The scenes are affixed in my mind. However, I must read Zane Gray’s, Riders of….., before I put it into words. Just to get me in the proper mood.

(in progress)

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Richie and I were room mates at the Univeristy of Santa Clara. We shared a sixth floor room at Ben Swig Hall, ate at the Cafeteria across the way and walked to our classes in the small campus with El Camino Real running through it.  In the spring  on warm days we would head over the summit to Santa Cruz for a day at the beach. Actually, our beach of choice was Seascape with the iconic cement boat pier and the high bluffs above. We would always take our books with good intentions but more often than not the books were there to assuage our conscience. We would ride in the coolness of the morning and breakfast at one of the homey cafes along frontage roads off of Highway One, run along the beach and play football, talk about our futures and the girls, especially the ones that gave us the ‘brown helmet’. We would be all tan…it was cool to be tan way back then…and unaware as to the health risks. And.. ride back in the late afternoon listening to Mamas & Papas, Jefferson Airplane and Bob Dylan in time for dinner with the rest of the fellows. They were having the ‘Summer of Love’ up in The Haight but it all went by unnoticed as we were cocooned in the very conservative Jesuit campus. We had a tough time getting dates…or, if the truth be told, any girl to talk to us.

To this day, some forty plus years later, the idea of  traveling over the summit of the Santa Cruz mountains to the Santa Cruz and Monterey area brings on a warm glow, a smile to my face and puts my thoughts in a happy place. Once every week or two I pack up with my golf gear, turn up the music a bit and head over the hill for a day of golf and joy in the coastal sunshine with folks I’ve never met and probably never see again. But today it’s just me and my bike and a small bag on the rack and most of all good weather and an open road ahead…a road  never before traveled.

Los Gatos, Summit & Aptos

Los Gatos is the ‘bad boy’ of Silicon Valley. At the southern extremity of the valley with the Santa Cruz Mountains looming just above it is an eclectic blend of the upwardly mobile gentry and the rough and tumble mountain culture. There is a hint of ‘Harley and leathers’ with the long standing saloons of Carry Nations and The Black Watch on Santa Cruz Avenue. It’s streets are bejeweled with iconic victorians and art deco structures, the parking is hidden one street behind where the once all important raliroad used to run and the pedestrians command the sidewalks and central square at Santa Cruz Avenue and Main. It’s shops are distincive and non-corporate and the restaurants have a character all their own.

I ride coofee-less this early, sunny morning on the bicycle path along Lawrence Expressway. It runs along Calabazas Creek meandering though city planted vegetaion of mexican sages, lavendar and other fine greenery to a strech along the expressway and onto Quito Road, a road which has managed to retain a sense of wildness even though dotted with multi-milion dollar homes.

I arrive at the Boulanger on the central square. At one corner of the square is a run of rails commemorating the train station once  just ahead through the redwood trees. The South Pacific Coast Railroad ran through here. That was the narrow gauge, steam powered line which first connected Santa Cruz, the cities of the south and east bay to Alameda and then by ferry boat to San Francisco.

Banditos once roamed the nearby mountains. I order a coffee and croissant and sit at a window table looking onto the square. “Painless Parker’, the sidewalk dentist magnate walked these streets. The pump entrepreneur who came to found FMC settled here. I sip on the hot Kona Blend and munch the pastry and watch the people stroll. Heralded for its fine weather th city became a center for the imfirmed. Down the street is the Toll House Hotel and

have always wondered. The name?? Well, one time a toll road to Santa Cruz began there. Ah, now it makes sense. There is the original toll house nearby….I’ve yet to find it. And…yes, even ’sweet Melanie’ of Gone With The Wind was a permanent resident. How cool is that!

Just over the freeway I catch the Los Gatos Path, a dirt path leading to Lexington Reservoir and roads south. The ride up the face of the dam is seemingly tame but once I pedal the final ascent I’m gasping for air. I gaze at the calm surface as I regain my composure. The waters hide the onetime towns of Lexington and Alma. Just to my left is a large sign warning hikers and cyclists about mountain  lions and survival instructions in case of an encounter. Well!! That’s a sobering thought. But it was the roar of these wild beasts that motivated the original settlers to build here. If the lions liked it here, then there must be plenty of water…so they settled… and hence the name…Arroyo de Los Gatos. Just across the highway from here is the Cat’s Restaurant. To my mind it captures the spirit of Los Gatos.

