with characteristic midieval crenellated buildings can be seen riding along the Pescia River through the town. North of Pescia along the river is the area known as Svizzera Pesciatina (Pescia’s Switzerland), an area so named by eighteenth century historian and naturalist G. Sismondi who was exiled to the area  and remined him of his home in Switzerland. The region provides the traveler with beautiful unspoiled mountain and river vallley scenery along with midieval towns unaltered by commerce and a trail of old paper factories which were an important piece of the local commerce beginning in the late fifteenth century. Both Pescia and the ten towns of Svizzera Pesciatina follow the common historical thread of the region: first under dominance of Pisa, then Lucca and eventually under the Medici and Florence. In the modern era Pescia is known for its flower market where its ships flowers of all varieties especially carnations throughout Europe.

 Pescia Flower Market & Midieval Town of Uzzano in mountainous background

At this point I will include a chapter of my unpublished book, ‘From The Seat of My Brother’s Bicycle’, descirbing a ride through Svizzera Pesciatina.

Day Five

Thursday, November 13, 2003 

 

Itinerary: Pescia Flower Market, Pietrabuona Paper Museum, San Quirico

 

Old Tuscan Proverb: Muore la pecora, muore l’agnello

                                     Muore la bue e l’asinello

                                     Moure la gente pien di guai,

                                     Ma I rompecoglioni non moian mai!!!

 

                                     Dies the sheep, dies the lamb,

                                     Dies the ox and the ass,

                                     Die the people full of woes,

                                     But…ballbusters never die!!!!

                                                                 (the rhyme and zing is lost in translation)

            I am sitting at Bar Shanghay for my usual cappuccino and croissant before my ride. Normally it’s sleepy and quiet here but today I stepped into a maelstrom. Two tables of guys were locked in heated argument. The apparent leader kept repeating that “you do not go to establish peace with armored cars”. I didn’t quite know what was going on as I had gone to bed early last night and hadn’t learned the latest scoop. With La Nazione in front of me, though, I quickly learned that nineteen Italian policemen had been killed in Iraq. They were part of a peacekeeping force and some were from nearby towns in Tuscany. 

 

                                                      BAR SHANGHAY, BEGINNING OF MY DAY!!

 

EXTREME STYLE EVEN IN SMALL TOWNS

 

As a new person entered, the most vocal of the group would attempt to draw him into the melee. Goes to show you how stupidity has no geographical borders. Usually the louder ones tend to be the more stupid. This was no exception.  A little bald headed guy was talking loud and looking at me trying to get an indication as to my stance. As I was

wearing an American flag dew rag I really had no wish to be dragged into a nonsensical conversation.  A rational minded guy came in and refused to accept the popular view. As he resisted the same bald headed little man got even more excited. When he was asked why are you taking this so personally? Have you been drinking already this early in the morning?  That did it! The little guy went ballistic. With arms flailing, voice crackling with emotions, and every vein in his head bulging he attempted to make logical arguments. But just couldn’t; he was too excited. It might have been humorous had it not been so early in the morning. I kept reading my newspaper trying to ignore the whole mess but it was difficult.

            Up to now not much had been said about the war but today it was front and center. Nineteen Italian policemen had been killed in Iraq and their pictures were plastered all over the front pages. The war in Iraq had come home to Italy. And now the Italians on main street were getting involved.

            Enough, I thought, I’m going to La Svizzera Pesciatina. As I paid the bill, the lady behind the counter apologized for all the commotion. “No big deal” I said,”it happens all over the world.” I proceeded north from Chiesina towards Pescia. Traffic was light and the weather was pleasant. It felt good to be in the fresh air but my ears were still ringing with the angry emotion strained voice of that unattractive little man in the bar. But as I looked up, the mountains drenched in warm sunshine and the gentle Tuscan countryside quickly restored peace.

            Some miles ahead were the feint outlines of the new Pescia flower market poised like a giant metallic tarantula over the low urban skyline. Steel towers anchored in cement suspended cables over and supporting the seemingly fragile roof. Patricia remarked when seeing its picture “what’s this ugly modern thing doing amidst all this beautiful architecture”. As I worked my way into the entrance a gate guard waved me down. “Entry is restricted to growers and wholesalers”, he said.

I explained to him that I had been raised in this area and wanted to have a look at the market. He let me sign the guest book and was very polite and as a matter of fact all Tuscans are very polite.

THE “WALL STREET” OF FLOWERS FOR THE VALDINIEVOLE

    I rode my bike into the cavernous pavilion which had docks on three sides for loading eighteen wheelers.  Inside, many of the counters were already empty although there were still pockets of activity. The bartender inside the cafe had said that most of the selling activity was completed by eight. Staging areas were piled high with pallets containing boxes, buckets and pots of flowers and plants of every imaginable variety. At one time the carnation was king but the market has now expanded to a vast array of flowers. As I wandered about the floor taking pictures I marveled at the variety, colors and magnitude of the whole operation.  One area contained carnations of every color, in another, marguerites packed in boxes, orchids packaged in cellophane, oriental bamboo plants, lilies tall and white and greeneries of every variety to complement floral arrangements.

In my wanderings I came upon one of the workers laboring with the boxes.

“Have you sold everything”, I asked.

“Everything”, he said.

“Do you own a farm around here to grow flowers”.

“No” he said, “we don’t grow flowers. We handle wholesale and distribution.”

He was a pleasant man, polite and full of smiles.

On the way out I thanked the gate guard and was on my way. I went by Pescia but I did not stop as I had seen it many times before. I raced north by the bridges, river and old paper mills. At the little valley of the converted mill into the hotel and restaurant I looked across the bridge with fondness. It’s the type of setting which beckons you to linger. Come across my bridge and stay awhile, it says. Come sit. Enjoy the vista of our river valley and the mountains. It’s a beautiful day. Come, take a moment. Let the beauty of our area soak in. Take the memories back with you, wherever home is. Breathe the fresh air. Listen to rushing waters. Let serenity be your ally. Indulge yourself. The road will always be there. You can resume your journey anytime. Come, let the winter sun engulf you.

            I kept on pedaling, though, and soon I was in Pietrabuona in front of Il Museo della Carta (Paper Museum). It looked closed as it had a few days ago but I rang the bell as the sign directed. The door opened immediately to reveal three smiling faces. Two young ladies were doing clerical stuff behind desks and the neatly dressed young man with prefect hair told me to make myself comfortable. I began to view the paper displays on the wall but soon he lead me through a door to a small theater with about thirty seats.

            I removed all bicycle gear and sat back comfortably in a middle row. He began to speak. Even though I was the only one in the room he stood in front and proceeded with his presentation. He was a good speaker in full command of his subject and his easy style made me feel fully at ease. His Italian was perfect and I understood him with ease.

            The history of paper manufacturing in the Pescia area dates back to the 1300’s, he began. Late in the fifteenth century noteworthy printing companies were already established in Pescia. Numerous paper mills were erected along the Pescia River as can now be evidenced by the many dilapidated and abandoned brick structures just north of city along the river. Collectors would make their rounds in city and farm areas to return with loads of old rags to be processed into the finest paper for Europe’s discriminating markets. At our normally lively lunch later that day I asked Nina if she remembered the rag collectors. “Oh, yes”, she said. “When I was a little girl living on the farm in Lammari just outside Lucca a little old man would come every few months with his horse drawn cart. Years later he used his three wheeled “Ape”.” As she rose from the table to clear the tray of cheese and bowl of fruit she reflected “they gave us almost nothing for all those rags, though.”

            He showed me how watermarks were placed in the paper and explained the process. A number of samples were available with the most interesting being the wedding invitations of Napoleon and Maria Luisa of Austria in 1810.

            The museum was in the process of acquiring an old paper mill just up the river, he went on. Funding was being provided to restore the mill along with the old machinery and to transform it into a working exposition. They would produce paper the ancient and traditional way while displaying the process to the public. It was important to do this now, he continued, while there still were trained artisans living and buildings and machinery were still salvageable. In the middle ages this area was renowned for the quality and artistry of its paper. Lucca, Pisa and Florence vied for its control. The theater and museum were to be a vital part and the beginning point of the exposition. When completed this project would be an important element to revitalizing the tourist industry in this area. It had been a most interesting presentation, just the type of stuff which my mother, Mary Alice, would have loved.

             As I proceeded north along the Pescia River a large, colorful road sign conveniently divided the ten towns of La Svizzera Pesciatina into three tidy itineraries. So reminding him of his homeland, a noted Swiss economist dubbed this region, “Pescia’s Switzerland”, upon taking up residence here in the mid 1800s.  Roads leading to  Medicina, Fibbiola and Aramo passed but I decided to just visit what appeared to be the most interesting, San Quirico, some ten miles up the mountains. The other towns in the group would be reserved for later adventures and later trips. There would definitely be more; I was sure. I wound my way along the river, through forests, up mountains, along ridges, into valleys in total solitude. Much of the time I was in the shade as I was threading through dense pine and chestnut forests filled with thick underbrush. It was chilly but all was peaceful as I progressed deeper into the wilderness. Rarely did I see a car. Occasionally on ledges of the densely wooded mountainsides a weathered tile roof or chimney would pop through the forest canopy. The road and these occasional abodes were the only signs of civilization. As I raced effortlessly up lengthy ascents amidst all this natural beauty from time to time a bothersome thought came to mind. What if I had a flat tire? My tubeless tires couldn’t be patched. Oh, well I smiled inwardly; it will just be another impromptu adventure. It will add more spice to my trip. The further north I progressed even the occasional home was no longer evident.

            As I traversed the ridgeline onto the next valley following the crest of the mountain an expansive panorama revealed distant mountains and feint outlines of clustered rock buildings, tile roofs and sharp towers. The closest of these I assumed to be San Quirico. As I took pictures of the distant villages almost lost in the expansiveness of the mountains I could almost hear the voice of Sean Connery doing his narrative to the opening of the “Name of the Rose”.  More climbing and more switchbacks revealed steep cultivated slopes with vineyards and olive groves. A gentle smoke with redolence of olive wood filled the area. As I approached San Quirico voices of workers burning olive cuttings could be heard.

            Once through the walled gate I walked my bike with care up and down the narrow stone alleys of this medieval oasis. I followed a walkway around the massive fourteenth century stone walls with fine views of the forested Appenines and on occasion could still hear voices of workers filtering up through the rows of olive trees. All the while the air was filled with the scent of olive smoke and the warm winter sunshine was so pleasant amidst all the cold stone buildings. At one point while walking behind some older ladies all dressed in black I marveled as to how they could negotiate such steep inclines of the city streets. Perhaps necessity kept them in good shape. I came to a small piazza enclosed on three sides by buildings of extraordinary proportions. I leaned my bike on the exterior short wall and sat down to rest, reflect and absorb the scenery. A bell tower, built of massive stone, rose to the sky and dwarfed its church just across the piazza. Simple joys such as the warmth of winter sunshine contrasted by massive cold stone all about or the vision of medieval figures clustered in small groups in the piazza exchanging the latest from Lucca, Pescia or the neighboring mountain towns or the serenity and peace with the vista of the distant, smoky Appenines filled my consciousness. It is moments like these that all seems right with the world. This was harmony.

