Week end in Tuscany, Italy.. Traveling around Mugello, Volterra, Colle Val D'Elsa, Artimino.

da http://unmondodibene.blogspot.com/ At home. Terre French
(...) Begins late Friday, but soon. Depends if you want to start when the eyes are opened, or the moment when we decide to take the vertical posture.
In short, we do breakfast around eleven. The muffin! (there is more to say about these delicacies?) and then the yogurt, honey, marmalade of nostalgia (which throws the balance in the bathroom threat our good humor).
To start with. Trash (not wicker) labeled 'political and economic power from coast to coast' (bright is not it?), Complete with:
a) meatballs with vegetables and pecorino in impanatura of passion;
b) 3 hard-boiled eggs with the yolk as a big heart;
c) Pecorino soft as your hips, sweet as your words;
d) Bread and love ...;
e) Chianti (not stuffed) and two stem glasses (how could they miss?).

Destination Mugello, the brother of the evil came Chianti, less glossy and more popular through Calenzano (Croda of) and the pond (puddle?) Galliano, around which we step. A dirt road, a hill that dominates the landscape. Picnics, daisies, sun, sky, rolling hills that stretch into infinity. E Celati the Lunario of Paradise, a sort of imprinting of my youth taste, a step forward in this game of love language that we engaged in our journey sentimental and literary. The fascinating discovery of the happy marriage between your cadence and Frizzi and jokes of the language work of Celati, which I can only impoverish and cool with my pronunciation of Algida nest buried in the side of the boot.
Empty the basket and we get in the car. Scarperia (I realized that I brought in a scarpificio?). A handful of houses, the building of the municipality, and overflowing a small library of literature, such as those in which I worked. The boutique of the knives, Scarperia, the elderly and those with faces of tuff that tomorrow we will find further south. Faces of ancestral sun and fatigue. "They are the knives and sell them to the Sardinians," I say. But that story is this? Toscani as imitating Chinese material culture and export to ... Tell Prato.
E Borgo San Lorenzo, "bigger," say "and populous," even the hospital in Borgo San Lorenzo, and various libraries to find, and you decide to buy, the guide of Paris el'Ile de France from which no alzerai over the nose. That of the Touring, with all the precise descriptions of the buildings on architecture, urban history, that make you sound like a mission trip to the professional rather than a vacation, a nest of emotions, a jungle where lost and enjoy the charm of the loss. But, you like that, filled by the most select team of contemporary architects, we would say the price.
And then home. Put the film bought some 'for me and a po' to celebrate the genius of the simple ways that you call Morricone, the Mission (with De Niro worst than ever), the swan song of the Theology of Liberation, finally killed by ' last white smoke in St. Peter's. (I put too thinly? Tacciatemi of ozpetechismo if you like. O French, the writing or not what we felt'm against Saturn?). In short, great music in that film (and I who at 14 years I have also bought the soundtrack, vinyl records, as was then), remember that the French spot in the Valley of the Gardens, my love ...
However, m'addormento right on the final battle between big barrels arquebuses Portuguese cannon and making those semi-Christianized Indians just a bunch of minced meat (and you are really reflecting on how history prostrate peoples, to think about faces of those myths Portuguese faced up and down the country ... Lusitano). But in short, your son caresses on my face that make me sleep, not that beautiful films I have tried to keep our eyes and ears wide open.
"Let's go to bed," I say rubbing my neck, "that making love is difficult, for those who sleep before the completion of a massacre"
Mhm, yes, good night.

 

A dive in the tuff

So, I tell you to take the Pistoiese Volterra to Florence, we are the bridge and turn to the highway to Siena. No? Ridi that excuse? Do not they? We say this without looking at maps, improvising paths stranger. But you laughing at my naive attempt to navigator of your locations. "For you, every bridge is the bridge to India." So you the story of that time I wanted to take Empoli and I lost in the center of Scandicci. And you make a turn off to strange and confused ideas and give me the clear feeling that I was right, but not me who say, spiteful, if c'avevo come true or not.
A Volterra there have never been, or at least I seem to not have been. However, these palaces of tuff, tuff these glimpses, these faces of tuff (also here), this road bends to the panorama of hills and above all, the park of the castle which is still a prison I can move deep memories, a feeling of déjà vu that emerges dall'inconscio. And perhaps we are already past, but I do not really remember. Surely, if it happened, was in a previous life. Or is this simply that the Middle Ages between Umbria and Tuscany low continuously repeats himself (I realize I'm doing something liable to censorship by you).
Picnic yet, with yesterday's trash, yet meatballs boiled eggs and pecorino cheese muffins to celebrate our love that we discover suddenly run out of liquid (and not for the wine that we have not drunk because I forgot the glasses) and then as possible self (as the Government) and nearly autarchico (like that other Italy many years ago, with which we hope to not share the fate ...). In short yes, still loving picnic with your voice on that of s'incastra Celati, children playing ball, the little birds that make pi pi fli and fli by branches, and I still you.
And Colle Val d'Elsa, a town along the back of tufa, which to me sometimes, as in the wall along the other lane or just above parallel, said Assisi, here I said, but So I kept quiet because I'd taken for Gaulle, belied Gallic grullarello, I know, although now say no. Did I just looked and I take photos with rice that you did to the ladies next to older who pushed each other into the church to turn on lights.
Birbona you are!
And finally at home, a flood of smoke cooking and living with that steak three centimeters that Cook on fire to offer fair, the blood meal of your land in this northern mite decreased from the highest peaks covetous of your flesh. My love of cooking, to hell with the tufa, the devil and all Volterra Etruscan tombs that we have not seen, let me grab your meat, eat our meal, we can no longer wait.

The great French

Long night between Saturday and Sunday, but his long twelve hours of sleep yarn (other than that your exclamation yelled in the middle of the night). Breakfast at eleven (son miss that more than twelve then) and I am not repeating the ingredients. And you that the ear phones that belly that has generated promising succulent and seasonings (the paiata!) And varied seconds (scandalously tasty offal).
And this is in fact that happens unexpectedly. Before the trip to Artimino. Before the kiss under the olive trees. Before the photos at the Medici villa, before the other three hundred forty-five times that we made love. Before my departure.
The Great French entered by that door.
Kept a box in his hands, the Great French, full of every well of God, and moving with that smile that stretched the gray mustache. I said "hello Nathan, just so, with such of its quiet blue eyes, and you delivered the box to shake hands. Speaking, the Great French, of the lives of those places, of practical affairs and destiny of mankind. Expressed opinions, the Great French and views with the grace and caution of a man measured and calm. He smiled again, the Great French, like that of deep satisfaction.
And twice, for two very long moments, he extended his father's hand and it lies on my shoulder.