I ride along the east shore of the reservoir and a third way up the oppsite side to climb to Old Santa Cruz Highway. Serene coves, climbs through oak clusters, shafts of morning sunlight, thickets of redwoods, patches of budding sweetpeas, giant ferns and clover,vistas of the waters and the rising bluish outline of the summit to the south provide a fascinating kaleidascope to imprint on the memeory. I encounter no cars. There are many homes for sale…homes nestled in the thick vegetation. I pass Mt. Charlie Road…a road named after the early settler of Los Gatos Mountains who brought his family from gold mining areas to start a farm and orchard. The climb is steady and not bothersome.  I come to a clearing and a bend where there is a stained glass window shop. It’s strange. It’s open but no one is around. It’s the remenants of Holy City, founded by ‘Father Riker’, the cultish wackadoo. It’s all eerie.

I arrive at Summit Road about 1,800ft. in elevation, eat a banana and call Patricia who is perpetually worried when I go on these cycling adventures. So, I call often and give her progress reports.

An upscale market along Summit Road with deli, butcher shop  and all goodies along with coffees and nice deck for locals to gather. I had a coffee and listened to a group of ladies with the morning chatter. Local color and mountain culture, you know!

The beginning of San Jose-Soquel Road which provides a breezy descent to the coast. At one time this road and the route along Highway 17, Patchen Pass,  were routes for overland stagecoach travel to Santa Cruz. Competing companies used these roads and engaged in fare wars. $3 per person was the going rate but the  fares got down to as low as $1 before the railroad arrived to the area.

I followed a group of riders going about 20mph, effortlessly enjoying the descent and  scenery and arriving in Soquel refreshed.

The Coast, Farms & Slough

Once over the hill everything is different! The hectic pace, the rushed traffic, the gate of pedestrians, the glitch of the shops, the smells and sounds… and yes, the perception…all seems muted and blends into a peaceful, pleasant, harmonious canvas. I ride east along Soquel boulevard through the Cabrillo College campus and I’m amazed as to its large size; students in groups, laden with books, ridng bikes and skate boards moving in all directions. Such a lovely setting to learn with the ocean smells and eucaliptus scents, gentle breezes and pastoral setting.

I head south towards the beach and find my way to Summer Road, a lovely wide road with rails on one side and Aptos Seascape Golf Couse on the other. I’ve played the course many times but all looks diferent from this perspective. Tidy neighborhoods with low lying homes in muted ocean colors of grays and blues and large picture windows face the scapes of rugged cypress and gnarled underbrush, patches of ocean and deminishing layers of fog. I travel peaceful roads, broad shouldered roads, roads with fine vistas and changing character. Summer Road to Seacape Road  to San Andreas Road and Elkhorn. There is a cyclist with bright colors just ahead and her bike is laden with goods. She looks fatigued as I pass her. I recognize that look. I give her a greeting but she does not respond so I return to my thoughts. My beautiful thoughts! I enter the farm areas about Watsonville. Large valleys with dark, rich soils and coastal micro-climate are ideal for vegetables. The air becomes redolent with the thick,  sweet scent of strawberries. Groups of field workers with their vehicles parked closeby cluster in groups, bent over, picking the fruit and hoisting the boxes onto trucks. The sides of the road are littered with clods from all the field activity as trucks rush off and on the fields to market. I gaze at the workers nearby all stooped over and wonder…could I ever do that if I had to. What a tough life it must be. I feel sadness and ride slowly looking down at the clods, and weave between the big ones.

I rise from the fields and ride along the foothills heading south on Elkhorn Road. It’s typical and beautiful California hill courtry. Oak trees with spanish moss and thickets of bushes along the creeks; the road is narrow and winding. There is an occasional barn or such but it looks abandoned. I climb and wind and see a sign for Elkhorn but see no town. Beyond another ascent and curve I find it….Elkhorn Slough. It’s an expansive vista, all low lying with waters and islands disappearing into the west. Water fowl flies in formations and lands with a splash. There are kayak trips for bird watchers and nature lovers emanating from Moss Landing. Perhaps someday….with Patricia…what a good idea.

Lunch, lunch…it’s time for lunch. I know that Phil’s Restaurant in Moss Landing is my lunch place but as I look west from the foothills, the slough has disappeared and see no double stacks of the power plant. The Moss Landing Power Plant with its towering stacks can be seen from Monterey and Santa Cruz…but I could not see it. And…I was hungry. And…I rode some more…and more…then Dolan Road which headed west. A stiff breeze was my adversary but I was hungry. I could see the slough again to my right and there was a hawk, a large hawk on a fence post still as a sentinel….but I was hungry. The twin stacks were now visible…I was close.