            In the thirteenth century this little mountain top town was decimated by the Black Plague. Its citizens dwindled to a precious few, twenty. The Archbishop of Lucca, under whose control San Quirico was, issued a ten year edict to wave any and all taxation to help repopulate the area. Over the ensuing years the town recovered but was in constant feud and war with the surrounding mountain villages which were aligned with Florence. In the eighteenth century the forces of Napoleon established a regional headquarter in San Quirico. Its citizens, enamored with concepts of liberty and democracy of the French Revolution, used this very bell tower to warn against the advance of Austrian troops. In the twentieth century seventeen of its citizens were butchered by the Nazis probably in this very piazza as retribution for two German soldiers killed in the area.

            I used the timer on my Olympus digital to take some pictures of me in this contemplative moment. I was done for the morning which usually means that I was beginning to envision our little kitchen table set and ready with a big bottle of Chianti and garlic and rosemary aromas emanating from the kitchen. In short, I was hungry.

            The ride back was smooth and pleasant banking into gentle downhill turns and effortlessly seeing pleasant greenery go by as I reflected on the many events of that morning. At Pietrabouna I stopped at one of the little bars to warm up with a little Vecchia Romagna and expresso. It is such a pleasant combination in the coolness of the winter. As I passed the flower market I heard a metallic sound against the pavement but dismissed it. A few more miles and the problem was revealed; the left pedal slipped off the shaft onto the pavement. I stopped and replaced it but the bolt was gone so I limped on in to Chiesina pedaling with care.

            Our lunch began with a pastina in chicken broth with herbs and parmigiano. Crisply sautéed chicken breasts in garlic, sage and olive oil accompanied by steamed and sautéed fresh spinach was the main course with plenty of hearty bread and wine. The Tuscan table always seems to be filled with plenty of talk, stories and laughter. Meals are a loud business and if one is to be heard he must learn to exercise his vocal cords. Even the timid catch on quickly especially after a little Chianti. We finished our meal with bowls of fresh fruit and cheeses. On Sundays we would normally have dessert and espresso too.  

(In Progress)

Luciano

The Cycling Tuscan

Silicon Valley Real Estate……. Luciano…Broker/Owner…   www.dalmatianrealtysv.com

Up the San Francisco Peninsula over the Dumbarton Bridge to Newark, Niles, Fremont, Milpitas and back through North San Jose,  Alviso,  Santa Clara and home, Sunnyvale. About 70 miles.

 

In my world there are boxes. Many many boxes ordered in rows and columns. They are bonded together by a force which emanates from my being. They are re-ordered according to my interests, current needs and desires, my hopes and dreams, my successes and failures. They grow as I grow. This reticulated pattern is not static but in constant motion as I navigate through the ebb and flows of life. The rows undulate and the columns elongate but the bonding force brings all back in order. There are times, though, that this delicate and beautiful symmetry is disturbed and all is rendered in ghastly oranges and shadows and confusion and disjointednes and stress and distorted faces of anguish. That’s when I am at the edges of control, at the nadir of confidence or from another angle, my bios are low. My boxes are crashing into each other. There is no symmetry, or beauty, no ebbs nor flows. When I find myself in such a state I embark on my ‘happy ride’. No, not drugs or booze, but a simple bicycle ride which takes me far enough away to put perspective back in my life. Order to my boxes.

The South Bay Area. What a magnificent place. I suppose that from my perspective it’s a love affair. During the last forty five years I’ve gone through all the phases of love. I’ve been infatuated by it, I’ve grown disenchanted. I’ve hated it. I’ve abandoned it. I’ve missed it and been miserable without it. And I’ve returned with deep understanding of what it truly is and intention never to leave it. I love living here and now I delight discovering its bits of history which go unnoticed by the hectic bustle of high powered business.

I first came to Santa Clara Valley, the future home of Silicon Valley, in 1965 to attend the Jesuit run University of Santa Clara. With my laden four door, green Chevy Biscayne I traveled the hour and a half  from Marin County down Bayshore Freeway. Now it’s eight lanes of continuous traffic…but, back then it dwindled to two lanes with trafflic light at the Santa Clara exit where I would drive through apricot, pear and prune orchards to exit onto El Camino Real to the university. The cities to the north, Sunnyvale, Cupertino,  Mt. View, Palo Alto, Los Altos were all separated by orchards as opposed to today’s continuous suburban growth to San Francisco.

Some of us are not cut out for the corporate life. You know, the meetings, the image and perception, the appearance of bus-i-ness and stuff. It was not me. So, one day, an associate and I bought a bankrupt bar and restaurant. We knew a little and were ingorant of a lot. But the place was smack dab in the middle of what was to be ‘Silicon Valley’ and after some experimental iterations we found the profitable formula. Silicon Valley literally grew around us and we prospered. We catered to Atari, Lockheed, Northern Telecom, National Semi, AMD and scores of other  nascent technical companies who would write Silicon Valley history. It was wild, unpredictable and always exciting. Money flowed freely and we were having the times of our lives. This era, of course, is one of the bonding elements which cemented the affection which I have for this little piece of the world which I now call home.

So, when I ride it’s more than physical exercise for the health, although that is important. It’s more than the enjoyment of the sights and sounds which the road presents. It’s more than the feeling of freedom which only an open road with no schedule can produce. It’s a link with the past, the discovery of the history, an appreciation of what life was like when there were only native Indians about the Bay, or the Spanish and Mission era or the agrarian roots of the early twentieth century, the railroads, the ferryboats from Alviso to San Francisco, the bordellos and hunting clubs of Drawbridge, the present effort to refurbish the eco-system of the Bay and many more. All layers which are there, real, waiting to be discovered and integrated into one’s consciousness and appreciated as one rides.

 

(in progress)

Luciano

The Cycling Tuscan

Need to Buy, Sell or Lease Silicon Valley Real Estate?

Luciano…Broker/Owner…   www.dalmatianrealtysv.com   408-482-3438

Thanksgiving Trip

Placerville-November 22-25, 2005

 

After a painful period of failing health and change of residence into Cedar Crest Convalescent facility Marge Schantell died. Patricia had undertaken the major responsibility of making the arrangements of housing, paying of bills, ordering medicines, health care arrangements, laundry and on…… We held the funeral last week and it was a dignified affair. Short and dignified. A brief ceremony was held at graveside afterwhich we all met at the Blue Pheasant for cocktails and a light lunch. It turned out to be a pleasant affair; the food was good and the setting was bright an uplifting.

 Arlene had invited us to spend the Thanksgiving  holiday at her home in Placerville. Patricia had instantly accepted with relief at not having to prepare for the usual affair at our house especially after the funeral. She was exhausted and emotionally rung out. A change of scenery up in Placerville was just the right thing.

 We packed our Jeep with golf clubs, bicycle and dog in crate. The “dog in crate’ thing was more difficult than usual. Domino, I suppose, thought the incarceration to be an insult. After a few promptings I picked up the eightyesh pound dalmatian and deposited her into the crate. She barely fit.

 Dale had made arrangements for us to play golf on Friday and I had also intended to ride the roads of Apple Hill just east of Placerville. I had plenty of stuff to do so I was rather looking forward to spending the time in the gold counry. We, or as usual, Patricia drove and I read most of the way. I have to read. If I watch her drive it tends to infuriate me. And…even though I attempt to use all my self control, after some time stuff tends to escape from my mouth. The type of stuff which usually begins a tiffy joust. So, today I read Bat Ye’or’s Eurabia. And…keep my mouth shut. Till the wind mills that is! Then I made my usual comments as to why they are never working and why not. Also, the vertical ribbon ones. What happened to them? They must have proved to be inefficient. Graceful but inefficient. And…as with all inefficient things—they are doomed to the way of dinosaurs.

 Once beyond Sacramento I marveled at the growth that had taken place in the sweeping valleys and rolling terrain of Cameron Park and El Dorado Hills. All the usual suspects were here too. That is, Home Depot, Sam’s Club, the cookie cutter restaurants and the slews of familiar retail shops. We turned off of U.S. 50 at Cameron Park to visit Steve and Michael. I had mentioned that we would stop at their house when we saw them at the funeral. Pat wasn’t crazy about it but she had reluctantly made all the arrangements. I had looked forward to seeing Bass Lake Golf Course which Steve was managing and had spent the last five years rebuilding. Every holiday at our house we would discuss his progress and problems and so I was well acquainted with the depth of his work and wanted to see for myself the progress. When Patricia said that we were going to their house only, I was naturally disappointed. But, as luck would have it, just before lunch Steve’s boss from the golf course called and soon Steve and I were off to the course. He fixed the ball machine and we soon were in a cart viewing the fairways, greens and lakes. It was a nice course, not a great course by any stretch of the imagination. The setting was charming. The putting greens were true and smooth. The fairways neatly clipped. The clubhouse remodeled and sharp and the driving range convenient and comfortable. All in all it was a nice facility and I would certainly use it were I a close by resident.

 We arrived at Arlene’s house in the late afternoon. I greeted Dale and Nicholas and Cassidy and Arlene but very soon I found myself in the back deck seated on a comfortable chair with a hefty glass of Syrah and map of Apple Hill on the table before me. I reviewed the route I was to take the very next morning.

It was just before nine. The sun spread its soft golden winter rays on the foothills of the Sierras. I finished my coffee and was somewhat annoyed when MIK, the symbol of Michael’s Stores, ran across the NYSE ticker tape. I had been faked out! Had waited patiently till it had dropped to 35 and bought it, and then with the Katrina and oil crisis had watched it drop to below 32. I had become too influenced by the too depressive media and sold out at 32. There it was, I thought. A good idea wasted. Today the tape read 38 ½ .  But…I focused on the mountain vista just outside through the back window revealing the richness of the terrain—oaks drooping with Spanish moss, madrone trees, pines and thick underbrush everywhere all highlighted with rich shafts of golden light. I laced my bicycle shoes and headed out the front door towards my bicycle resting under the protection of the front porch.

