When a group of us first stayed at Casalini summer of 1995, I suggested, based on my experience of twenty years prior, that we not bother renting a car. Bus and train service is excellent, I told them. Well, it was. In the meantime, the Italian government, in an effort to encourage its citizens to buy newer, safer, more efficient automobiles, subsidized their purchase, and suddenly people who could never have afforded anything that would take them reliably beyond local shopping, had station wagons. And public transport became more about commuting than about travel.
When I was here forty years ago, you could take a bus or a train just about anywhere, most anytime of the day or night. Perhaps my memory exaggerates reality, but I do vividly recall going ten kilometers, by train, from Firenze to Prato to catch a play at nine, and returning well after midnight. In 1995, that was no longer possible. [The first of five tram lines has since been built that connects Firenze with nearby cities; it runs continuously from 6 am to 1 am.]
After a few days of trying to conform to my halcyon memories with scant success, we rented a car. The clown car, we called it. Piaggio, the company that makes motor scooters, had just come out with its first (and last) automobile. It was a van in shape and intent, but not necessarily in the usual meaning of the word. It would seat eight, we were told, and could be rented on an introductory offer for something like $180 for two weeks. A bargain and we took it. It wasn’t all that comfortable, and it took hills with the power of a commercial sewing machine, but it carried us to Siena and back, and was very fuel efficient, indeed.
Consequently, every other time I’ve stayed at Casalini, I’ve opted for automotive transportation. Just getting there without it can be a chore. This time, I could not bear either the expense nor the… what? responsibility?.. of driving, anywhere, particularly in a rental, for any reason. So I decided to wing it. It would shape my days and change my experience, but perhaps for the better.
As I was in La Romola for two nights only, there was neither need nor desire to heavily invest in foodstuffs. Even a bottle of water seemed frivolous. Regards breakfast, Maria Teresa explained that there are two bars in town, the white and the red one. I thought she meant building color. No, the red bar is Italian Communist, the white, Social Democrat. Only an Italian can discern the difference, either between bars or political philosophies, but somewhere, perhaps buried in upheavals of the past, a difference does exist. For me the only important distinction was that the red bar serves breakfast. A cappuccino and a richly flavored cornetto presented by a friendly young man began my day, plus a look at one of the newspapers scattered across the tables (over red table cloths, the only hint of Communist décor.)
I bought a sandwich at the alimentari on the way back to Casalini. It consisted of three slices of pecorino fresco on a hard roll, and promised to be dull, but I ate half as a snack a couple of hours later and found it delicious.
At about eleven, I decided to walk to a neighboring town on the hope that one of them would have more on offer than bar food. The directional and distance signs told me that Cerbaia was four kilometers, and Chiesanuova, in the opposite direction, was three.
In 1995, two of us (myself included) walked down to Cerbaia. We later discovered that we’d taken the long way. It looked good on the map. The day was hot, the sun intense, and the climb back seemed incredibly steep. But was it gorgeous? Yes, it was gorgeous. My friend and I still trade memories of that walk.
So, I was inclined to take the road to Cerbaia, but first, I checked Google Maps. It told me that Cerbaia, using the route estimated as four kilometers on the sign, was 2.7 kilometers and 37 minutes away. Chiesanuova, shown as three kilometers, was 4.2 kilometers and almost an hour.
I think the people who make distance signs – here, there and everywhere – come into a town, ask how far is Cerbaia, for instance, and round up or down on whatever they’re told. I suspect in Italy, the rationale goes something like this: “if it’s downhill, and we round up, people will arrive sooner than expected and everyone likes that, while if it’s uphill and we round down the climb will feel less arduous.” Luigi Barzini wrote that Italian trains used to keep their clocks ten or fifteen minutes slow so that they would seem to arrive on time. Such accommodations to reality are humorous to us humorless Americans, but here they’re common sense. Life can be hard. People need to feel good. End of story. Nice sentiment, but I’m not sure I buy it.
