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The villa has fourteen layers. We counted them that first day: one step up to the main hall, two steps down to the master suite, three steps down to the kitchen, one flight of stairs to the second floor, step down to each bedroom, up a half-landing to the sitting room; endless crazy-quilt planning, no two rooms on the same plane. It gave us a sense of isolation that was badly needed, some days.
One family. Three generations. Two parents, three children, two spouses, two
grandchildren. Two weeks. Three cars, thank god, so when we became too much for each other we could hare off in other directions. Sometimes in family sub-units: my sister, her husband, their kids, my parents, myself and my husband, my middle sister sometimes with us, sometimes with others. Other days we go as a pack, splitting into two cars and meeting at our destination.
Everyone gathers in the evening, though. The kitchen — itself on two levels — boasts a huge wooden table. In the morning we sit at it, plan our day, eat a hasty breakfast. In the evening, home the conquering tourists, it is used to display our booty; cheeses, meats, olives, bread. The cheese is crumbly, smooth, sharp, mild. For a family prone to lactose intolerance, it's an evil temptation. We've stocked up on Lactaid; we will not be denied. The meats are sliced thin, translucent. Parma ham and proscuttio and things I never do catch the name of. Bread without salt that tastes strange on the tongue at first, and later becomes an addiction I can't feed, back in the States. Olives, as many different kinds as my father and sister could find. Tomatoes, occasionally. Once, fried zucchini flowers, strange but wonderful, and risotto, when someone felt ambitious enough to cook. And wine, of course. Always wine. Occasionally a white but more often red, deep garnets and rubies: Tuscany's blood.
"Plonk" more often than not, whatever was available for a few dollars in the local grocery: sometimes mediocre, occasionally astonishing. But the days we venture into Chianti proper we return with gems. Wines we have heard of but never tried. Wines unknown in the States. Wines we would never buy again, but that taste like the soil, the water, the air around us.
There is no dining time, no order. My sister and brother-in-law often came home first, dumped the boys in the small pool down yet another level of stairs cut into the grass. We drive down the rutted path, park, unload our own offerings for the table, then grab a plate, fill it, and wander out through the side door, a heavy Dutch door arrangement, around the curve of the small hill the villa was perched on. A picnic table sat under a lattice roof, overlooking the slope below which olive groves grew. The leaves were dusty, the green of a dryad's hair, and shimmied in the breeze. The scent of the roses that grow out front, against the low stone wall and the heavier stones of the facade blends with the flowering vines overhead, and the smell of the trees and grass below.
And whatever squabbles arose during the day — we're an affectionate, highly functional family, an oddity in our time and culture, but squabbles happen — are washed away by the Tuscan sunlight, which is no different than any light anywhere else, except that it is. Sometimes we recount what we did during the day, or plan what we would like to do tomorrow. And sometimes we retell old stories, rehashing and reworking the memories for ourselves, and for my nephews, who listen with part of their attention as they pick over their meal, poke each other.
The boys, old enough to appreciate old towns and dusty museums and strange places in moderation, throw a ball around with their father. I take photos of them playing some strange hybrid game of keep-away, the three of them and my husband, leaping about like demented gazelles, bad ballet wannabees until they collapse, the boys giggling, the men exhausted. My middle sister pulls out guidebooks, maps, and she and my mother study them intently. My oldest sister swirls the wine left in her glass, tells the boys it's time for bed.
And dusk creeps into the air around us, the color changing slightly, reds and pinks touching the sky until it is dark and we're still sitting there, drinking our wine, picking at the last crumbs until the chill drives first one then another inside. Until only my father and I remain outside, holding half-empty wine glasses, and comfortably not speaking.
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