 After 65 miles in the morning I was delighted to see Moss Landing and Phil’s Restaurant for a hearty bowl of red clam chowder and garlic bread. Fantastic!! I chatted with the friendly bartender, sipped on fine cabernet and toasted the racy history of Moss Landing when it was an entry point for contraband booze during the prohibition era.

The Beach Bike Path

I traverse the estuary onto the narrow strip of town melding into the wide shouldered Highway 1 towards Castroville, ‘the artichoke capital of the world’. Those familiar with the geography will instantly agree of the appropriateness of the monicher. On our trips to Monterey,  Patricia would always require a stop into downtown Castroville for a plump bag of deep fried artichoke hearts at the Giant Artichoke, a vegetable stand and restaurant with a large artichoke icon in front reminiscent of the fast food places on Route 66 in the melodious ’60’s. The fields are jam packed with the thistly artichoke plants and trucks race down Molera Road towards market. The afternoon wind is brisk and the ride is not without effort even on flat terrain. But as I lift my head from thoughts and affix my gaze to the surroundings it’s an entry into another world. Expansive fiields, thistly and muted green, gray of the chokes, a refreshing wind and mild scent of ocean nearby.

Just to the south of Castroville I join the Monterey Beach Bike Path which runs along the beach and adjacent to the railroad and Highway 1. It’s a magnificent experience. completely sheltered from all traffic with a vantage view of the beach and ocean. Ice plants cover much of the nearby sand and provide splashes of magenta and green over and beyond each mound. Heavy ocean breezes play with the sand and sudden gusts move me to the edges. On occasion the path is lost to the sand with my front wheel skidding and my weight lurching out of control…almost…a mild fall as I recline in the soft and warm sand tangled with handlebars and pedals. Marina and Sand City and Seaside and the former Fort Ord, now a residential community. I recollect my initial experiences at Fort Ord…yes…my ROTC days and ‘the survival, escape and evasion course’ somewhere beyond the dunes inland. Many years ago in the late sixites. Beyond Sand City the magical Monterey Peninsula comes into view jutting out to a point into the sunset. It’s always been our favorite and romantic getaway. Patricia and I…during our courtship….a courtship which lasted many years…would come to this peninsula and stay weekends in  Pacific Grove at the Sunset Motel cabin #6  just down the street from the Pacific Grove Gate of 17 Mile Drive. Someties I would play Spyglass Golf Course and she would ride along. Or, we would walk along the beach or explore the restaurants and many art galleries along the quaint back streets of Carmel, the aquarium or the nature paths just south of the bay. She liked to watch the sea otters swimming on their back cracking abalone on their stomach with rocks. It’s pretty much of a magical geography which is entwined with our life and history. To this day it commands the aura of romance and adventure.

My phone rings. It’s Gina.

“Hi dad. Got your messages and just got back form my trip……

Gina always travels a lot with her husband. School related trips. They are both professors at the University of South Carolina. When she calls I never know where she’s at. Sometimes San Diego, sometimes Amsterdam, Pennsylvania, Michighan and on. But…today she’s home and ready to rest and tackle the house cleaning.

‘Hi Gina, I’m on the ride to Monterey that I had been planning…..’,  and we go into a conversation as I gaze onto the magnificent views with bike laid on the sand along the path. I lay out the road ahead and promise to call at interesting points along the way. These cell phones…marvellous….the world is with you at will wherever you go.

I descend the elevated path onto Monterey proper along Del Monte Drive leading to old town center.  I note a gaily merchandised bicycle shop on the busy street and make a mental note in the event of problems.  I note my back tire a bit flat…I’ll check it out when I get to my hotel. The drive is busy with afternoon traffic and my path is equally congested with runners, and pedestrians and other bike riders. At the central park by the wharf I turn left on Washington St. to Munras and check into my preselected Howard Johnson’s.  It’s quaint. I have a clean room situated to the rear and very quiet. Just perfect to rest and ready for dinner.

