Under the Tuscan Sun

"Cappuccio e il pranzo, signorina?" I asked the young blonde lady.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't speak Italian," she answered me.

"No problem," I replied, "I'm an American. My name's Richard, and I'm from Pennsylvania. I suppose I should have asked in English the first time, given that we were on a tour in English."

"Oh, hi, Richard, I'm Anne, and I guess that we might be close; I live in Doylestown, which is just north of Philly."

_______________________

Let me step back a bit here. We had just finished a two-hour art tour in Milan, Milano, which started with Leonardo da Vinci's The Last Supper, the refectory of the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. The painting, not a true fresco - a painting done on wet plaster - has been deteriorating ever since the master completed it in 1498, because he used a technique not really well suited to the medium. Because the work is so fragile, the room in which the mural is painted is kept strictly climate controlled, and only a limited number of people are allowed, and it's difficult to get tickets. I had known that I'd be in Milan on business, and the only way I could get a ticket was to register for a tour. Since my Italian is actually pretty marginal, I figured that an English tour would be the better choice.

We met the tour guide, a lady holding up an "Art Tour" sign, in front of Santa Maria delle Grazie. So that she could keep the volume down, the tour staff hand out some sort of individual radios with an ear bud. Actually, the sound quality and the tour guide's English were pretty marginal, and I understood maybe a third of what she said. The Last Supper was the very first part of the tour, which was almost three hours long, taking us through a series of old churches, all within walking distance of the Convent.

And it was the walking part which caught my eye. There were two women who came alone on the tour. The first, somewhat younger, around 25 I'd guess, was almost model pretty, with a well-tailored blue sleeveless sheath dress. She had natural, dark blonde hair, which was well-grown out after her having bleached it maybe eight months earlier. She was tall and coolly elegant, looking like a model in a city full of them. I was immediately attracted.

But then there was Anne, a real blonde, a light-to-golden-haired blonde, with blonde eyebrows and lashes to boot. She was older, closer to my 33 years, in a not-quite-as-nice dress. She was pretty enough, but really just average in a city where every woman who thought she had a chance to be noticed as a model congregated. She was a serious-looking woman, wearing a light purple dress, and a thin black sweater, since, despite it being July, it was still a bit chilly in the morning.

So, why did I notice her? I suppose it'll make me look like a pervert, but that not-quite-as-nice dress was made of a thin, cotton jersey material, and fit her a bit loosely, but dresses of that material and style will cling to a woman's butt if she's wearing a thong - or nothing - rather than regular panties, and this nice purple dress made it probably more noticeable than she realized just what she was wearing underneath.

For nearly three hours we were walking around a section of Milan, where we were supposed to be looking at religious art, and during which I was almost completely unable to keep my eyes off her butt, especially while she was walking.

But, back to the present. As the tour ended, and she was getting ready to go off on her own, I took a chance, and asked her, in Italian, if she'd like a cappuccino and lunch. Yeah, I knew that she spoke English, having been part of an English-language tour, but I thought that the Italian might impress her.

I suppose that it was better for me that she didn't speak Italian, because my Italian really isn't that good either. Oh, I can always find il gabinetto, le toilette, probably the most important question to be able to ask in any language, and I can sort of hack my way through speaking Italian, but native Italian speakers just talk too fast, and I have a hard time following them. Fortunately, my Italian business partners spoke better English than I did Italian.

"Anyway, Anne, it's nice to meet you, and what I asked was whether you'd like a cappuccino and lunch?"

Anne gave me the once-over, and apparently decided that I didn't look too threatening or too pervy - little did she know! - and said, "Si signore. Dove vorresti andare?"

"I thought that you didn't speak Italian?"

"Well, I know a few things," she replied, with a slight smile on her face, and my Italian was poor enough that I thought she agreed, and asked where I had in mind, but didn't know if she had gotten it right or not. Sometimes the mind kind of fills in the blanks for you. "And I knew what you had asked me the first time, but I was trying to see who was asking me; there are a lot of Italian guys who want to hit on the American woman, with just one thing on their minds."

"And because I'm an American, you think that maybe I wouldn't? I could be that type of guy." I regretted teasing her with that remark as soon as I said it. It was meant as a joke, but I barely knew her, and it could have driven her off. I asked it with a smile, and, fortunately, she could tell it was a joke.