 The climb began instantly up the rather steep driveway. This is no way to wake up, I thought. In a jiff I was on the smooth and neatly kept roads of Greenstone. It’s a private development some ten miles west of Placerville with exclusive homes on one acre plus lots. Homes are beautiful and well maintained. We always enjoy the setting when we come to visit Arlene and Dale. Beyond the front gate I proceeded on Green Valley Road towards Placerville. The road is narrow and winding with no shoulder. Traffic is bothersome and somewhat speedy. The country is rural and vistas are rich with detail.  I climb and descend and generally am on the white stripe at the very edge of the asphalt. I note Missouri Road and make the final climb to Placerville Road which leads me to a highway entrance which I decide not to take. I return to Ray Lawyer Road and cross US 50 onto the south side and follow mountain roads to Placerville.

 I take this town and savor it slowly. I ride ever so slowly and note the shops—a gun shop, a funky garage, the coffee house that I had stopped at during my last ski trip, the myriad of restaurants lining the entrance to town. It was Hangtown but now is Placerville. A checkered past it had and is now proud of its colorful history. At the first intersection I park my Giant Bike on a post and focus my Olympus for pictures. The light is soft and photos should be good. I try a couple of shots but the camera won’t co-operate. It must be the batteries. Chasasm! Rats! @#$##!!, I thought. I walk my bike a few paces and scan the storefronts for help. Across the street I note a familiar sign, iconic of the past and art deco to boot. It’s the Rexall oval with the familiar orange and white.. Maybe this is why I relish these bike trips in that I make connections with my youth. I see atavistic symbols which unearth periods of my life long since forgotten….till now that is. This Rexall sign reminds of the days in Fairfax in Marin County during the fifties. I cross the street with bike in tow and lean it on the window so that I can see it from within. I hold up my Olympus and motion to the young blond girl behind the counter, “Batteries, please!”

“How come you only run out of batteries when you need them?’ I ask.

 She laughs and hands me four double “A’s” lithium batteries for $11.50. She said these last a lot longer than the regular ones.

 I continue my adventure taking pictures with one hand and guiding my bike with the other. There are people walking about and traffic is continuous on main street. But…the town is cool and the architecture is reminiscent of its rich and wealthier history. There is the Liar’s Bench, a bar across the way with bright, orange neon. And.. the Hangman’s Tree, a historic spot with a human figure dangling by the neck on a rope. There is a tower, the court house, brick buildings and western store fronts with rich pediments and Victorian decorations. I take pictures and note the details. Later I’ll have reminiscences and combine the photos with my recollections. Together they combine to create the richness of my experience. It’s comfortable and cool and my senses are heightened by this sense of adventure. I hear the waters of the river behind the row of store fronts. I see the mountains above the roof tops. People walk by and nod or smile. I think they are friendly….perhaps I’m just happy and they are reacting to a smiling face with a camera in one hand and a bike in the other.

 

     Scenes of vintage buildings on Main Street in Placerville.

 On the eastern outskirt of town I take a left on Carson Road which climbs through residential neighborhoods onto mountain terrain leaving the hubbub of town life behind. The road is narrow and the slope is steep at times. But….there is little or no traffic and each turn reveals the visual gifts of Apple Hill.

 Ah! Yes, Apple Hill, a hidden gem on the outskirts of Placerville and just below the serious snow of the Sierras was the place I had wanted to explore for some time now. It was begun in the early sixties by the owners and glowers of the pear orchards in the area. At the time the orchards were devastated by a rampant disease and literally were wiped out. The growers put their heads together and decided to plant apple trees to compete with those of Washington State. In the early days the lore has it that the growers met informally at each others’ farms and commiserated over how bad the business was and drank some good stuff too.  But…with time and marketing effort and the relentless growth of California the area was discovered by tourists and its popularity increased. Now it’s well organized with a good web site and well marked maps and roads.

 I climb the peaceful and shaded road winding its way through the lush underbrush. Over a rise I see a sea of rust, golds and reds. Waves of color undulating to the contours of the earth. It’s a vineyard and I stop to absorb the lush colors and take pictures. I ponder what the life must be like running a vineyard, surveying the splendor of the vines in the different seasons, the excitement of the harvest, the pride when the labels are affixed, the tasting of the wine with friends over a sumptuous meal served on the back deck overlooking the southern slopes of the vineyards. Ah, but this is just the romantic adventurous notions of a novice looking from the outside. I’m sure that many feel the same way about the restaurant business as they dine in some romantic or iconic spot. But…I’m on an adventure and I allow myself the luxury to let my imagination wander without the pall which reality would cast over the notion.

 The first stop on the apple quest is The Farm and number 55 on the Grower’s Association Farm Trail map. I enter and explore the interior and products and also think about buying some apple cider but quickly decide to purchase some water instead. It’s a rustic and hearty interior with wonderful aromas of apples and bake goods permeating throughout. A “Johnny Appleseed” type of guy with a heavy grayish beard and a rough exterior nodded and smiled and watched me walk to the next area. He must have been the owner or a whacko or something. Before I left I had recounted to my pals at Chili’s about my proposed adventure to Apple Hill. They had laughed and counseled me to be careful in that those folks in the mountains might take a shine to me in my lycra-spandex bicycle tights and repeat a scene from “Deliverance”. I looked back at the guy who was still in the back entrance and I chuckled to myself as I paid for the water and returned to my waiting bike.

 

 The Barn #55Smokey Ridge Ranch,  #133

 The route I had roughly carved out for the day was along Carson Road which paralleled U. S. 50 in an easterly direction towards Lake Tahoe and joined Pony Express Trail just beyond Cedar Grove. I had intended to go as far as my energies would take me. I looped north on North Canyon Road and would rejoin the Pony Express Trail some miles east. I traveled leisurely, more interested in the scenery, the architecture, the signs and local culture than getting to a specific spot in good time. My mind was relaxed and clear and in a receptive state. The warm rays of the soft sunshine warmed my back and provided a soothing and romantic aura to the scenes before me. The colors were muted and gentle, the lines were soft and highlighted by nuances of shadows barely noticeable. Abel’s Apple Acres appeared just above a rise revealing a full parking lot with parents and children scattered in every direction. I entered and noted the bake goods- pies with crumb crusts neatly displayed, pastries, strudels, cookies, jams, butters, and apple recipes covering shelves all along the entrance wall. The back of the building opened into a spacious patio overlooking a fine vista of the valleys with winding road and orchards and vineyards. It was a bucolic scene, although…..somewhat contrived as one began to note upon closer inspection the black and white spotted cardboard cows placed at intervals down the slope towards the children’s play area. Suddenly shrieks captured my attention. To my right was a family with this kid. About ten, I would say. He hated life, the world, his parents, this apple stop and in the top of his whining and shrill voice screamed that he wanted to go home. All the while his doting mother was trying to assuage his feelings. If ever I wished to punch someone’s lights out this kid would have been a prime target. I hated the whimpering mass of spoiledness instantly. On my way out, there was the mother and grandmother soothing the brat.

 

 Abel’s Apple Acres  #38

 I resumed my blissful journey. There was Boa Vista Orchards, and Hillside Tree Farm and Sun Mountain Farm. There was solitude and harmony. Not a car to be seen; just a two lane road winding its way through sweeping valleys and gentle hills. Without effort I found myself walking through the trees of a nearby apple orchard. With camera in hand I focused on the remnants of the harvest probably overlooked or at the time not yet ripe.

 

  Lush and ripe and conspicuously hanging on the leafless tree. I wished to pluck one and crunch it right there in the orchard. But I just took pictures. Who knows, the folks here may not take kindly to apple plucking.    Sun Mountain Farm #28

More placid thoughts, more effortless miles, up some inclines and into a dense forest I heard german ump-pa-pa music blaring through lush vegetation. Around a bend the shaded road lead me to the front of Bavarian Hills Orchards with a delightful delicatessen and beer garden in front overlooking the road. All the while German beer songs blared in all directions. How very delightful! It was open  but could not see anyone except the owners off loading a truck. It looked as though they were just opening for the day.

 Bavarian Hills Orchard #11

This place would make for a perfect outing on a later visit to Arlene and Dale’s house. A little ride to Apple Hill and a cozy lunch in a recessed and quaint nook. A Bavarian nook at that!

 An iconic spot!

 It was noon or thereabouts! The few apples that I had photographed looked delightfully luscious and had brought to mind “hunger”. Yep, lunch was a good idea. I completed a descent and North Canyon Road intersected Larsen Road which was the center of an expansive valley and home of Larsen’s Apple Barn and Bake Shop. Just perfect. I explored the grounds and noted the large water wheel at the edge of the parking lot.

 Larsen’s Bake Shop #9

 I settled on the back covered deck and ate my turkey and avocado on french roll with potato salad.  A simple lunch overlooking fine countryside is savored especially when lunch is your first meal of the day. I sat and looked and reminisced the many lunch spots on my travels which produced these special feelings. Perhaps it’s a moment of contentedness, a mind at ease and an outlook able to appreciate the simple and the valuable. The water wheel turned lissome and silently just behind. There was an occasional car which would make a rushing noise as it passed close to the deck and only to disappear with the road diving into the tree line. Two ladies appeared in the field across the valley a few hundred yards away taking pictures of the splashes of wild colors unleashed by the caressing November sun. I wrote in my journal in between bites but it was useless. The beauty of the valley commanded my entire attention. All else was a wasted effort. So, I let my body go limp against the chair and gazed without focus and let my mind wander.

 Later, much later I resume my ride along Larsen Drive. Slowly, with little effort I proceeded at a measured rate. Some farms were closed, or had signs out that they had “sold out”. It’s late in the season and the tourist push was over. It was the best time to be here. Denver Dan’s Apple farm caught my eye. A large Quonset hut sprawled in the valley to my right with a festive and funky sign cresting its apex. Farm machinery and work trucks were parked around its side. Houses randomly hugged the road line—not houses with modern lines or trendy architectural details but houses that showed wear and designs of a time gone by. They were functional houses as were the farm buildings. Not the gentrified, multi gabled, ornate windowed designs of the more affluent areas of California. It was refreshing to see function over style. Perhaps this is the charm of this area. It reminded me of Napa Valley before it got yuppified. Of Monterey and Santa Cruz before the big bucks of Silicon Valley moved in. Contrived, neat, orderly and modern. Nice but no character.  I’m sure that this is the writing on the wall for this area too, not too far off in the future. But…for now it was pleasant to pedal in this pristine area and to realize its measured time and appreciate it.

 Denver Dan’s  #14

 Bolster’s Hilltop Ranch & Winery #45

The loop, the trek, the adventure was approaching the end. They all do. The enthusiasm and excitement and curiosity and wonder yield to pragmatism. It’s getting late; days are short in November; how far am I from home? My musings transformed into reality as I rejoined Carson Road at Cedar Grove by U S. 50. The ride back was fast, downhill and amazingly quick into Main Street, Placerville. My mind was content with the richness of the day’s experience and the scenery passed by with nary a sound or effort or sense of weather. I was a spectator coming back to reality from another world. At the house Dale was sweeping the garage, Nicholas on the porch with his toys, Cassidy at the computer chatting with her cyber friends and Patricia and Arlene in the dining room redying all for the Thanksgiving dinner. It was good to be home.

