Far up in the hills behind Florence, Settignano has been the home of artists, stonecutters, carvers, sculptors and writers for centuries. It is the entry point to an area famous for its marble quarries. Founded by the Romans, it is also the place where Michaelangelo spent his boyhood "suckled by a Settignanese milkwife" learning the beginnings of his trade amongst a great history of resident artists. Mark Twain spent a year here writing one of his novels from start to finish. A few torrid love affairs have been conducted behind the high walls of Settignano's beautiful villas.
In our 35 years together, we've come to know each other's ticks and tocks, how we fit together and how we don't. I'm a wanderer, Marc's a destinationer.
Our most famous example happened early in our friendship, our elopement trip through Spain and Morocco. Passing through fields and fields of blooming sunflowers in Spain on a gloriously sunny day, fields and fields and fields of them!, Marc driving furiously in our rented Peugot, his stinky running shoes tied to each exterior rear-view mirror, banging against the car as they aired, me sobbing in the back seat, furious that he won't stop even for a photo, because 'we've GOT to get there!' I'm sure I'd made us late by dallying somewhere. We get to wherever we're going, I don't even remember, and vow that we'll work hard throughout our life together to never repeat the emotion of this day. Happy to report that we've largely been successful.
Of course there's been hiccups! Our children can attest to many of them - dad's back road short cuts,
his 'just over there is the BEST!", my confusing "I have no idea, but don't you just love it here?" tours, and always, always...me turning left when it's definitely right.
Back to Settignano. Mid-way through our day, following the ancient road above with homes, villas, farms, a church, chickens, dogs barking, our first olive groves, sun high, hunger growing, we're so happy at how this day is turning out but we're striking out at finding the perfect anniversary picnic lunch spot. Ever the romantic, Marc is romping through the groves above me, searching for where we'll eat. Calling to me every now and again to locate each other, me eventually sitting on the stone fence waiting for him to come down. Only he doesn't.
Let it be said that in all our years together, Marc has never NOT come back from his romps and I have NEVER moved from the spot where he leaves me. It's our rhythm, an unspoken definite, as reliable as the sunrise. Always waiting where he's left me, he always comes back and says, "found it!" Only this time I hear him call what I think is "come up!" which is a change to our rhythm, a surprise, it momentarily furrows my brow and is different from all other times.
I hike up and up, and can't find him. I call, I call, I CALL, I sit down by an olive tree in protest, I scramble through briar, I yell at the olive grove in anger, sit to think, I begin to imagine the worst. He is no longer answering my calls. I imagine the fall, an ancient well, a broken bone, and well, you get my drift of where my mind goes from there. He carries the food! Meanwhile he imagines his worst - an abduction by the sketchy gravediggers who's eyes we caught on our way past the local cemetery - while traversing the road back, forth, back and forth, calling for me time and time again.
Getting frantic.
We have missed each other on the down vs up and going over it later, his last call to me was "don't come up, on my way down." What feels like an hour. I make my way down the hill, to see him coming back from 'one last pass' en route to the village, both of us frantic and near tears.
We yell at each other, we hug tightly and for longer than normal, we eat lunch in the worst possible spot! We try to laugh, but we've given ourselves quite a scare. New rules are set for the duration of the trip. Among others, when travelling, always, always return to the spot where you were last together! And promises of no more separating - a very good promise on this, our 26th wedding anniversary.
Salvaging the day, trying not to stay shaken by the imaginings, we head back to the village, have a warming Cafe Americano, catch the bus, and head out for an impromptu and delicious Trattoria meal, replete with plenty of vino tinto a la casa!
Florence:
Hiker's directional markers, Settignano .
Post-script: years and years ago, tucked among Marc's mom's belongings was an old non-descript book, ravaged by time and stained with use. It was Irving Stone's The Agony and the Ecstasy, with her signature inside. I read it almost in one sitting and the story and feel have never left me. Much like James Michener's iconic The Drifters, which defined youthful travel in the 60s and 70s (& informed my, and my friends' post university travel), The Agony tells the story of the life and times of Michaelangelo Bounorotti, placing him in the history, the Renaisaance, the trades, the conflicts, the dynasties, bringing the story of shaping marble to life! Marc read it just prior to our planning's beginnings. Much of this portion of our time away is based on Irving Stone's book.
Highly recommended.
1 comment:
I am thoroughly enjoying your posts. Although behind the wall ahem, would have added even more juice to the adventure. Happy Belated Anniversary.
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