A tad of a nap, a shower and fresh clothes make for a bright attitude and awakened sense of adventure to seek an interesting  dinner area.  I glide down Munras’s panorama of low buildings with ornate cornices and stucco work and wrought iron gates and grills and second story porticos. There is residual warmth radiating from pavement and buildings from the sun which is now long shadows and bright shafts of lights from alleys and westerly streets. White stucco with master-craftsmanship proudly desplaying spiraled columns, window pediments and regal  doorways and garden fountains…black wrougft iron and rust red terracotta tiles and white stucco  everywhere.  The sleepy hominess of Santa Cruz remains but  with an added tinge of understated elegance. Perhaps it’s the proximity of Pebble Beach, The Lodge, mansions of 17 Mile Drive and luxury spas of Carmel Valley or the exclusivity of Carmel Village. Many times did the boys and I come to see the heralded ‘Crosby’. There would be a group of us staying at the Pacific Grove Motels in fine comradery, watching the practice rounds and being amazed at the superior skills of our favorite golf pros at the driving range temporarily positioned on the polo fields. They were days of unbridaled fiesta-ing of ’The Sun Also Rises’ Pamplona….yes, The Crosby Pro-Am was a pageant for the common golf afficionado to rub shoulders with Nicklaus or Watson or  laugh with the bad shots of Jack Lemon or sit next to Telly Savalas breakfasting at the Lodge overlooking the 18th green. We would see the same groups of guys each year and we would buy each other drinks. One year two of the fellows came dressed as Batman and Robin with capes flowing out from their red Corvette convertible. And of course, the indespensable drink around the outdoor fireplace of Carmel Mayor Clint Eastwood’s,  Hog’s Breath.  Ah! But they were halcyon days of bubbling joy spent in the sunshine of our youth. Billy…God bless, Billy! …would later sing..’those were days, my friends….we thought they’d never end, Those were the days,  Oh yes, those were the days.’

I find the spot which talks to me. It’s Alvarado Street just a block or so from the wharf of Monertery Bay. Red neon mark inviting entrances. There is an english pub but instantly dismiss it. Next door is a homey coffee shop whith tables along the window looking onto the pedestrians along Alvarado. I like it. A hearty burger with salad and a side of mayo. along with their best glass of cabernet from the Santa Maria Valley is my order which I give to the waitress quickly and settle back on my chair to absorb the passersby and shops across the way and reflect on the many vistas of the day.

Over the Grade to the Mission

It’s a spectacular morning in the land of Steinbeck. I’m ready for a grand day across Monterey and San Benito Counties. But….first the flat tire. Change the tube and inflate anew. The pump breaks. So, I remember the bike shop on Del Monte and walk gingerly on my arthiritic knee. There’s the wharff, the Naval Post Graduate School, a lake, the old theater….but, guess what? No bicycle shop. Under Highway 1 to Seaside and my knee is killing me. I stop for a Starbuck’s coffee and sit to regain my bearings and ask if there might be a bike shop. To my surprise….just a block up the street I find Seaside Cycles and I’m once again elated and the pain in my knee vanishes.

I’m back on the beach path happy and carefree. It’s still and spectacular. At Reservation Road I turn east through what had been Fort  Ord toward Salinas over flat brambly countryside. There are new housing developments and the airport. I chuckle as I remember my stoogy exploits during the ROTC days training in this area. The firing range along the beaches and the survival, escape and evasion somewhere nearby where I was instantly caught and subjected to prisoner camp humiliations. In short order I’m in Salinas where I refresh my beaarings by asking a bus driver in city center the whereabout to the road towards San Juan Bautista. He did not know. Asked a few more folks but soon gave up and trekked north on First Street according to my best recollections. Salinas is a farming town with many vintage buildings but a bit rough about the edges. I travel some miles and stop several times for a drink and directions. No one seems to know that magical road that goes over the mountains to San Juan Bautista. Amazing. So, finally I surrender to the idea of buying a map at the nearby Safeway. Before I buy…I sneak a peek…San Juan Grade…yep, there it is. Just a block up the street. And a big street it is, plainly market, too! I’m amazed. People never seem to know the names in their own neighborhoods.

I leave the trappings of the Salinas behind and settle in a rhythmic contemplative mood progressing at good speed on the winding and country road. There are creeks and oak clusters and switchbacks with good views of the bay. I climb and climb toward the summit where begins San Benito County. I stop for water and call Patricia to share the beauty of the spot. I go on and on with my descriptions and feel great as to how effortless the climb is…then, there is a flat. I change tubes and use my new pump with meter. It works great.

At the summit is the county line and the difference is perceptible as the road becomes a quiltwork of raised patches. The valley floor is dotted with new housing developments. I’m careful with the speed as the road is a bit rough. It’s warm but the stiff afternoon breeze  is refreshing. I marvel at the hawks as they catch thermals and seem to hang almost motionless along the ridges as I descend. What marvellous creatures they are. Then there was the hotelier who cautioned me about the banditos along this road.’ They hold up cyclists’, she said. As I went through densely wooded turns I would be looking with wide eyes for ‘the banditos’. Never saw a one…that was some years ago…and she is probably still laughing.