Anyway, she smiled back at me. "At any rate, we passed a nice-looking sidewalk cafe just before this last stop, and it was on the shady side of the street," I said. The morning had started out cool, but it was very sunny, and the day was warming up quickly.

"Sure, I saw it, too, and it looked pleasant."

"Dopo di te, signorina." Of course, I didn't really mean after her, because I was most certainly going to walk by her side. It was only a block away, but we did have to cross the cobblestone street, and in Milan, or any city in Italy, that means taking your life in your hands, because Italians make even Philadelphia drivers look slow and polite and law-abiding. They will cut you off in a heartbeat, the motorcycles and scooters weave through traffic with about zero concern for safety or laws, and the women are just as crazy as the men. The narrow streets and heavy traffic have made cycles and scooters a very popular way of getting around, and many, many times I've sen women in full business dress, meaning skirts and high heels, driving motorcycles. You do not want to get in their way!

We started out with bruschetta, an Italian appetizer or antipasto, a sort of thinly-sliced grilled bread, rubbed with garlic and olive oil, which comes in a variety of toppings; both Anne and I liked the tomato and basil topped ones, and after that we each had a pasta dish. The waiter naturally offered us vino bianco - white wine - but we stuck with cappuccino and mineral water to drink.

Then something unexpected started to happen, or at least, unexpected to me. Anne had felt me out to see if I was just some guy with a quick score on his mind, and after obsessing with her thong-clad butt all morning, yeah, that was how I had started out. But we started doing something radical like actually talking, and I was learning that there was more to this woman than just a cute rear end.

She asked some adroit, incisive questions about my business - importing Italian-made residential hardware, primarily doorknobs, kick plates, locks and the like, which I get from a fellow named Andréa - and I learned something about her as well; Anne was a school teacher in Doylestown, of Italian ancestry despite the blonde hair and clear blue eyes, and she was touring the region from where her family came. I was staying at the Uptown Palace, a modern hotel near Andrea's store and supply house, but Anne was here using Airbnb, a service which enables tourists to stay in individual family homes.

"So," I asked her, "how much longer are you going to be in Italy?"

"Oh, I'll be here for another week. I have all summer off, and it just being me, I've managed to save some money. What about you?"

"I'm supposed to leave Saturday," - and it was already Thursday - "but my business is internet-based, and I can extend if I want. Do you think that I should extend?"

"That depends on what you want. If you're planning on just taking me back to your hotel room, then you might as well plan on flying back home on Saturday." Boy, that was direct! "If you have something else in mind, then maybe."

"Something else, such as driving through Tuscany and staying at an old Italian villa? Walking hand-in-hand through Monteriggioni and Volterra and Siena and San Gimignano? Could I interest you in watching the sunset over the hills and olive groves?"

"That does sound nice; I could do that. But there's one condition, and it might cause you to withdraw that suggestion."

"And that is . . .?"

"Separate bedrooms."

There's that directness again. It was obvious that Anne was protecting herself, but, you know, I was starting to find even that attractive. She was refreshingly direct, and she was being just plain smart.

"Separate bedrooms? Yes, ma'am, if that's what it takes to enjoy your company, I'll happily agree." I said that, perhaps not thinking that I really meant it, when I realized that I did mean it: even without the prospect of sex - and I was certainly interested in sex! - I was still enjoying Anne's company.

So, I pulled out my phone, Googled up Tuscan villas, and was able to rent us a two bedroom suite at Castel Bigozzi, a restored medieval stone castle in the countryside outside of Monteriggioni, for just €120 a night. This was the week after the first Palio in Siena, so rooms were available. Before we were even done with our cappuccino, I had it settled: we'd take the train to Florence, where I would rent a car for the rest of the week. We had to be back in Milan by next Friday, so that Anne wouldn't miss her flight home, and I'd switch my flight reservation from Saturday until next Friday as well. This was going to add maybe €2,500 to my expenses for the trip, and then I realized that I didn't even care. Spending time with Anne was just plain fascinating.

"OK, Anne, it's all arranged. I've got to meet my main supplier this afternoon, get some business done, and then we can leave for Firenze" - that's the Italian name for Florence - "Friday morning. Our train leaves at 10:15, and I've got us a little Fiat rented there."