So, I walked to Cerbaia for lunch. While on Google Maps, I had also researched where to eat. There were two places that appeared to be open, one with the appealing name of La Tenda Rossa, the red tent.
The walk was even more gorgeous than I remembered, aided I think by autumn, fresh breezes, dramatic clouds, and newly plowed fields. It was also mostly downhill, which meant one of two things, depending on your point of view; I would be ascending on a full stomach, or, I would be climbing newly nourished. I decided not to project artificial distinctions.
I arrived in Cerbaia right on time according to Google’s prediction, and within a couple of meters of joining the main road, was treated to a directional sign for the same road, going back; La Romola, two kilometers. Half the distance returning uphill than it is coming down. My suspicions about sign methodology seemed validated.
The restaurant I had enjoyed in May 2015 – and that I imagined might be the one appealingly named La Tenda Rossa – I could not find. Perhaps I confused Cerbaia with another town, possibly San Casciano which is six kilometers on. And once I arrived in town I could not for the life of me remember either restaurant’s name, though as soon as I left, they leaped to mind.
So, after ten or fifteen minutes of being unable to inquire about the places whose names I’d forgotten, I found a natural foods store. I asked if they had items I could assemble into a lunch. She had a better idea. “Go to Casa del Popolo,” (another red establishment?) “They’ll put together a nice lunch for you there.” She took me out front, pointed, and promised I’d recognize the building by the two columns at the main entrance. I recognized it just standing there. It was the same place my friend and I were referred to on our walk twenty-one years ago.
I had my doubts, however. I vaguely recalled something uninviting and complicated about dining at the Casa, and I’m not sure we ever got past that. But, I was hungry and six kilometers away from the next possible source of food, so I took the option at hand.
The place was exactly as I remembered it. Its formal name is Arci Babilonia and except for at that moment, is quite a lively community center. The main lobby, which was practically deserted, holds a rather large airport-style bar with meager offerings. I resigned myself to an industrially wrapped tramezzino, when a gentleman of about my age came over and pointed to a homemade sign on an obscure door hidden in a corner to the right that had scrawled on it in red magic marker “pizzeria.” Oh!
I followed him into an alternate reality.
The place was larger than the door had promised, and bustling. It looked like a coffee shop at a provincial American college; sparse and institutional, but clean. A small counter had computer-generated signs in plastic sleeves hanging above it that described the selection of pizzas and their prices. As I looked up to formulate an order, an extremely gracious man with multiple piercings asked if I wanted a table. I stammered in my attempt to ask if there was table service; the university association had wiped that possibility, and most of my Italian vocabulary, right out of mind. He invited me to take a seat.
He soon returned carrying a pad and a piece of note paper. On the note paper were written the choices for lunch. “No pizza, today.” No? “No.” Instead, they had four pastas (including rice) with four choices of sauce, mix as you may, several side dishes (including salads) and five or six main courses. I chose rice with mushroom sauce and sauteed spinach.
The meal he delivered was among the best I have ever eaten. The rice with mushrooms was beautiful to look at, the flavors rich and varied, and the was spinach was perfectly cooked, not mushy, not tough, with just enough garlic to give it a tang. Even the oil they served to dress it with was exceptionally good. On the placemat it seemed to say that service was handled by volunteers from the “association.” I became unsure of my status there. Was I an interloper who, because of my linguistic blackout, was permitted to stay, or are they lax about the rules? Or are there any rules at all? Or was it Communism, realized?
I went up to the counter to pay the man who had lead me in, and began to verbally report my lunch. He stopped me with a command, holding up his figure and wagging it, “No! The table number.” I screwed my head around to find it. He announced it first – in a way that showed that he’d known all along, but that I had to play by at least one simple rule – and identified my tag; €6.40. I paid, thanked him, and reported the meal excellent. He laughed as if any superlative beyond buono was absurd.
The way up to La Romola was not at all arduous and the sign was correct; half the distance as the way coming down. I ascended newly nourished.