I see Vertigo to my left as I enter town. It’s a restaurant or commercial center in construction. How appropriate, I muse. I remember the movie well. With Kim Novak and Jimmy Stewart climbing up the shaky stairs of the mission’s belltower. An Alfred Hitchcock classic!  Main street is sleepy and sun baked. There are homes, businesses and tourist shops along the way. It’s touristy but not glitchy or pretentious. At the entrance of the mission complex a brightly colored chicken walks along the sidewalk unbothered. Then there is another. I walk along the porticos and view the vintage spanish buildings across the square…the hotel and stables and former residence…all framed in the ovals of the arches. The square is vast and to the north adjacent the cemetary and tower is a view of the original El Camino Real and valley to the north. All is a bit worn and the edges are not so neat but it feels real and solid. It’s for tourists but but not commercialized. I feel comfortable. I can see the band of early Californians trekking under the hot sun, dry vegetation and dusty roads with horses and wagons….Juan Gaspar de Portola, Father Junipero, the Spanish soldiers. All for the glory of God…ah, ehr…perhaps for the gold and glory of Spain, too! A cat walks by. Then another chicken. There is the walled gardens, and small museum, the roses, the cemetary under the olive trees and a refreshing breeze and gregorian chant, the coolness of the thick adobe walls and brick floors. And…the floors…some paw prints…and cat opening through doors. I am in deep contemplation and back in a time long gone by.

Back on main street  there is a lively sounding bar. A brewski, perhaps?. It’s a lazy afternoon and only a few locals are sitting about. There are signs posted which make me laugh. The very local personality outs. “Harley parking, all the rest will be crushed! and “For a small town there sure are a lot of assholes!” I sip the cold beer and chuckle as I listen to the locals banter with the usual and familiar bar jargon. Outside under the sign, Mom & Pop’s Saloon, I call Gina to give her a report on the mission. Her voice sounds clear and close and I marvel at the technology as I sit and view main street San Juan while giving a color account of the day’s adventures.

The Locals, the Flats & the Rescue 

Hollister, it seems, is the tale of two cities…the new developments to the south by San Juan Oaks and Ridgemark Golf Courses and the old culture intown. I had intended to ride towards Ridgemark, dine and spend the evening in the golf surroundings. But…on the road there was a flat tire…again. So, I made a quick decision towards practicality and headed intown where there might be bike shops and more services if the situation warranted. Normally I change tires every fifteen hundred miles and that simply and easily avoids flats. But this time I hadn’t paid attention.  Had I been thinking clearly I would have stopped at the intown bike shop and re-tired….but I stopped midtown for another brewski and hotel information. While reveling with the Friday afternoon locals one of the fellows commented on my bold U. S. Marine jersey. He loved it…till he found out that I had served in the U. S. Army. Then he wanted to know why I would do such a thing. He was laughing but serious at the same time. Finally I told him that it was a gift from my wife and that I suspected that she had a Marine boyfriend. He laughed…and as I walked out the door we had a good chat about my riding adventures.

I holed up at the Cinderella Motel. My room was ‘the prince charming’. All the rooms had such names. The interior was a color fantasy of Disneyland. I was amused and redied for dinner at the best place in town, Payne’s. The proprietess said this was the closest to Italian they had. It was Friday night so, I figured that this place would give me the best picture of the social scene in this farming town.

I wanted them to stow my bike in a back room. But…the hostess got the owner and they pondered…back rooms were full, they said.

 ”What about window?”, I asked.  They showed me windows in the dining room but were too high to view the street. Then…the bar area. One window was good.

“That’ll do”, I said.

The place was spacious, well worn, and seemed to have a lot of room around the back. The owner just did not care to accomodate me. So, I was seated, looking out the window at my bike leaning against the sign post to insure it would not be stolen. What a big deal….I was aggrevated. But…I ordered a glass of house cabernet…it was good, so I settled back looking forward to a good dinner.

It was dark and comfortable in the bar; the bartender was chatting with the locals and servicing the waitresses from the dining room; I ordered a steak sandwich with fries and salad. There was a middle aged guy at the bar with trim jeans and tea shirt drinking beer with his money on the bar. He sat by himself. When someone new came in the bar he would go to them, greet them and do the handshake thing. You know…two hands, knuckles and hug. Then he would come back and sit. And up again. And…again. Then a heavy set guy walked in slowly. He seemed to have gravitas…both by his demeanor and how the crowd halted, nodded and gazed. You could feel it in the room. My guy, Tony…up, again…the hug and handshake and the lingering conversation. It became obvious…the heavy wanted to be rid of this guy. The conversation lingered and you could see the tedium on his face.

