Tuscany -- or, Italy for Tourists

Tuscany --  As we turned up the mountain to reach our little town of Radda in Chianti for the weekend, I felt a warmth hit my chest: this is as fabulous as it is supposed to be. I rolled down all our car windows, and like dogs the kids stuck their heads out, letting the fresh, cold air hit their faces, each one quiet with delight. I kept my head in, but threw out my hand, catching the evening sunlight as it hit my hand, playing peek-aboo through the grape vines. 

We reached our weekend apartment, where we stayed in an old [what else?] villa from the 1700s.  Inside, much was falling apart, not-working, or wearing-through. Our apartment in the villa, ambitiously named Principessa, looked much like an aging diva: still grand but only young now from at a distance.

 The villa is perched on a large hill, over-looking huge vineyards [most of it the villa's own], with a cold water pool, and large lavender plants surrounding a gracious yard. Within 20 minutes of our arrival we had found chairs, wine, and a sunset, and toasted to Tuscany, TV-style.  In short, it was perfect.

From our villa we were able to take an hours walk through vineyards and lush terrain, leading us to a small town from the 1000s. A little dog greeted us at the town's entrance--and this would be too silly to make up--he walked with us, bone in mouth and tail wagging,  jumping from one child to another, as we made our way through the historic town. When we finished our tour, he dropped his bone, and walked back home.

On the walk back to the villa, the hot sun on our backs, we picked figs and wine grapes, and shared water from our steel can.  Once "home", Michael took sun-dried tomatoes, rosemary and bay leaves collected from our walk, pancetta, onions, a generous pour of olive oil and small hot peppers and made a delicious late-afternoon pasta. With a small glass of brunello and a crisp apple, the meal and day were complete, save for a swim in the pool for the kids and chocolate for us all in the mid-evening. A perfect, if hedonistic, day.

In fact, from what I could tell from my weekend stay, everything in Tuscany is perfect.  The food is the best I have eaten anywhere in Italy, the Italians all speak English and do so calmly, the driving was reasonable and fairly friendly, and there was space and green everywhere. As much as I loved Tuscany, by the end I had figured it out: Tuscany was created for tourists and has nothing much to do with "real" Italy. In fact, while we ate the best Italian food [ever], I sat in company of two French couples, an English family, a German group, and an Australian, but the only Italians there were those serving us.

So, where are all the "real" Italians in the "real" Italy?  At least 200,000 of them are in Mantova, our home for the year.  Here, no one speaks English, space -- personal or otherwise-- is limited, getting anything accomplished takes a lot of time and energy, donkey is on the menu as a real option, and green is mostly a color of  parks and flower pots. As for the driving, I have been surprised how many Italians use the middle finger: isn't that an American gesture? So, OK, the Italians here speak a little English.

Yet, I would not trade spots to live for a year.  I feel as though our experience is authentic and, as frustrating as it can be, the joys that come feel won [and earned]. I will admit, though, when the kids asked, on the way back to Mantova, why we weren't living in Tuscany for the year, I skipped a beat and began my answer with eyebrows raised.