Luciano J. Ercolini

The Cycling Tuscan

Dalmatian Realty, Silicon Valley Real Estate, www.dalmatianrealtysv.com

Chapter 4, The Northern Valdinievole

From The Seat Of My Brother’s Bicycle

November, 2003

Itinerary: Molin Nuovo, Villa Bellavista, Borgo a Buggiano, Castello a Buggiano, Massa e Cozzile, Montecatini Alto, Montecatini Terme and a visit to my Brother’s work, Masini Butcher Shop

Moreno had already left for work by the time I began dressing at sevenish. I tiptoed to the bike and today I slipped by the dog unnoticed. Towards Bar Shanghay I deliberated over the day’s adventure. In a few seconds I was decided; it was to be Villa Bellvista and then north towards Buggiano and the mountain towns and roads skirting the north edge of the Valdinievole.  

When the lady behind the counter saw me parking the bike she began to fix my cappuccino. In a minute I was at my usual table by the window munching on a croissant and reading one of the many daily newspapers available for customers. She slid the cup of capuccio next to my newspaper and quietly walked away. The bar owner was a middle aged lady, slender with short brown hair and glasses. She was friendly and business like. She’s always dressed neatly with wool skirt, crisp blouse, leather shoes and a spotless white apron. Today I was reading “La Nazione”. It’s kind of nice at the bars. All the daily newspapers are available-La Nazione, Il Terranio, La Toscana. Half dozen guys had gathered at the tables for coffee before their day’s work. There was always a group as some would come and others would go. Later there would be the older retired guys.  I read all the fifty or so pages of the paper and barely noticed the idle chatter about me.  On my way out the lady said, “You are a very dedicated rider to go out riding every day”.“Yes”, I said, “it’s the best way to see Tuscany”. I paid 2 euros and was on my way.

            Today was overcast and gray but there was no fog nor was it cold. The road was familiar so I rode lazily just watching the morning scenery go by. Just north of Molin Nuovo is the imposing Villa Bellavista recessed behind iron gates and a narrow Cypress tree and statue lined road leading to the ornate baroque entrance. The imposing structure is atop elevated terrain and is visible from miles around. Moreno would tell the story about our grandfather, Raffaello, doing the weekly shopping. The poor man would walk the four miles from our farm by this Villa onto Borgo a Buggiano to do the weekly shopping for our family. He would return with two heaping large bags filled with food for the family of eight.  I remember him but barely. He was rather short and bald. As I took pictures of the villa and the regal entry I envisioned my grandfather’s burdened figure slowly walking this same road some fifty, sixty and seventy years ago.

            The entry gates were rusty and chained shut. It looked as though they had not been opened for years although I had read on the web that tours were available daily to see the interior of the Villa. This is very Italian, I thought.

 I began to ride towards the mountains but noticed a small road following the right side of the villa. On a whim, I wound my way around the huge structure with ornate exaggerated cornices over weathered mustard paint. The rear of the building was equally impressive with

 

 

 

 

 

Villa Bellavista

 

                                     View from the rear as the peasants would have seen it!!

 remnants of geometrical gardens, a double stairway and landing, and oodles of french doors and windows with a narrow, narrow white striped road leading straight back through the rust leaved vineyards. I followed this threadlike road to gain proper distance for pictures. As I turned and focused on the façade I envisioned seventeenth century nobility dressed in their fineries withcarriages, teams of black groomed horses and servants waiting by the sides of the stairway. Absolutely a miniature Versailles set amidst the vineyards.

            This Villa had been commissioned by the Medicis and an arrangement was made with their favored nobility to cement feudal allegiances. There were some fifty farms which the feudal lords of this Villa managed and profited from. Mills, stables and wineries were built. This particular system of feudal farms continued and evolved into the system into which my brother and I were born. In our day it was called “Mezzadria”, a form of sharecropping. The peasants were absolutely poor and economically tied to the land. It was just like the feudal system in many ways.  Fortunately, our family owned our farm. But, we were definitely in the minority. My uncle had to share everything with his landlord. When he butchered a pig the landlord was there for his half. When he would make wine the landlord would take half of the barels. When the wheat was processed, the landlord would haul off half the sacks. The Mezzadria came to an end in the mid sixties and many of the peasants along with my uncle were able to purchase their farms through benevolent government programs. My cousin still lives there.

            I thought of the splendor of lifestyles which this villa represented and also of the misery which the system inflicted on the poor peasants. Now, this villa is mostly vacant and in a state of severe disrepair while many of the descendents of the indentured peasants of the surrounding lands are prospering. My brother being one. How ironic. How just.

            I worked my way to the north side where I found and open gate. In spite of the rusted no entry sign I walked in for a closer look. If caught I could always plead ignorance.  Old doors and windows were stacked against the side of the building seemingly ready for a restoration effort but obviously postponed or canceled. The front was truly majestic although in a severe state of decay. A large circular fountain, the centerpiece of the entryway, formed a grand approach to the front door and amazingly was working.  Multiple gray columns framed the dark wooden doors which were in pretty good condition. I looked in one of the adjacent doors and a polite young man in navy blue uniform appeared. He informed that the building was used by firefighters and now the museum was closed.

I walked around the back and inspected the grand stairway and landing just off the main ballroom. It too was crumbling but the vista of the narrow carriage road disappearing in the vineyards was magnificent. A flatbed farm wagon in faded Prussian blue was parked at the corner of the building. A data plate from the manufacturer revealed a 1910 vintage from Verona. For some reason as I looked at this wagon, pictures of war came to mind. Napoleonic or Austrian or Prussian troops with wounded carried by such a wagon. Perhaps it was a scene from one of such epic movies. Or perhaps it was a mental picture derived from reading Hemingway’s “Farewell to Arms”; but that’s what I though at the time. The imagery was strong.

A couple of miles to the north is Borgo a Buggiano which is the developed economic extension of its medieval nucleus, Buggiano, perched above on the mountainside. My brother would tell the story that Borgo was only accessible by boat from the south as that area was all

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                   Old wagon waiting restoration!

 Train station at Borgo a Buggiano

 marshy swampland. That was many years ago though, probably in the early nineteen hundreds. But even now as I look at a map it shows the route of old railroad which makes a wide loop from Montecatini north to Borgo a Buggiano and then south to San Salvatore and Altopascio, thereby skirting the wet swamplands.  I was familiar with the roads as I had explored Borgo in depth a few days before when I accompanied my brother as he played bridge at the Bar Centrale. Now I dreamily rode through the city streets by the semi abandoned railroad station and wound through the underpass as a train lumbered by. On the other side was a fine view of the nineteenth century station buildings which must have been quite fashionable in their day. The facades were bold and dramatic poised next to the platform and the tracks. Nowdays, overgrown bushes, graffiti and missing doors and windows were the first glimpses to meet the occasional passenger arriving at Borgo. Most trains would speed on by without stopping, though. I clicked a couple of pictures and could only see the elegant station which I remembered when leaving for America some forty years ago. I was nine then and was leaving my world of the Valdinievole, my father and brother. It had been an emotional moment as I boarded the train hand in hand with my aunt, Mary Alice, leaving the lone sad figure of my father with beret in hand on the station platform. I took another picture and smiled as I also reflected what a grand stroke of luck it had been for me. America gave me a new life, great opportunity and a superb education.

            I left the station behind and proceed to Buggiano. The road was steep with no respite and estimated the climb to be around 12 degrees.  I was out of the saddle most of the time and was breathing pretty good. Nets and barrels were spread about under the olive trees on either side of the road. All seemed ready for the harvest. Just in front of the Buggiano walled gates I stopped to rest and appreciate the grand vista and the noticeable outline of Villa Belvedere. Buggiano was a fine example of a medieval walled city and typical of this area in the fifteenth century. Now, it

                                       Magnificent view of Buggiano from sister city Stignano

Another quiet afternoon in a medieval hill town!

and most like towns have become bedroom communities as there is no industry or jobs within their medieval walls. Inhabitants drive to the valley towns for work. For me, this was perfect.  I meandered through the town at a leisurely pace taking pictures, talking to the occasional resident, admiring restored homes, reading antique plaques set on side of buildings or in the pavement, feeling the cold Tuscan stone of bell towers, inspecting large cathedral doors, and always marveling at the beautiful scenery of the surrounding valleys, mountain passes and other walled towns wedged in the distant mountains. It’s a rather surreal experience with man, a bicycle, his thoughts, beauty and medieval history all in a setting of antiquity.                   

From Buggiano the road follows mountain ridges along the northern border of the Valdinievole with panoramas leading to the Arno Valleys. I maintained a pretty good pace through the climbs and descents stimulated by my thoughts and reflections. Many new villas were being built. Heady mustards, soft peaches and rich rusts were the colors of choice. Lots of arches with blends of wood and tile adorned inviting entries highlighted with beds of vibrant colored flowers. These family oases were set in olive groves and steep mountainsides commanding serene panoramas.

            Colle a Buggiano came quickly. Once through the walls at the main gate I was met with a central square, a cathedral on the opposite end and government buildings with coat of arms. Those of the Florentines become easily recognizable as most of these villages came under its dominion.  Beyond the square are the cobbled, narrow streets and alleys lined with two and three story residences. I walked one of these alleys following the rear walls of the town built on the mountain’s edge. Tiny cars are parked in every nook and crevice and garages with seemingly impossible access are set in ancient facades. The doorways are always interesting and the eves too. Some of them are exotic and ornate probably signifying the wealth and status of the original

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walled piazza at Colle a Buggiano

 

                                               Friendly, but don’t get too close!

occupants. I wound through a maze of these streets and never saw a soul. With the exception of automobiles it could have been the year 1500.

            As I ride, I keep passing dogs and interestingly enough, they are never on a leash. They don’t pay much attention to me and never give chase. Thank goodness! Many seem to be going somewhere. One day on the way to Borgo with my brother we saw a dog attempting to cross the road. It stopped and looked both ways. Then it crossed smartly. My brother said “that one must have left some fur behind”. Said in Italian it’s much more poignant. We both laughed. Patricia and I first noticed and were amused by these independent dogs when we visited Montepulciano a few years ago. We would be doing sightseeing and a lone black dog would be trotting down a street, another up an alley and a third crossing the square. All were traveling at a pretty good clip and seemed to be moving with purpose. At the sighting of each new dog we would look and laugh. Just outside Colle a Buggiano I passed two golden retrievers which were in front of their house and noted my passing ever so nonchalantly. They were cute and apparently gentle so I stopped and rode back to take their pictures. At the second picture they moved closer and began a throaty growl. I turned my bike with camera in hand and sped off. So much for cute I thought! One bite, and my riding adventure would be finished. “Adios, dogs”.  