I ate my steak and drank the cab. It was good except for the bread which was awful. Not being toasted it absorbed all the juices from the steak and had become a gooey mess. I gazed at the bike out the window, removed the soaked soft white roll and was aggrevated again. Then I began to laugh and feel great…what a grand day it all had been. The bar began to fill, dinner folks drifted in and out and others settled for a cocktail after work.  There was a comfortable feel and rhythm with the bartender, waitresses, the motion of the people and Tony..up and down and the handshake.  

Towards nine-ish the staff bagan to set up the stage. “Music, tonight?”, I asked the waitress as she placed the check on the table.

“No, kareoki tonight!”, she replied as she rushed off.

Well, I thought, it’s a good time to go. Before the singinng starts. I’ll quit while ahead.

“You gotta know when to hold’em,  You gotta know when to fold’em….”   As I sit sipping a cold beer at The Garlic Shoppe’s picnic table at the intersection of Highway 101 and route 25 that’s what I’m humming.  Gina’s on the phone and Patricia will soon pick me up. Yep, the trip is over. There was a severe case of the flats and before I went completely nuts it was time to fold’em and go home.

The day began pleasantly enough…coffee and croissant at the McDonald’s across the street; a visit to the bike shop for three new inner tubes and a pleasant ride along route 25 towards Gilroy. The road was being resurfaced so, I had the pleasure of riding on the lane which was sequestered and closed to traffic. I was humming at twenty plus miles per hour with a fine view of the fields and orchards on either side. The mountains of Uvas Meadows and Colero were clearly visible to the west. Then there was a flat. Changed into a new inner tube and rode another mile. A flat again. Another new inner tube. Pumped it up. And….without riding it went flat even though I had inspected the tire for foreign objects. Patched one of the many punctured inner tubes, installed it, pumped it up and rode. Slowly and perceptably I could feel the back rim hitting the road surface. And…with a wry and sardonic grin on my face I rode bumpily along. No intention of attempting another change. The phone rang…”Patricia, come pick me up. My tires are goners and I’m getting flats.” I asked…and nicely so. For I was not in a strong position.

You gotta know when to fold em…I kept on humming…looking at the traffic on 101 and the footlhills beyond Morgan Hill and Gilroy. That ride will have to wait for another day. And…the next trip will have new tires from the get go.  ‘Beep, Beep’, there was Patricia. She exited her red VW Beetle with white pooch in tow…my rescue had arrived.

From the bike path at Sand City just north of Monterey

A rustic scene from the garden of Mission San Juan Bautista. I strolled the gardens, under the porticos, chickens and cats wandering at their ease and a soothing Gregorian Chant over the sound system.

Old Monterey! A historic home, preserved and beautifully maintained along Munras Avenue in old town. After a long day’s ride of 90 miles I settled in my hotel up the street and enjoyed a relaxed dinner along the pedestrian center of Monterey.

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

Dalmatian Realty of Silicon Valley

Luciano J. Ercolini, Broker/Owner

Landlord & Entrepreneur since 1977***** Realtor since 2000***** Broker/Owner since 2004

408-482-3438         www.dalmatianrealtysv.com      dalmatianrealty@yahoo.com

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.

Waterwheel from ancient paper factory operation. Now in hotel lobby!

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.

Ancient Paper Factory now Converted into Hotel San Lorenzo

            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.

Well fortified entrance to Medicina

            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.

Pietrabuona built on the banks of the Pescia River

            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.

Rugged and Unspoiled Terrain of Svizzera Pesciatina

             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

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.

It had been a tough week of negotiations to close a real estate deal for a good client. The agent I was dealing with was combative and recalcitrant and made a simple transaction difficult and unpleasant. But….in the end my client got a good deal, the transaction closed and I was left emotionally spent. The stage was perfect for my ‘happy ride’.

Steven's Creek Trail

I began slowly on a breezy, sunny, Sunday morning. The air was washed clean from ten continuous days of rain. The bank and a bit of cash for lunch was my first stop on El Camino.  Then…onto the semi deserted roads of tech area of Silicon Valley to Steven’s Creek Trail. Slowly I would focus on lush vegetation and bushes in bloom, and a tidy unlittered path and occasional happy voices filtering through from nearby paths and…best of all the tension in my body eased and soon disappeared. I breathed deeply and filled my lungs and smiled as I began to think of the day’s itinerary. A full day of adventure and discovery. How exciting!

