THE JOURNEY CONTINUES - 14 August 2011
14th August, 2011
Gianni makes a call to friends who just happen to live nearby. Within minutes we leave what will always be, for me, Bolero Road and drive up a dirt lane to Franchi and Francesco's home, where, as everywhere, we are once again greeted with enthusiasm.
A married couple based in Rome, Franchi and Francesco are almost finished building their dream house and it is a dream house. A study in white and varying shades of greenish grey, the house has a calm atmosphere amidst subtle architectural detail and is furnished with primitive pieces collected from all over Europe, reflecting Franchi's stylist's eye.
We take a coffee and exchange abbreviated life histories and email addresses, regretfully declining their invitation to dinner with a promise to return and make our way back to Bolero Road which, by now, I am convinced we will travel for the rest of our lives.
We are in deep, deep country and yet every once in a while, when the road curves at just the right angle and height the jade sea gleams in the distance and the mysterious islands of Giglio and Elba seem to float within reach. On the one hand it is surprising to be so deep in the country and be able to see the sea. But on the other hand, it should be no surprise as all this land was once ocean, and it is the undulation of the landscape and the rhythm of this road that hold both the visual evidence and visceral memory of the long ago sea.
By now I have no idea where we are nor do I particularly wish to. It is a relief, in fact, because don't we modern humans spend much of our time either thinking we know where we are (metaphorically and literally) or striving to know? As if to know will finally give us the control we long for. So I sit back and surrender once again to the joy of not knowing.
Then I see a sign declaring the direction and distance to Montalcino. From this I can surmise that we are perhaps 30 minute from home. Then I remember Gianni is at the wheel, so there is no knowing. As it turns out, it will be another two and half hours!
Suddenly Gianni pulls over to the side of the road. He has seen something which we have not: a small chapel with a copse of cypress trees, each one representing a fallen soldier from WWI. We visit each tree, each of which has at its base a stick to which is attached the name and faded photograph of the soldier. We are moved to tears. What is it that touches us so deeply? The humble grave yard? The presence of these men, their faces forever young, some 95 years on? The terrible waste of lives lost to senseless war? The awful reality that 30 American soldiers died in Afghanistan yesterday? The sorrow of our inability or refusal to learn from histrory?
We cross the road and Gianni shows us just over the fence, the Ossuary, where the soldiers bones were put. I point out the newly plowed field behind it. "Si," Gianni says, "La terra reprendere tutto." The earth takes back everything.
We double back a few hundred yards and pull into the small hill village of Porrona. Outside the arched wall, an old contadini sits gazing out at the landscape. This is the land he's worked, looked at and lived in all his 8 plus decades. He has probably never seen Siena. And why would he need to? This beautiful village, now nearly deserted, once held perhaps 200 people, a commune. Now there are 23.
It is the sort of place that has one fantasizing, almost scheming, how great it would be to gather one's family and friends and buy the place up. Fortunately we cannot do this. Unfortunately others have tried and then, either from lack of funds, or dwindling interest, gave up, leaving behind a few plastic chairs and a stagnant swimming pool.
We walk down a small side street and in a darkened doorway, behind a beaded curtain, Gianni espies an old woman crocheting a tiny, delicate doily. Putting one foot on the step and leaning forward with all the gallantry of a suitor, he gently engages her in conversation and we learn of her sadness for this dying village.
We walk in silence, back to the truck and once again point it toward home. But this day is not done with us yet.
To be Continued...