            Massa e Cozzile was the highest point of my ride overlooking the sprawling suburbs of Montecatini Terme. A sign posted on the doors of its church bid me to go in. Amongst other things the sign counseled parishioners, “It serves no purpose to light a candle unless one also changes his heart.” It was a simple country church with many side altars. I sat alone and meditated for a while. Ah, yes, I also lit a candle. Directly across a small angular piazza was a bar and food store. A few people could be seen inside. I went in for coffee and a warming Vecchia Romgna. How good it is when it’s chilly.

            On the way down the steep and winding road I had to stop to put on gloves as it was rather cold. On the outskirts of Montecatini I recognized Le Panteraie which was a ritzi swim club which we had frequented on prior trips during hot summer days. Montecatini Terme was renowned not only for its thermal waters and mud baths but also the saline mineral waters for their purgative and cleansing powers. Vacationers came for the season and would take up residence at the many hotels and pensiones located throughout the city. Night clubs, restaurants, bars, horse racing, ice cream parlors and avante garde shops dotted every corner of the city. In the evenings people make the “passeggiata” and sit in outdoor cafes and bars all dressed in the latest fashions. In the summer months the town is packed. The streets are filled with the very latest of luxury automobiles from all over Europe. It’s an exciting place and we would come after dinner sometimes just to be part of the hubbub.

            At the north end of town I picked up the signs for Montecatini Alto. Yes, this was the medieval counterpart perched over Montecatini Terme and connected by a steep funicular railway. My climb proceeded up the winding road through mostly mountain suburbs. At the mid point signs indicated “road work” or “road closed” but it was not really clear so I continued. As I approached the road workers and machinery busy at work no one seemed to pay much attention to my motions to be waved through. Hoisting my bike over my shoulders I trekked over an adjacent field to resume my ride on open road.  The last stretch was steep and dotted with rustic mountain architecture. Gray stone facades highlighted with forest green wooden shutters and tidy little gardens marked the presence of stores, residences and restaurants at many of the mountain road intersections. With the off season and the windy weather shutters over windows and doors were shut tight.

The incline was steep and I could see the walled city looming large up ahead. I was

 CENTRAL PIAZZA AT MONTECATINI ALTO

 

  MOUNTAIN VILLAGE ON WAY TO MONTECATINI ALTO  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     climbing with little or no effort now. When I slowed I just rose from the saddle and would attack. Automatically so, never breathing hard. I could be out of the saddle for what seemed miles and never be winded. Was I having a good time or what? Absolutely, the very best! I wish Patricia was here to see all this, though.

            The road wound around the town walls twice, spiraling higher and higher. Me and my bike walked the narrow streets and found the main square. It’s the size of a football field lined with bars and restaurants and hundreds of chairs for outside seating. As I walked towards the central fountain it was rather eerie. I was the only one in the entire square. And with seating ready for hundreds. Ah! The pleasure and luxury of travel in the off season. In the summer this space would be jam packed with crowds and the road around the wall I had just traveled would be lined with cars. But, today it was all mine. To possess it; to take pictures at my leisure. To ponder in solitude. Or just to walk about as the Brits would say.

            When I had my fill I hopped on my bike and began the descent, smoothly and carefully. It was time to visit Moreno at the butcher shop in the center of Montecatini Terme below. My pals, the road workers were still there. I motioned to one and he sleepily waved me through.

            Soon I was weaving through the streets of Montecatini Terme filled with traffic, sounds and vibrancy, completely the antithesis of its counterpart above. I visited a couple of old spots which had personal meaning. The Ercolini Savi Hotel, in front of which I had taken Gina’s picture when she was little, was now the New Savi Hotel. Gina will laugh when she sees the change. “We’ve been ousted” she’ll say.  In the central square at the beginning of the boulevard adjacent to all the luxury thermal hotels and in front of the oddly modern cathedral was a very old tree whose trunk had naturally hollowed and the interior had been painted crimson. Standing inside the trunk I had taken pictures of Gina and Patricia at different times over the past twenty

           

OUR

ICONIC

TREE

 IN

MONTECATINI

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VIEW

OF

 MONTECATINI ALTO

FROM

MONTECATINI TERME

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 MY BROTHER, MORENO, AT WORK

 

years. Now there was a large sign just in front of it. What’s up with that? They wrecked our tree. Also from this vantage point was the finest view of the central boulevard framing Montecatini Alto atop the mountain. What pleasure it is to visit old familiar places.

            At the Masini Macelleria (butcher shop) Moreno was behind the counter in his white jacket waiting on customers. This little independent butcher shop is one of the few remaining in operation. Large chains and behemoth cooperatives have replaced many of the small shops and certainly most of the butcher shops. This one struggles on, but barely. Moreno, since his shop in Chiesina closed, works here three days a week. I took pictures of my brother in action. He is very good with people with his free and easy manner and warm smile. As we chatted the young lady who owns the Calzedonia shop next door entered in a burst of energy. She had a new neon sign in her window installed and thought it was crooked so we all surveyed it and rendered our opinion. Patrizia was dressed in a mini-mini skirt with knit top, bold panty hose and mod shoes. Just out of Carnaby Street from the sixties, I thought. She was very slender and it looked good on her but also she was a walking model for her shop. She owned a franchise of Calzedonia, a trendy pantyhose and stocking shop. Every time I would visit Moreno I noticed a new window display at Calzedonia and would always pop my head in to say hello to Patrizia. She was spunky and fun to talk to. Before my departure I went in and bought pairs of beautiful black pantyhose with muted tapestry floral patterns for our daughters, Chelsea and Gina. This is the type of stuff they would go nuts for, I thought, and it’s not in America yet. I had bought them youthful leather purses too and stuck the stockings inside; I was right, both the purses and the stockings were a big hit.

            Back at the house Giovanni had come for lunch along with his dog, Ty. We chatted for a while as we waited for Moreno. I slipped downstairs to use their new shower with instant hot water. This was a family newfound luxury and it was a bit of heaven after a strenuous mountain ride.

            Lunch with Moreno, Nina and Giovanni is always a happy occasion. We ate fresh tortellini with a very light herb tomato sauce, slices of braised beef, spinach sautéed in garlic and for dessert Giovanni had brought a semolina torte which was light and delicate. We laughed, drank wine and retold old stories which we all relished.

Luciano J. Ercolini

The Cycling Tuscan

Dalmatian Realty, Silicon Valley Real Estate, www.dalmatianrealtysv.com

Patricia’s prized watch was running fast. Way fast! It had been serviced a year ago and she mused ‘this should not happen’. So, I vonlunteered….to go to Post St. in San Francisco and bring it to our watch repairs guys. I saw an opportunity to do a small bicycle adventure up along water’s edge of San Francisco Bay and spend the day discovering the beauties of this spectaurlar natural feature which is much overlooked by the busy-ness of everyday Silicon Valley life.

I brave the traffic along Wolfe Road and Central Expressway thenI find the entrance of the Steven’s Creek Trail at Highway 85 going east to the wetlands of the Bay. The trail follows Steven’s Creek and the forested path is quiet and soothing tunneling its way through dense trees and undergrowth. At junctures the growling traffic can be heard but fortunately not seen.

The San Francisco Bay Trail is a wonderful idea. Just imagine being able to bike all about the bay in a tranquil state without being concerned with traffic and other distractions. But…we’re not quite there yet. A good portion of the trail exists but it suffers from interruptions and areas where it is poorly marked or it just ends. So, it’s a bit of an effort at times. But what does exist is wonderful and well worth the effort. Eventually the plan is for a continuous 500 mile biking/hiking trail connecting 47 citites, and nine counties around San Francisco Bay.  Trail details at  http://www.abag.ca.gov/bayarea/baytrail/maps.html

I exit the sylvan tunnel of Steven’s Creek Path onto the Shoreline levees normally providing expansive views of the south bay. This morning a low tulee fog casts a somber pall over the gray waters. The Dumbarton Bridge rises in the distance connecting to Alameda County to the east. I ride on the levees near water’s edge occasionally stirring a flock of ducks or flushing a plump pheasant from thick dry grasses. It’s rather surreal as the picture is a wonderful pastoral contrast from the frey of Silicon Valley just a mile away.

I ride by Mt. View’s Shoreline Golf Course, Palo Alto Airport and the well hidden path by Palo Alto Municipal Golf Course. There are small groups of golfers huddled together in the damp fog slowly trudging their way through a round. Today is reserved for the real enthusiasts as most of the course is empty. At one time I was an enthusiast too! But, continual inconsistent play made my enthusiasm wane. The golf swing is elusive to most amateurs…and some professionals too. One day all is smooth and easy and the next it’s as though you never played before. It’s a tought sport. I feel a sardonic smile coming as I muse the many outings where I thought I owned the perfect swing, only to be reduced to the depths of despair before the round terminated. But…recently I’ve found a new line…the analysis of my weak spot… the take away to the top. I could never master the take away and find the correct position at the top of the swing. Recently I have had an epiphany and before my days are done I wish to play rounds with a consistent swing. A repeatable, consistent swing. How great would that be? The thought ignites a surge of power through my body as I envision hitting the long irons with power. And I smile. And nod to myself  while saying, ‘yes, yes’, I can do it.

The path ends towards East Palo Alto and I must double back along levees and enter Bay Street to University Avenue to pick up the pleasant Bayfront Path at Highway 84. At Marsh Road it once again ends and I navigate through city streets of Redwood City to regain the path at the lagoons of Foster City.

Fog yields to sunshine and I feel the welcome rays on my back. Wide sweeping paths at water’s edge meander in oval patterns skirting backyards and condo complexes and I settle into a lazy pace absorbing the sheltered environment. Residents walk with dogs, older folks sit on benches and chat while young mothers are out with strollers. It’s a pleasant change from the busy streets of Redwood City.

It’s sunny and breezy and there are white caps on the waters. Every couple of minutes ‘too big’ to fly airplanes appear over my right shoulder slowly descending to meet the runway jutting onto the bay. The strength of windgusts, the smells and sounds of the bay, the warmth of sunshine and the fine vistas combine to create a sense of contentedness. It’s good to just be alive and appreciate this moment in time. Yacht harbors, lagoons and lush green parks all line the water’s edge as I rhythmically glide on my elevated bike path. I pass familiar hotels and restaurants south of the airport. At one time this area was a second home. We would stop at Saluto’s piano bar after the Leaning Tower closed for drinks and jazz watching the planes land in the night. It was a long time ago and another life and the different spots cause memories to surface.