 As I neared the Bay the path rose to provide a fine view of Hangar One and Moffet Field. Hangar One, built in the early thirties to house helium filled derigibles used for reconnaissance, was the home of the U.S.S. Macon till its crash and demise off the coast of Monterey in 1935. During its brief history the Macon was used as a flying platform for its five ‘Sparrowhawk’ Biplanes which would be launched and retrieved mid-air using a hook and trapeze system. During WW II the hangar housed a small fleet of derigibles  used for submarine reconnaissance off the California coast. Since those days the iconic hangar has functioned in conjunction with NASA-Ames whose technology paved the way for Silicon Valley. Now it stands as a unique piece of architecture reminiscent of another era and visible from many spots around the Bay.

So, I arrive at the Bay. Some folks are taking fotos of nesting areas set in the marshes. Others are jogging or bike riding. A stream of cars head for the nearby Shoreline Golf Course beside the looming Shoreline Amphitheater. Off in the distance is the graceful rise of the Dumbarton Bridge fading into the eastern foothills of Alameda County. As I ride the levees water fowl rise and settle in nearby reeds and the occasional goose yields the path without concern. Placards with historical notes and various species to be observed are set at vantage points. I wind my way through a busload of senior tourists lead by a docent. Some seem to be annoyed with me as I weave though the lissom crowd. ‘There are sloughs and estuaries and nesting areas and ponds and such. I stop and smell wild anis growing in clumps with tender shoots and a wonderful sharp, fresh scent. The air is clean and a clowd cover casts a somber tone to the scene.

Enjoying a nature walk on a Saturday morning.

Southen Pacific track constructed in 1910 for transbay-East Palo Alto to  Newark-passenger service was closed in 1972.

Safe and secure bike lane on the Dumbarton Bridge provides bird eye view of the South Bay.

South Bay from Alameda foothills.

 A dash of beauty along the way!

 Along Paseo Padre Parkway in Fremont. A sea of mustard today…industrial park and hi-tek firms tomorrow!

So, I leave East Palo Alto, the city that never quite made it, and head over the Dumbarton Bridge to Niles, now a secton of Fremont but formerly a town with an iconic history and a disctinct flavor. The height of the bridge, the segragated path, the undulating waters below, the gusts of wind, the smells of the bay, the distant shoreline with noticeable landmarks all provide a surreal setting…a setting for the mind to wander unthethered by the realities of life. The KGO radio station with its tall antenna stands on the east side and I wonder if it’s still in operations as it looks rather deserted. How does that work? Perhaps the studios are in San Francisco and this is a transmission point with the best vantage spot for the Bay. Levees meander in sweeping curves and separate and unite at the abandoned rail line with drawbridges upright and deserted buildings and all fade into the grays waters and mist.  Must be remnants of the salt ponds and are now being restored to eco frienly wetlands rich with water fowl and amphibian life and marsh creatures. Behind are the opulent cities of the San Francisco Peninsula, Stanford University, the upscale shopping centers, the folks who compost, the vegans, the politically correct, the upwardly mobile, the intellectually elite, the globally concerned, the multi culti and the greens and ahead are the rolling hills, a country feeling, less pretentious and more relaxed, not so manicured but more real. I stop in center of the span and look south towards Alviso but can’t see much…to the right I spot hangar one, small but distinct. The winds are quiet but in the afternoon they’ll be strong and traveling to the west will be challenging.

The Baylands along Paseo Padre Parkway, north of the bridge towards Union City are being prepared for the next extension of Silicon Valley. The roads with wide sidewalks and bicycle lanes and future road junctions are already in. There is convenient access to major road networks and are close but removed from the bustle of Silicon Valley. I muse that this would be a great investment in real estate if one had a long time horizon. I saw it happen in Silicon Valley and this has all the same earmarks. Now I enjoy the fieds of vibrant mustard swaying to the gentle breezes and ride comfortably on the desolate road to Niles.  

I approach the town from the north on Niles Boulevard. It’s main street lined by storefronts with nary a familiar chain to be seen. The architecture is western and victorian with wide sidewalks and train station at the center. The sidewalks are not so tidy, the storefronts not so upscale and the residential neighborhoods just behind main street not so modern. It feels comfortable and interesting and a refreshing contrast to nearby areas. I ride into town slowly and survey each store and note distinctive names. My first stop is the Essenay Museum which is only open on weekends.

