Our favorite thing to do in Italy was "wander": when we tired of duomos and crowds and guidebooks, we'd look at each other and say, "Want to wander?" These follow-our-nose impulses inevitably brought us magic, those little moments that are solely yours. Like the 700-year old church in a Tuscan village so tiny that its "Welcome to _____" and "Leaving _____" signs were about 100 feet apart. The day before Easter, the ancient caretaker took us inside and showed us the altar. We could scarcely communicate with my nursery school Italian and his dim sight (he couldn't read the Italian dictionary I was pointing to).
Of all the miracles in Italy, the single greatest of our trip came on April 11, when we wandered into paradise. Of course, it is a food-related epiphany.
This is from my journal, dated April 11, 2001, in Siena with my daughter, M, who was 12-years-old:
Because the Duomo was out of the question (M was wearing the wrong clothes), we walked around Siena, with its concentric streets. We found the Piazza dei Campo—it’s impossible to miss its towering campanile. After roaming several other streets, something within me sought open spaces. I spied what looked to be a promising street and said, "Come on, looks like a good view that way!"
Around the corner I could see that we'd come to the edge of town. A staircase wound down to the street with auto and bus traffic—these are not usually found within the walls of Siena. The top of the wall was draped with wisteria; M’s first encounter with its fragrance made her swoon.
We continued down the steps, but the view was so compelling that I had to stop for more photographs. The street curved (they all curve in Siena), and we were looking across the valley that separates Le Meridiane (our lodgings) from town. The hilltops were covered with apartments—attractive ones—and some beautiful old buildings. To our left, with the town behind us, a path led into the valley, which we could see was filled with garden patches.
M hesitated, but only for a moment, before agreeing to walk down there. Several times on our journey I'd reinforced something in her: having an agenda is fine, but wandering can land you in places of wonder. So we wander well together.
We walked slowly, in no hurry for a destination. With her characteristic observance, she quickly spotted a tiny lizard on the wall. And another. These I photographed for her, as the batteries we'd bought for her camera at the Colosseum lasted only a short while (curse the heads of those scoundrel vendors!).
Very soon it was apparent that we'd entered an Eden. As the gardens reached the slopes of the valley walls, they became terraces of perfection. I spotted two or three ancient men, each tending a little patch of perhaps 20 square feet. But whose gardens were these? Was it a community space? A public or private endeavor? Nobody was close enough to ask, so we strolled more. There were verdant rows of artichokes in one patch, and another filled with tomato seedlings, onions, peppers, and ringed with strawberry plants that were budding. Each garden was its own little patch in a larger quilt.
As we walked down the gentle slope, we heard the ripple of water that became a little brook, rimming and feeding the little plots in the center. A bower of fruit trees, in full bloom of white and pink lace, whispered spring secrets in the breeze. A few petals floated to the ground. What was this place? We didn't know.
Besides ourselves and three old men gardening, I spied only a few other people. A tall dark-haired girl with a backpack loped past us; it was obvious to me that she sought a retreat from the intense crowds in the town above our heads. Far to one side on a hill, I saw a young couple sleep in the grass; their backpacks, too, slept by their sides. A man strode into the gardens, carrying some small things; I assumed him to be the son of the old gardener closest to us.
At the flat expanse at the bottom of the walk was a freshly painted building whose purpose I still do not know. Under its vine-covered awnings a 30-ish Italian couple sat, on opposite sides of a white table, gazing into each others' eyes. They clasped hands, and their arms started to tremble. Arm wrestling! He pinned her within seconds, and I burst out laughing. Impossible not to, or to think they'd mind. In Italy I never have the feeling that someone will say, "Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer." Here taking pictures and staying longer are absolutely understood and encouraged. Had I asked or indicated that I would like to photograph them, I am certain they would smile and share the knowledge that "we are part of this moment together, and our coinciding is special, perhaps more special to you because you have traveled so far to meet us!" There is utter freedom in that.
M found a perfect egg-shaped rock to kick up the path (and sometimes with which to imperil her mother's sandal-clad toes). We walked to the end of the valley, where we found that the road back into town was walled off. We turned around and strolled back.
As we approached the old gardener, a woman and a boy entered his gated plot. I took the opportunity to call ‘Scusi?,’ hoping to get an answer to the question of who owned these gardens. ‘Parle l'englise?’ I asked the man who seemed to be the boy's father. He said no but gestured to the woman.
In my most halting Italian, I asked, "Giardino? Publica? Communale?"
She threw on the light switch: "Ristorante!"
Of course! And with a sweep of her arm, she indicated the local restaurants atop the surrounding hills. This delighted me deeply, and still does. The thought that the town set aside these acres, that they share such a glorious space, that they grown and create such an endless cycle of beauty... my God. What if each big city in the world had such an oasis? What a transformation it would make on the planet.
Alas, though I took over 100 photographs that day, a computer malfunction erased most of them, and I have only one that survives. It is the gate to this paradise, the entrance to the heaven that awaited us below.
You notice that I have not supplied directions? No, only hints. Be patient and discover this valley for yourselves. The journey is half the wonder.