"Richard, you're really sweet, but that must've cost you a pretty penny. I'll be happy to chip in for some of this."

"Anne, I've already paid for the train, the suite and the car, all in the reservations. If you feel uncomfortable with me paying for everything, then you could buy the meals, but I'm the one who invited you, so it's my responsibility."

"Then that means that I get to pay for this little lunch, too." Anne signaled the waiter for the check. In many Italian restaurants, the waiters will not bring you the check until you ask them for it. "So, when's this business meeting of yours?"

"It's actually only about four blocks from here, and it's whenever I get there. Andréa and I go way back, and he's pretty flexible about these things."

"Mind if I tag along, or would that make you uncomfortable?" Anne was being serious about this, but it also showed that she was actually interested in what I did for a living. To me, that showed a serious side of her that I liked.

We left the café, sticking to the shady side of the street, and then I realized: walking side-by-side with her meant that I couldn't watch that cute butt of hers! But before I could get too disappointed with that - and I hadn't told her what first caught my eye about her - she took my hand as we were walking toward Andréa's, and that drove every thought of checking out her ass from my mind. Her hand was cool in mine, but she was smiling, and that was exhilarating to me.

We weren't walking very fast, but the four blocks to the shop seemed to pass too quickly; I was enjoying just walking with Anne so much that breaking it off for business was a real downer. Yet, walking into Andréa's store, still holding Anne's hand, made it look like she was my girlfriend, and not a woman I had started talking to just an hour ago. Andréa shook my hand, as always, and then greeted Anne with the French, enchanté, which means only "it's nice to meet you," but sounds to American ears like "I'm enchanted." Anne smiled when Andréa kissed her hand. Damn! Andréa is a suave Italian, and he's both taller and better-looking than I am, the bastard! Still, I know his wife, so it wasn't as though he was going to take my girlfriend of one hour away from me.

Our business was over fairly quickly. I suppose that we could have handled this over the phone, but Andréa had added some new reproduction hardware, based on castings he had done in Venezia - Venice - which hadn't been part of his collection before. He could have shipped me a couple of samples as well, so that I could see them in person, but I always enjoy these trips; working from my computer at home, all day long, every day, was always encouragement for me to get out and see the world. Anne did more than just stand there; she turned out to be shrewd about things, and made a helpful suggestion about a way to reduce shipping costs by bundling products. My girlfriend of one hour - OK, I guess of two hours now - was helping my business!

The meeting took less than two hours, and then we stopped at my hotel room, just a block away. No, it wasn't for anything like that; I simply had to put some papers in the room, before we headed off, walking again, to the Duomo il Milano, the cathedral church of the city's archbishop, which had been started in 1395, and not officially completed until 1965; they are still working on it today. I've been in there before, but it's always awe-inspiring to see.

Still, I was wondering just where this was going. I've never been married, and while I've had a couple of long-term girlfriends in my 33 years on planet Earth, what I was feeling now was just plain different from anything I've felt before. Anne hadn't been forthcoming about her past, which had me curious, but she was obviously not the type to bed down quickly with some guy she had just met. She was an appealing woman, or at least appealing to me, but she was just so, so different from anyone I'd ever dated before.

Ahhh, summer in Italy! The fashion this year seemed to be for women to show off their bras, under sheer tops or clothing cut so parts of their bras would be exposed . . . if they bothered with a bra in the first place, and a resurgence in cropped tops. This wasn't just the teens and twenty-somethings, but was a fashion which included some of the thirty and forty and even a few women in their fifties. It was certainly something which would turn on a randy old goat like myself, but it wasn't a style that Anne seemed to like. It seemed that every woman in Italy had pedicures and painted toenails in sandals, but Anne was wearing ballet flats, and when she did kick off her shoes every once in a while, I noticed that was another trend she had skipped.

In a city full of the model-thin women, Anne was a solid size 8, possibly a size 10. There was nothing about her which screamed "sexy," - other than that thong which caught my attention - but there was just something about her which intrigued me more and more. I was wondering just how to, or even if I should, raise the subject, when Anne beat me to it. We had picked another café for dinner, once again looking for one in the shade, this time in a courtyard not too far from Duomo, and Anne started to get serious.