The trail ends and a city street path skirts by the airport. It’s not uncomfortable and rather exciting to feel the power of the jet engines. I’ve always loved airports and during my days at the Leaning Tower Restaurant I would come to the airport in the afternoons and get a shoe shine. Such a luxury to get  a professional shoe shine with the snapping of the cloths and the smell of wax and all.

I enter Oyster Point Boulevard, skirt around the marina and weave through hotels along US 101 to frontage roads along the freeway and the Brisbane Lagoon. Once again I travel untrafficked roads by the lagoon to Tunnel Road which terminates at US 101 and I porceed on 3rd St. by Hunter’s Point. Candlestick Park is to my right. It’s windy and the neighborhoods turn seedy but after some maneuvering I am at the train station and AT&T Ballpark. It’s all familiar now.

Downtown traffic is alwasy heavy…and unruly. So, caution is the byword. I ride on the sidewalk. Kind of ride, that is. I sit on the bike and weave through the pedestrians while I give an occasional push with a foot. It works well and I don’t have to suffer by walking with my arthiritis. At Market St.  near  Union Square holiday shoppers are out in force but I proceed undaunted to Post St where I lock my bike, as I’ve done before, to a street sign.

I arrive at the Rolex Center and hand over the watch. It was my assigned task. The watchmaker looked at the watch, asked me the symptoms and said he could fix it as I waited. I sat comfortably, made phone calls, and shortly he came back to deliver a brighly polished and repaired watch. Wonderful. His name was Gianni and we began to chat about bike riding. He was  Italian and we began to recount our bicycle adventures in Italian. How wonderful. I told him about riding in Tuscany and he told me of his adventures from Munich over the Brenner Pass to Rome with his pals. How very wonderful…I had done a task, spent a beautiful day and made a new friend. Is life good or what?

(In Progress)

Luciano J. Ercolini

The Cycling Tuscan

Dalmatian Realty, Silicon Valley Real Estate, www.dalmatianrealtysv.com

Altopascio is a hamlet on Autostrada A-11 between Pisa and Florence in northwestern Tuscany. What’s there? Well, not much today. Just ‘the old town’ surrounded by a half dozen streets of residential neighborhoods. Today the town attracts no tourists. In the afternoons locals gather at the handful of bars for an aperitif, ice cream or expresso. It’s all small talk about the weather, the children, or upcoming vacations to the beach. There is a Sunday market on main street and a myriad of seasonal feasts celebrated thoughout the year. People from Lucca don’t go to Altopascio. People from Florence or Pisa don’t go to Altopascio. It’s one of those exits on the highway that you note while going somewhere.

As a young lad growing up on a nearby farm I never went to Altopascio. In the seventies when I would visit my brother in nearby Chiesina Uzzanese we would stop at times to buy luxurious leather shoes at good prices on its main street. The massive church and town gates and old square invoked little interest. Historical information was scant. And…there were too many other more famous places to see. So, the history of Altopascio remained in the dusty arcane archives hidden in church vaults.

Then came the internet and there was an explosion of information easily available to everyone. The richness of these small jewels from bygone days was there to be gleaned for those with the interest. It was in the late nineties that my research began. Patricia and I visited the town of Borgo a Mozzano and its most unusual tenth century asymetrical foot bridge linking Via Francigena over the Serchio River into Lucca. Via Francigena was the all important pilgrim’s road which emanated from Canterbury across France and the Alps into  Italy and down across Tuscany. One of the famous towns was…you guesed it, Altopascio. From the ninth to the fifteenth century Altopascio was noted for its contributions as a hopital, hospice, and hostil for traveling pilgrims to Rome.

The flow of prigrim traffic would have filtered into the Lucca plain from the Apuan Alp passes following the paths of rivers and streams. The Serchio River into Lucca was one; Torrente Pescia into Pescia and Uzzano was another. Once through these perilous passes pilgrims would follow the web of roads leading into Altopascio. To the south was an equally dangerous area know as ‘Le Cerbaie’; this area was thickly wooded and laden with swamps. Both the mountain passes and the wooded swamps were infested with brigands laying in wait for hapless pilgrims to rob. Daily, before sundown the bell in the tall tower at Altopascio would ring for a continouous half hour. The bell was known locally as ‘La Smarrita’ and would serve as a beacon for pilgrims traveling in the area. Once within the walls pilgrims would find shelter for the evening, medical care if needed and hearty minestrone soup and bread. Those who could pay did so, others received all for free. No one was turned away.

The church tower which houses La Smarrita as seen from inner courtyard. Church and tower were rebuilt in 1830. The little bakery/bar on the right was an excellent spot to view the complex and update my journal along with a cognac or two.

 

 

 

 This little area of Tuscany I call home. Over the past fifty years we have visited our family, vacationed at the beaches, toured the roads and hamlets, enjoyed family meals at unusual restaurants and it’s all been wonderful. But on my last two trips the bicycle has been my only mode of transport. And that has transformed the joy of vacation into a higher level…the excitement of adventure each and every day.  I grew to know the roads of Via Francigena from the seat of my bicycle. I gazed a the same mountains, stopped at the same churches, crossed the same bridges as ancient pilgrims did on their trek to Rome. I appreciated and marveled at  the richness of this little area when Florence and Pisa were the epicenter of the world.

 

 

Oldest portion of the town wall facing north.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In 1350 during the height of the Bubonic Plague when the wealthy Florentines sought refuge in desolate mountain retreats, the great Bocaccio in his ‘Decamaron’ makes reference to the cauldron of Altopascio. One and a half centuries later the famous, or some would say ‘infamous’, Niccolo Macchiavelli makes reference to the town also. I include this quote since it desplays the typical Tuscan caustic, dry whit.

“Pirro, dall’altra parte, non e se non un cacapensieri, che morebbe di fame in Altopascio”

“Pirro, on the other hand, was such a shithead, that he would die of hunger in Altopascio. ”

In  the passages both Bocaccio and Macchiavelli use Altopascio as a known quantity. Can you imagine the intelligenzia of Florence or Pisa unsing Altopascio as a reference…it certainly would not hapen today. But, back then, it was quite famous and known that care and food was available to all in Altopascio.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The height of zeal for pilgrimages occurred coincidentally with the Crusades beginning in 995. During mid eleventh century there was sizeable and increasing traffic through the Lucca-Altopascio area giving impetus for local monks to initiate the hospital and refectory facility at Altopascio. The monks grew to be knows as Hospitalers and were officially recognized by Pope Gregory IX in 1239. Lands and money were donated and their holdings and influence grew. To the south and east of Altopascio is an area known as ‘Le Cerbaie’ which is swampy and thikly wooded and a natural haven for thieves and brigands and other such malefactors.  The Hospitalers donned the sword and cleared these areas and provided safe passage to the bridges of the Arno. These military Hospitalers were knows as Knights of the Tau(Cavallieri del Tau) wearing the distinctive designation of the white, Greek “t” emblazoned on their mantle. The complex reached it’s zenith in the thirteenth century and began a slow decline in the fourteenth century with the shifting of the papacy to Avignon. By the sixteenth century all came under the influence of the Medicis of Florence and modifications were made to the complex to  house granary co-ops of 28 local farms. By the eighteenth century the remnanats of the hospital were transferred to the new and neaby facility at Pescia.

 

 

 

 

Emblem of the Hospitalers

 View that pilgrims would have seen arriving from Lucca.

I spent some wonderful hours reminiscing what life might have been like in this spot. The pilgirims, the Knights of the Tau, the soldiers and merchants. At one time this was a busy thoroughfare for all going to Rome. I gleaned brochures from the nearby library and enriched myself with local lore. A glass of Chianti and focaccia, too!!!

Above are quaint scenes of old town inner courtyards which were rebuilt after the sixteenth century. My travels took me over most of the roads of Via Francigena between Lucca, Altopascio, and the Arno towns of Fucecchio and San Miniato. It was a pleasure to discover the importance of this area in a time gone by. All done, of course, by bicycle!

Luciano

The Cycling Tuscan

Silicon Valley Real Estate……. Luciano…Broker/Owner…  www.dalmatianrealtysv.com

From the Hyatt, Incline Village to Mt. Rose Summit, 8900 ft.

My two favorite authors are Ernest Heminghway and Mark Twain. They are different in style but both posess the genius to paint a picture with words…a vivid picture, sharp and clear on the canvas of your mind. They use the precise word at the correct juncture to trigger that delightful image, an image which in many cases stays forever. The rest of us must hack about as a high handicapper on a golf course. An experience which I had the delight and pleasure and humiliation at times to enjoy and endure on this adventure, my semi-annual golf/bicycle riding trip to the Sierras. Whenever there were lakes and mountains and fine vistas Mark Twain would always compare those with Lake Tahoe. And…Lake Tahoe would always come first. In my travels I have felt the same. So, in that respect, I’m in fine company. I saw Lake Como and it was gorgeous…but second to Lake Tahoe. Lake Garda, spectacular….but second. Der Boden See in southern Germany, aus ghetzeitnet…aber in zweiter platz! So, when I go to the Tahoe area it’s more than a trip. It’s a visit to the most beautiful place in the world. It’s a spiritual exprerience.

 My day begins at dawn on a crystal clear mid September morning from Silicon Valley. I drive the untrafficked and familiar roads to the Sierras as I’ve done dozens of times before. There will be no stops today as breakfast is reserved for that stellar plain waffle and bacon at the Sierra Coffee Shop at the Hyatt Incline Village. In cookery Tuscan simplicity is best. No fancy or complex sauces, no complicated architecture with height, no exotic combinations with names never before heard nor the latest, fusion(confusion to me)….just one dish with simple garnish and one overriding taste theme. Over the years that’s what I’ve grown to appreciate and in the world of waffledom the Hyatt Incline is at the very top.

There is Auburn and Colfax; then Dutch Flat and Nyack; there are views of the Yuba River cascading over boulders under art-deco bridges and threstle bridges. Truckee exit comes into view and I savor the ride along main street. It never bores me to look at this wonderful gold country relic. I cross the train tracks and onto Truckee Meadows which has always awed my imagination.  At 6,500 feet in altitude the expansive plain has characteristics of a desert with forested mountains in the distance. I marvel at its expansiveness and stillness in the clear morning light.

 Beyond the meadows Highway 267 passes the third hole of Northstar Golf  Course and then the summit at 7200+ feet with the first filtered view of the majestic Lake Tahoe. If there is a god, this must have been his finest handiwork. Then comes King’s Beach and Brockway with their resortish allure and reassuring familiarity. Nothing ever changes….and that’s a good thing. Up the hill to state line there are many bicycle riders dispersed along the way.  There is a race today. It just adds to the beauty and color.

