After the mountains we had a few days to spend before we were supposed to be in Rome. We decided to make our way south in the most Italian way possible, and for us that meant three things; at a leisurely and relaxed pace, in something that was fun to drive, and in search of good food.
We picked up our obnoxiously sunburnt orange ragtop and cruised down the autostrada to the first of several towns whose named would all start with “P”. We dropped the car in a 2 day parking garage and hoofed it on baking stones into the old streets. Local ladies on movie set worthy bicycles would ring their bells as they glide by at an easy speed, off to nowhere in no hurry. In the mornings we’d take our coffee like the locals do; at a restaurant counter and from a proper espresso glass with a water back. To go requests were strongly discouraged. Here a person who doesn’t have time to stop, if only for a few minutes, to take their morning coffee, is far too busy with their life. Late morning lunches were the source of heaping piles of home made pasta noodles doused in buttery sauces and sometimes dressed up in things like pomegranate seeds as if to make amends for the sin of eating rich food amidst the oppressive heat outside. We’d hop-scotch through the afternoon shadows, avoiding anything in view of the sun. Once the sun set we’d spend the evening outdoors like the locals do, standing at a wine barrel turned table top and eating the famous ham and cheese each bearing the town’s name, sipping regionally made sparkling red wine. Parma is our reminder that the best things in life can never be rushed, and are meant to be enjoyed slowly without a care in the world.
For the next few stops we threw away the plan to avoid tourist traps or crowds and let the current take us. Heat be damned, we paused for an overnight stay with a view of Italy’s most infamous tower. Goofy posed photos were snapped, reviewed, perfected, and snapped again. Around the grassy field in front of the tower that day a good number of the world’s languages were spoken, but none of us had any difficulty communicating, at least for the sake of asking for a photo. Sometimes the best view at famous attractions though, are what you can see when you turn around. Pisa pit stop completed, we coasted into five beach cove towns connected by train and hiking paths only. We dodged swinging selfie sticks and twirling tour guide umbrellas on the way down to our village’s rock cove. Only once we’d slipped into the indigo blue water did the heat and the crowds wash away. Clinging to an empty buoy we watched as teenage youths cliff jumped off an island rock. Around the shore simple boats painted in light blues and yellows swayed in the swell. From our vantage point, just beyond the melee, it made sense why this place is the subject of so many post cards and coffee table books.
A few days later we took the road south towards Rome with one overnight on the way. We arrived in the evening, chasing a rust orange Tuscan moon. Sweeping country hillside stretched out around our narrow and slowly deteriorating road. An evening breeze rustled tall dry grass that smelled like ripe grapes and dairy cows. Even the itch it gave our eyes was a welcome feeling. That evening, we lived a scene from a memory long since faded; at a tree covered iron table, part of a Italian farmhouse overlooking the hills we’d just driven through. In the distance lights from aged towns that smell like fresh grassy cheese and leather gave off soft glows. Here we re-ate the best meal of our lives and listened to the stories of a funny old man with sparkling eyes and tuxedo tie.
We rode the summer heat wave all the way to Rome. As a visitor in Rome, we’re just as likely to walk into chain clothing store found in any mall, and despite the fact that nine out ten pizza joints will have pictures on the menu and a disappointing pie, nothing could dissuade us from the allure of this city. Maybe it was the old stomping grounds of a semester abroad and a once hidden gem trattoria, now a top ranked trip advisor “locals” find that requires reservations; but the same grandma still works the kitchen and still puts out plate after plate of food that we’d eat every day if we could. And yes, maybe gelato now comes in fanciful flavors like basil-honey and balsamic-strawberry, but it’s still the best gelato we’ve ever had. And okay, our AirBnB was directly in front of one of the most visited tourist monuments in the city, but step outside into the Pantheon piazza at 4am when the world is quiet, the tables and chairs from the cafes are tucked away inside, when the square is at its darkest before dawn, and you can still hear the whispers from the ghosts of one of the world’s greatest civilizations. Sweating it out with a global diaspora of tourists in Italy during the late summer is a reminder that regardless of it’s touristic popularity and regardless of the fact that we’re all taking the same ridiculous photo, or searching for the same over priced pizza, Italy transcends ever becoming numbed by the likes of us. Italy is historic. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. Amen.