"You know, Richard, I really can tell that you are trying to figure me out, and just don't know how to ask, so I'll go ahead and tell you. I'm 32 - you already knew that - and I've never been married, but yes, I've had boyfriends before. Actually, my biggest problem is that I was way too 'easy' before, and have jumped into bed with way, way too many guys. Sex was sometimes good, and sometimes pretty bad, and I finally grew up enough to realize that putting sex first was a great way of making sex the only thing that a guy wanted. Now, I'm putting friendship first, relationship first, to see if we have anything actually in common before we jump into bed. That's why I insisted on separate bedrooms. Is that something you can handle? I mean, you're paying a lot of money for us to spend a week in Tuscany, we might never wind up in bed, and I want to be up front and honest about this."

"Anne, I really appreciate how direct you've been with me, and yes, I can handle it. Just because we're going to spend a week on vacation together doesn't mean that I think you somehow 'owe' me sex. Actually, this is kind of refreshing. Yeah, I'm interested in sex, and I'm attracted to you, but this is kind of like courting you."

"'Courting?' It's been a long time since I've heard that word used." Anne had a big smile on her face. "Why, yes, Miss Scarlett," I teased her back.

_______________________

Fortunately, both of us were staying at locations close to the subway; my hotel was between the Missouri and Crocetta stations on the yellow line, while Anne was staying with a family near the Cimiano station on the green line. Both lines had stops at the Milano Centrale, from where we'd take the train to Firenze. Anne had an independent streak about her, and she didn't like the idea of me going to her Airbnb place to pick her up or help her with her luggage, so we simply agreed to meet at the station. She did little things like get to doors first, to hold them open for me, to do a turnabout on the notion that a gentleman holds the door for a lady, I think to prove a point. I know that my mother was watching me from above, shaking her head, but hey, it's 2016, and the rules are changing by the hour. We chit-chatted for the two hours on the train, about nothing important at all.

I tried to draw her out more about her career but she didn't seem to think being a teacher was as special as I thought it would be. She taught seventh and eighth grade math to eleven, twelve and thirteen year olds who didn't seem to give two hoots about school; the boys were becoming interested in the girls, and the girls were all primarily interested in the boys. I wondered, but certainly didn't ask, if her conservative dress was a self-defense mechanism against hormone-ravaged boys. Her clothes weren't dowdy, by any means, but at least in Milan, they stood out as being far more utilitarian than fashionable. She had worn some plain jeans today, along with a short-sleeved top that looked cool enough for the Italian summer, but certainly nothing striking, and the same black ballet flats as she had on yesterday. I couldn't tell if she was wearing a thong again today, and yes, I most certainly did look, but her jeans hid all of the evidence.

Fortunately, the train station in Firenze is only a five-minute walk, even with luggage, from the Europcar rental station. I hadn't been planning on staying in Italy this long, so all that I had was one suitcase, but Anne had more, two suitcases, crammed full and heavy. Again, she insisted on being the independent woman, and handing both of her suitcases herself rather than allowing me to help. While I'm not a particularly big guy - I'm only 5'9" and about 170 lb - Anne was fairly small, only about 5'3 or 5'4, and while not slender, she wasn't heavy, either, and wrestling around two suitcases, even with both of them on wheels, was a chore for her, but she still wanted to do it herself. She did allow me to put her suitcases in the overhead carry-on compartments of the train, simply because she wasn't tall enough to put heavy cases up that high.

I had rented a smaller BMW, with a diesel engine, and, thank the Lord! a GPS in English for directions to Strove and Castel Bigozzi. We had to negotiate Firenze's narrow winding streets for a couple of kilometers, before making it to highway S2. S2 is sort of like an American interstate, except that it has emergency pull-offs rather than true shoulders, and it's divided not with a grassy median, but a doubled guardrail, a lot like the Pennsylvania Turnpike, on which Anne and I have both driven too frequently. That took us most of the way there, until we got to the Monteriggioni exit - and Italian exits kind of sneak up on you - which took us to the back roads. Strove is a small, old stone village, the kind which attracts tourists, which Anne really liked, but her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw Castel Biggozi. A Middle Ages defensive castle, it has been remade into a twenty suite inn, on a hilltop, with olive groves and overlooking the Tuscan countryside. The stone walls are about 2½ feet thick, and the setting is about as romantic as any you'll find.