I arrive at the Hyatt to feast on my waffle and bacon. They’ve added a patio looking out onto the Mt. Rose climb. The pine and ash and other greenery form a cocophany of color in green. I quietly enjoy my breakfast and prepare for the ride up the mountain. I wonder if…if I’ll be able to make it this time. My arthiritis this winter was pretty bad… and well, you never know. But I’ll give it all I’ve got. And…that’s a good thing.

From the parking lot of the Hyatt at lake level  the route winds through the outskirts of Incline Village along Country Club Drive. It will be a 2,400 ft., eight mile climb to the peak overlooking the Reno desert floor. The route winds through mountain neighborhoods of upscale vacation homes and the two golf courses before reaching Mt. Rose Highway. The first two miles are most challenging and once on the highway it settles to a steady 6% grade to the summit. I remember disctinctly the pain of the inital climb from my first two adventures and this time I climb slowly and with purpose. It’s challenging but I make the highway juncture without a gasping halt…and that sets a positive tone for the day.

 I ride in a steady, strong rhythm. It’s rugged country with massive granite formations, sandy soil, tall ponderosa pines and hearty shrubbery with a mixture of desert plants. The air is pure and fresh and the light is soft and clear. I proceed up the mountain with long straight stretches and sweeping curves. Each turn reveals a new vista. I savor the ride and am enthralled that I can place myself in such a majestic setting. There is a gentle breeze which brings occasional forest scents. These are the moments which are permanently etched on the memory to be recalled as life goes by.

 

 

 The steady climb begins through the trees and the granite.

 Vista point overlooking Incline Village and Lake Tahoe.

 

 Desert Thistles heralding the desert just over the summit.

 

 The 8,000 ft. marker.

 Tahoe Meadows for hiking and cross country skiing.

 Almost there!

 The triumph of the summit!

 Just to record the moment!

Down to Reno!

Luciano

The Cycling Tuscan

Silicon Valley Real Estate……. Luciano…Broker/Owner…   www.dalmatianrealtysv.com

One of the delights of traveling by bicycle is that a rider is able to wander and discover hidden places where no tourist treads. Where english is not spoken at all. Where modernity seems distant. And…the pace of life seems still. A rider penetrates this environment and silently leaves it. He does, however, retain the scenes, the vistas, the faces and facades in his mind. They become the richness of his being. One such discovery is the Strada de Vino, the wine road. It begins around the hilltop town of Montecarlo and hugs the Apuan Alps to Lucca and beyond to the coast. The roads are narrow, the climb is steep, there is no traffic, the air is clear, and there is beauty and stillness all about. A perfect setting to stir the passions of a bicycle rider.

My day begins at Caffe Carlo IV on the main street of the hilltop hamlet of Montecarlo where I get comfortable at a streetside table spreading out my journal and maps. I know the rhythms of this street by now. The little grocery store across the cobbles opens and desplays of merchandise are stationed at each side of the entrance. The pharmacy two doors up  will open soon and the owner in white smock will water the geraniums in front. To the north the street terminates in a small parking lot with imposing castle fortifications just beyond; to the south is wall and gate providing a framed panorama of sloping vineyards and valley strectching towards the Arno River; and anchoring the center is the ever imposing church and belltower of massive Tuscan stone overlooking a neat square with war memorial and vistas of valley and Apuan mountains to the east. The breadman arrives at the corner of the square and leaves his goods at the bar entrance. The proprietress is late today. She’s a bustling blonde with a tan and expensive jewelry and…an attitude to boot. Her body language pieced together from my prior visits express dissatisfaction with the mundane and a yearning for her rightful place, ’la dolce vita’ at the beach and the night life and such. Residents one by one open shutters and exit onto the street, greeting each other and making the morning rounds. Ah, here comes my blond proprietess in a huff. I order my usual, caffe e latte and pastery, on the run as she hurries into the bar for a quick open. I’m at peace. Half consciously I notice the quaint motions of life about while mostly immersed in my writings about the prior days adventures and the promise of the day to come. My caffe e latte in large glass and plump croissant are quietly placed on my table. The pastry is light and good and so is the frothy coffee. I’m in a suspended state, partly noticing the familiar about me and partly feeling lucky to be alive in this setting. I appreciate the moment knowing that nothing lasts.

Over the month this has become my default ride, my happy ride, a ride filled with solice and beauty. Sometimes I exit the city from the south and hug the wall to appreciate the antique fortifications; at times I examine the wonderful remnants of the castle with parapets and crenellations to the north or I meander the windy side alleys filled with quaint sights and nestled porches and nooks before I begin the descent on the Strada del Vino.

 

 Vinyards and olive groves  in a valley at base of Apuan Alps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Scenic Tuscan fields in July.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Midieval Romanesque Architedture near Tofori.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Country Gothic Church near Vagliano.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The solitude of a mountain road with no cars to be seen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The town of Vagliano or is it Matraia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 As it has been for centuries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Quiet residences around Matraia.

 

 

 

 

 

 An inviting mountain restaurant. Perhaps a visit is warrated on next visit. Near Matraia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Just for the beauty of it all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ….and more!

 

 

 

 

 

Now for some lunch at Lucca.

Wall erected in 1700’s and never breached!

 

 

Luciano

The Cycling Tuscan

Silicon Valley Real Estate…… Luciano….  Broker’Owner…..  www.dalmatianrealtysv.com

The Arrival

I scooted my carry-on and six foot bicycle carton along the marble floor in United’s check in line in San Francisco’s International Airport. The line serpentined  for two hours before I was given my boarding pass and  was able to walk light heartedly towards the boarding gate. This was going to be a thoroughly new experience. And…I had some reservations and anxiety about the sanity and safety of the adventure. But, at sixty, being excited about anything is a good thing. Would my bike arrive undamaged? And the traffic in Florence…could I manage or would it be a fool-hearty attempt? Should the adventure begin to go awry, I could always ditch the bike and take the train to my brother’s house in Chiesina Uzzanese. That was Plan B; and just having plan b is always calming and reassuring.

Once on board I settled in my aisle seat for the direct flight to Frankfurt and connection to Florence. I wished to get as much sleep as possible so that I could be in decent shape for the ride to the inner city and Croce di Malta Hotel. Patricia had packed prosciutto, salami and chuncks of hearty french bread to save me for the horrors of airline food. My method for the trip was simple….two small bottles of cabernet sauvignon and my deli stache when hunger yearned. I noticed envious eyes at times as I pulled food on my tray and wine in glass as all waited for their plastic food on plastic trays.

Had landed in Farnkfurt’s Rhein Main many times but Florence’s Peretola or Amerigo Vespucci Airport was a first. I did not know what to expect. Flurry of tourists in July? Hectic scene? Hustle and bustle? My first concern was assuaged as I saw my bike box loaded onto baggage carts just outside the aircraft. And seemingly all in one piece. What good luck, I thought. I walked across the tarmac and into a small one story cement building which was the entire airport. Yep….just like the San Jose Airport in the 1960’s. I loved it. To my right two baggage conveyors which were fed by a hole in the wall wooshed in motion. My boxed bike arrived with only one small hole. Now to find a quiet place to re-assemble the bike. Grabbed a cart and loaded box and bag, walked by waiting tourists, and line of taxis in front and found an alley to the left of the terminal. Just perfect! It was quiet and out of the way. 

 Handle bars, front wheel, bunjie cords, pedals and repair kit —all was there and quickly assembled. Through the parking lot and by the rental car area I proceeded with my baggage laden bike to a service station with a convenient restaurant and bar. What a great place to get my bearings. I ordered some chianti and poured over maps so that I could begin my search for the Arno River and a recognizable route to Florence’s inner city and my wonderful Croce di Malta Hotel. It was mid afternoon and later that evening I was to meet my nephew, Giovanni, for a late dinner. Confirmed with the bartender the general direction and I looked dubiously towards the myriad of tall buildings, one way streets and zooming, growling traffic. I sipped a bit more chianti and it was good. 

 The airport was as an island sequestered from the city by six lanes of continuous, aggressive and seemingly unstoppable traffic. I tried one direction but only found myself peering for a gap in the traffic like a timid doe. This is ‘nuts’, I thought. I walked some two hundred yards around the corner in the other direction and found intersection, traffic lights and a road leading through an undepass. The noise was deafening. And…I was going in a direction and not necessarily the direction I wanted. The bike felt top heavy with the baggage so I dared not ride with traffic in such close proximity. I walked till I came onto a somewhat bedraggled neighborhood with desolate lanes. Tested the bike and with a bit of speed I managed wonderfully well. Terrific! Now I was riding but was lost. Asked several people where the river was and they looked at me like I was a martian. Fortunately, I meandered in the right direction as the city neighborhoods turned into lush vegetation and park setting. I remembered from the maps that there was a large park near the river so, I sensed that I was close. A gentleman directed me straight ahead toward city center. Spirits high and smile on face. The trip was taking shape according to plan.

 By the Arno River, on a sunny July afternoon, a wide elevated bicycle path delivered me towards the now visible old city center of Florence and the Ponte Vecchio some miles ahead. The arrival in a different culture, with the architectural icons in first view, create a surreal feeling. Am I really here? These are the moments where the cares and troubles of the world seem distant. I rode slowly, looked left and right with care not wanting to miss hidden details, noted my feelings with equal care as I wished to imprint this moment in my consciousness. It was wonderful to be alive!

 The tawny color of the city glistened in the afternoon July sun before me. It was all familiar. Rode by number 30 Lungarno, my nephew’s apartment, and noted its location. I would give Giovanni my clothes bag after dinner that evening to bring to Chiesina as I rode without care on my planned route the next day. As I neared the Ponte Vecchio ever increasing numbers of tourists, dressed in summmer togs moved in every direction. At the Ponte Santa Trinita I instinctively darted up a shady lane which opened onto Piazza Novella and my hotel clearly visible up the street to my left. I had negotiated the first leg….I felt triumpahnt.

 Once inside the cool, marble and glass lobby I engaged the young, neatly dressed lady behind the counter. She was friendly and business like….but soon broke out into a large grin as I explained my bicycle, and clothes bag leaning like Cat Ballou’s horse against the wall just under the regal “Croce di Malta” sign. Once properly checked in she bade me to wait next to the bike lest it be stolen as a bellman would soon arrive. Fifteen minutes passed and I, still as a sentinel next to my bike, re-awakened to the reality of being in Italy. Shoddy, sloppy, ‘no sense for punctuality’ Italy. I peaked through the rotating glass doors to the desk lady motioning to myself waiting and she gestured…right away.  In a few minutes she appeared through an old door a few meters down the street and collected my bike for safe keeping. With a raised eyeborow and rather sarcastic grin I schlepped my bag into the miniscule elevator to my fifth floor room. Once showered and properly dressed a visit to the quaint lobby bar was a certainty.