Docents at the museum take you through Niles’ role in the silent movie industry from 1912 to 1916. Co-owner of Essenay Studios, ‘Broncho Billy’ Anderson with a troop of fifty descended on the town, built studios and housing and put Niles on the motion picture map, for a brief moment. He shot and starred in scores of short cowboy movies both in glass enclosed studios and on location in nearby Niles Canyon.  The museum hosts silent films on week ends and displays period fotos of buildings and stars of yesteryear along with clothing and props of the early film industry.

During the 1912-1916 film period Charlie Chapman came to Niles too. Here he made three films and developed the ‘Little Tramp’ character. These images adorn buildings on main street.

At the center of town is the old train station now renovated and turned into a museum commemorating the inportance of rail to the area. Niles was an important junction point from the north bay and the central valley to San Jose. Its rail history began in the 1870’s with the narrow gauge, steam powered South Pacific Coast Railroad which was eventually acquired by Southern Pacific and expanded to Los Gatos, Boulder Creek and Santa Cruz.

 Main street, Niles. Storefronts on one side and railroad on the other. A true western town. In my travels I tell many folks of this little town and, and….no one has ever heard of it!

In the center of town I lunch at Broncho Billy’s. How appropriately named. The walls are adorned with old cowboy movie posters and western props. It’s a perfect midpoint stop to refresh. A hearty sandwich and a glass of wine!

From Niles, Mission Boulevard provides a wide bike lane and rolling terrain. Long climbs and descents provide fine views of the hills and the bay. This was the home of the Ohlone Indians who fished and hunted about the baylands and traded with other tribes from the now Napa, Sonoma and Monterey Counties. During the ‘mission period’ they were organized to work on the Mission San Jose lands.  Unfortunately during the secularization of the 1830’s the mission was  closed and the Intians were left to fend for themselves. The Mission went into disrepair but was rebuilt in 1982. And… a fine structure it is!

 I exit Mission Boulevard onto Paseo Padre Parkway and ascend into the foothils and upscale neighborhoods of Fremont with fine vistas of the bay. The climbs are pleasant and so are the refreshing breezes and eucalyptus scents; it’s a fine way to ward off the effects of lunch. I sweep back into the lowlands via Warren Boulevard and head south at Milpitas’ Dixon Landing  towards Alviso on sparsely trafficked frontage roads.

Dixon Landing??? Well, it seems that way back during the gold rush a guy, Matthew Dixon, built docks here  to ship hay via flat bottomed boats and two masted schooners to San Francisco. So, the name stuck!

At the bottom of the bay I follow Zanker road through rural baylands used to house water treatment plants, garbage dumps and other unsavory city functions. In a few miles I enter the streets of Alviso with its eclectic mix of ramshackle buildings and new housing developments. In the early 1800’s Alviso was quite the town with ferry boat service to San Francisco. It was the center of the south bay. But, with the railroad to San Jose in 1865 it lost its zing.

A wall map highlights Historic Alviso. Note the railroad and small island in the bay. The railroad was the South Pacific Coast Railroad which connected Niles, Newark and northbay and central valley to San Jose. The island was Drawbridge. It began with one employee living there to operate the drawbridge. In subsequent years there were duck clubs, and hotels and gambling and bordellos and saloons. It was quite the uprorious place and officials from nearby Santa Clara and Alameda Counties left it alone. The last permanent resident of Drawbridge left in the early 1970’s. Now the island sports decaying buildings  holding the many stories of its racy and colorful past.

Looking out towards Drawbridge at the southern tip of the bay.

Bayside Cannery operated in the early twentieth century and now  is a colorful relic.

 I’m now a few miles from home. So, I lean my bike by the back entrance of Vahl’s Restaurant and enter the old fashioned establishment for a brew. I love this place…not for the food, or the drinks, but for the ambiance. This place is Alviso. Established in 1940 and let me tell you, neither  the menu nor interiors have probably changed. It’s like and old book with dog-eared pages or heirloom furniture with a patina. It’s different and comfortable. I blend into the dark bar and chat with the bartender and friendly patrons. And…I reflect what a wonderful day it has been and how lucky I am to have experienced it. And…the cold beer, how good it tastes!!

Luciano

The Cycling Tuscan

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

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

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

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

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?

Luciano J. Ercolini

The Cycling Tuscan

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

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.

Cauldron of Altopascio as it appears today!

 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

Emblem of the Hospitalers

Church and Belltower as seen from north

 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!!!

Old town and inner courtyard!

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

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 warranted 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