 The harsh ring tones awakened me from a deep nap. “Your nephew…” , the deskman was saying in Italian, “is waiting in the lobby”. I had slept for and hour or so and after a shower and shave and fresh clothes felt much refreshed. Giovanni sat in the front lobby with his cute dog, Ty. He looked lean and well groomed and we sat for a while and chatted.

 We walked towards the Arno and across Ponte Santa Trinita towards Oltranrno for our restaurant. Midway on the bridge Giovanni pointed to his car and recounted the problems with parking and vandalism in the city of Florence. They keep ripping off the rear view mirrors. Another five hundred yards and we were in a sheltered piazza, well lit and the entrance to a quaint rustic trattoria. We sat at tables outside. We shared a table for four with another couple we did not know. They are more practical in Europe and are not so demanding on private tables. It’s kind of refreshing in one way…but I guess it depends as to who your’re stuck next to.

 We ordered a bottle of house wine and antipasto of crostini, entrees of baccala and polenta, dessert, more wine and espresso and cognac all around. Ty sat quietly under the table never stirring. From time to time a passerby would stop at our table and notice the dog and comment how beautiful and well behaved. We spoke of Moreno and his illness. Then we had more wine. Other folks recognized Giovanni and would stop by and chat biefly.  By this time another couple had been seated and we were in a melodious mood and I was buying drinks for everyone. I think we were having a wonderful time.

 After dinner we walked down dimly lit midieval lanes on cobble stones for several miles. The unevenness of the cobbles was reaking havoc with my left knee. The same kneee I had injured on a walking adventure to San Francisco with Patricia with cowboy boots. She had told me that cowboy boots were for riding horses and not walking, but I did not listen. Giovanni was a brisk walker and I followed along without complaining. We arrived at a well lit open piazza where dozens of people huddled. An outside bar anchored the crowd. Giovanni positioned us at a well lit corner of the bar where we ordered some drinks, chatted and looked at the groups of young people. Giovanni said that this evening was a light turnout. Soon a number of couples who recognized him formed about us. We were having gocciolino’s. I chuckled at the term ‘gocciolino’, literally meaning a ‘drop’. But… I guess our home grown term ‘shot’ is equally strange. In any event Giovanni and our new found friends had gocciolinos and I some white wine while I spoke to one of the young ladies who was traveling from The Czeck Republic. She was multi-lingual and well educated and a charming personality. She was in tow with a middle aged guy who had money and she somewhat lamented, as the gocciolinos progressed, about not doing her own thing on her own terms. We had a grand time and as I occasionally  panned aroud the piazza more and more people drifted into the outdoor party. They bought rounds and I bought one also…although the young girl wanted to buy a round too. I can’t remember whether she ever got the opportunity.

 We retraced our steps along dimly lit alleys. Florence in the evening is not well lit. My knee did not bother me as much as before but…it was probably due to the too many wines at the piazza bar. Giovanni walked with a brisque pace and we carried on a low keyed conversation as we arrived at Croce di Malta to pick up my valise and proceed to his apartment along the Arno. He gave me a quick tour of his ground floor flat and  I headed back to my hotel. As I walked back I thought…well the getting up early and begin the bike trip across Tuscany…it might not be as early as I had planned.

Luciano

The Cycling Tuscan

Silicon Valley Real Estate……. Luciano…Broker/Owner…   www.dalmatianrealtysv.com

I had left my bike at Chiesina. My Tuscan month ride was over. As great as it had been, now I wished to see two items in Florence-Brunelleshi’s Dome and Vasari’s Corridor. I had left instructions with the concierge at the Croce di Malta some weeks ago to obtain tickets for the corridor but, alas, tickets were for groups of ten or more, so the corridor would have to wait till next time.

My day began with a comfortable breakfast at the Croce di Malta Hotel’s dining room consisting of cereal, yougurt, fruit, a croissant and strong black coffe. I love these European breakfasts. They’re done with some delicacy, the service is good and the atmosphere is casual amidst the din and excitement of toursits preparing for their day’s adventure in this exciting city. Like many of the other groups I spread out my maps and journal as I rhythmically munch on the breakfast dishes all the while visualizing the highlights of my day’s adventure.

I exit the hotel noting the marble maltese cross well worn but yet regal marking the entrance on the sidewalk just beyond the revolving glass doors. My gaze picks up the simple stationery window across the narrow street, a window that I remember as a nine year old child visiting Florence with my mother. I walk gingerly across the cobbles of Piazza Santa Maria Novella and note the cloister at the north end. It’s all under restoration this year. A few more blocks and Via Dei Calzaiouli opens onto the large square revealing  Brunelleshi’ Duomo. The scale amazes me. It has each and every time I’ve first viewed it. Then I lapse into historical reflection. I look at the cobbles, at the Baptistary, Ghiberti’s Doors, the Cupola….I think of the characters who gazed upon these same scenes, walked upon these same cobbles….strip out the trappings of modernity like electrical wires, signals, cars, busses and the scene is the same as it had been in Lorenzo’s prime in 1480. Michelangelo, Sandro Botticelli, Filippo Brunelleschi, Ghiberti, Leonardo, Macchiavelli….all walked these same streets. Perhaps this is the magic of travel as you are immersed in an antique culture.

I walked between the main entrance and the baptistary. All were aweing at Ghiberti’s door, ‘The Doors of Paradise’. I cast a quick glance but I never have appreciated their elevated reputation. Around the corner at the base of the rotunda a short line of folks awaited the opening of a small door leading to the hundreds of stone steps to the top of the Cupola. My knee was fragile but was determined to make it. As I waited I gazed up at the roofline and saw the steep curvature of the ribs and roof tiles and imgined the workmen all about with ropes and pulleys hoisting stones, bricks, mortar, work animals and carts and piles of building materials in every direction. The scene must have been a cacophany of construction sounds, loud orders, chatter, wheels on stone, braying of work animals, hammers and chisels, all echoing throughout city neighborhoods.

Filippo Brunelleschi was an irascible, arrogant and accentric luminary. He was reputed to be seen about Florence in a black soiled and wrinkled smock with tussled hair, rarely bathed and always with an elevated air of occupation. The Duomo had been unfinished for a century and florentines referred to the domeless rotunda as il tamburo, the drum. As the story gooes, la signoria, Florence’s ruling body, under the influence of Cosimo, Father of the Italian Renaissance, set out to commission an architect to complete the dome. The largest dome in Christendom and fitting for the stature and opulence of the richest city-state in Europe, Florence. Ghiberti was in the competition but the nod was eventually given to the accentric Filippo who when asked to submit his plan, merely cracked the dull end of a simple egg leaving the concept of a spherical dome on the table before a bewildered Signoria. There must have been a confidence diffused to the Signoria by the accentric’s arrogance for they awarded Filippo the commission.

The door opened and we began our climb from ground level to the base of the cupola. By now the line had lengthened so we formed a long queu climbing the antique stone steps with graffitti defaced walls….what a shame. Who cares if Dieter was from Stuttgart or that Angela loves Chuck from Omaha…. priceless piece of history defaced by twitless barbarians. The climbing continued, my knee hurt but I was a trooper and marched on.

All went well till we reached the base of the Cupola. Through a small door we filed onto a narrow shelf lined to the inside with a three foot high glass parapet. We were lined to the inside wall like single filed flies some two hundred feet above the cathedral floor. I began to feel uncomfortable. A dozen or so people were ahead of me and scores behind. I thought what if there is an earthquake. Can’t go forward or backwards. Here we are stuck on this narrow ledge with glass partition. Wonderful. The line edged forward ever so slowly. Ahead of me was a family oblivious to my recently discovered perils; they were germans and as jolly as could be; they were kooken sie this and ausghetzeiknet that and wunderbar alles…as they were admiring the artworks decorating the interior of the cupola. They were not moving and I was incresingly sure that an earthquake was to come. There had not been one since the thirteenth century and we were definitely due.

Eventually….we reached the narrow corridors and stairways within the double shells of the cupola. This is what I had wished to see. The genius of Brunelleschi. His mind at work. Walls at a slant. Bricks fabricated to order at odd angles. The curvature of the outer and innner dome. The oak ribs emanating from the exterior dome to the interrior suppurt structure. And more bricks….all defying the laws of gravity. Herringbone patterns curving at seemingly unstable angles and terminating at odd slants forming an aperture for yet another stairway tunnel. I walked slowly and became oblivious as to the people before and after me. There were narrow windows revealing splotches of Florence’s skyline and the thick structure of the outer cupola and terracotta tiles. It was magnificent. I was in awe!

 

 

 

 

      

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Above is the space between the inner and outer cupola. Connecting oak ribs and well worn stairway along with variety of windows showing Florence’s skyline.

 

The “drum’, the rotunda, had to support a dome of many tons. And…the Signoria wanted an elegant dome, a dome without bruttresses. They wished a state of the art dome, like the one in Rome, the Pantheon. Brunelleschi spent much time in Rome taking measurements  and studying the secrets of the Pantheon now lost to the world. His answer was a series of anchors and chains at the base of the Cupola. The base of each rib terminated in an anchor and was connected by chains to adjacent anchors to support the outward force of the dome.  The anchors and chains were subcontracted to ironwokers of Pistoia. He designed special bricks which he also subcontracted to fabricators in the environs. He brought meals to his workers to save time and energy from the ascent and descent of the great height. He invented, designed and built hoisting machines with innovative reversing gears…state of the art at the time. He worked out brick patterns to absorb the inward weight and angle of the cupola. It seems that every facet of his project was an extension of the envelope.

The last dimly lit corridor yielded to another door and the bright morning light, blue sky and the breathtaking skyline of Florence from the Lantern atop the Cupola. I carefully noted details in every direction, being careful to focus in one direction and take fotos of notable sights. Looked notheast toward Prato, the famous silk and textile center and Pistoia; the Arno River disappearing in the west; the steeply curved, tiled roof line with adjoining ribs, Giotto’s tower, Piazza Signoria and Palazzo Vecchio, the top of Vasari’s Corridor from the Ufizzi atop Ponte Vecchio to the Pitti Palace, Piazza Michelangelo nesled above the Arno to the south adjacent to Fort Belvedere and the other great cathedral of Florence, Santa Croce to the east. The Appenines to the east and north and the Arno Valley to the west and south. It was all a feast to the eyes…except perhaps for the ever present graffitti defacing the marvelous marble lantern.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The trip down was less eventful and much easier although there was some congestion in areas as groups were still ascending.  At the base of the Cupola a landing appeared with wonderful desplays of repair and hoisting equipment…all terribly midieval and interesting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soon, I hobbled on the last step and exited the rustic door to the cobbles of the piazza, delighted to be once again on ‘terra firma’.

Luciano J. Ercolini

‘The Cycling Tuscan’

Silicon Valley Real Estate….. Luciano…..  Broker/Owner…. www.dalmatianrealtysv.com