Under the Tuscan Sun: Cortona
All you need to know about me is that I heroically bear the cosmic injustice of not owning a house in Tuscany. Not yet at least. I enjoy writing about inspiring places, but I have been strangely postponing writing about Tuscany for way too long. I was not gatekeeping or selfishly protecting it from the crowds, it is too late for that anyhow and I am not a gatekeeper. Joy shared is joy multiplied. The reason for staying mum is that this region of Italy is for me not a travel destination among many, it is most importantly a feeling. All the Tuscan rolling, jade-colored hills, all the medieval stone-cobbled villages, burnt sunflower fields bobbing on the side of the roads, all the art you could wish for, helped generously with hearty food, have jointly created a bubble of serenity and beauty that is parallel to nowhere else. So, naturally, it could not even be perceived and described by the same means as other places. Despite traveling there on repeat, whenever circumstances align, it never occurred to me to capture it in writing. Non ho quella altezza.
The feeling that Tuscany gives to anyone lucky enough to visit it, is the primordial attraction of coming back home. Imagine that after a long, winding journey, many a wrong turn, and just too many misfortunes and disappointments in your life, you turn the corner, suitcase in hand, and see a cottage snuggled by a garden, bathed in the eternal golden hour, where your beloved ones await to embrace you, support you, love you, feed you, comfort you, and feed you again. Then they nonchalantly gift you a Botticelli, that old thing, it was collecting dust in the attic anyway.
You will sit under a grapevine veranda, read unhurried and uninterrupted, sip the wine produced a few meters away from you, and you will never, ever tire of orange sunsets and the blessed silence surrounding you. Correction: Tuscany did become a magnet for a particular kind of wealthy, sophisticated, highly cultured visitor from abroad (think Hannibal Lecter but without the gruesome, gory subplot), so you might hear just a smidge of live piano music wafting from a nearby villa. Schubert, Chopin and so on. That's Tuscany in a nutshell. The sensation is always the same: I have returned to where I belong, to a place I never knew existed outside of books and the most charming films, and where I eagerly pray and hope to end my days on earth.
What is most surprising in Tuscany, is how versatile it is. You could find any experience you desire there, apart from skiing, I suppose. For those travelers who prioritize culture, refinement, history, galleries, and museums, Tuscany is the end of their quest. For the people who are into indulging in delicious food, wine, and pools while overlooking the tranquil scenery, search no further. There are villages, towns, busy cities, untouched nature, and natural thermal spas. And then, there is the seaside, which is a topic in itself. One visit will not suffice. You have to move there, as I have been trying to explain to my husband.
We all have that one romantic chick flick we are rather ashamed to admit we love. Right? For me, it has always been Under the Tuscan Sun, a cute, saccharine story of a middle-aged divorcee who finds meaning in life when she renovates an old Tuscan villa. Remove the real estate narrative and beautiful shots of Cortona, and the film deserves only ignoral. But being what it is, a cinematic love letter to Tuscan villages, landscapes, and lifestyle, the film set me on the path of loving Tuscany from afar for ages, long before I ever had the chance to see it and experience it with all my senses. I never cared for the sentimental love quest in the film, but I felt extremely invested in the progress of the renovation of the dilapidated house that stars in the film. In my defense, I am not into "Before and After" shows, and I am far from being alone in this fascination. In the charming village of Cortona, the writer of the story, Frances Mayes is nothing short of a demi-goddess because of all the enchanted, please-take-our-money tourists that she brought from all over the world. They all came because of the film but stayed for their slice of magic in this Italian paradise. To her credit, the author of the memoir did not only talk the talk, but she certainly walked the walk. Her actual villa, Bramasole, which means yearning for the sun, is in Cortona, in all its glory, peachy and green-shattered, and can be reached on foot. Of course, I made the pilgrimage, it had to be done.
The center of the village is just as you might imagine it, small but more than enough, with the Piazza della Repubblica square bathed in golden hues, and dotted with traditional market stalls. The medieval cobblestones underneath your feet, palaces, arches, and clock towers above you, Santa Maria Cathedral with an imposing staircase inviting you to sit and just people watch, perhaps with a golden standard gelato in hand. The eccentric little shops are selling ceramics, quality hats, artworks, red wine, olive oil, and packages of pasta & sauces in all the colors of the rainbow that are bursting and spilling on the pavement in their wooden crates. Old couples, evocative of another era, exquisitely dressed, arms linked, are slowly strolling along the main street. This is Cortona.
Trattorias everywhere, affordable and delicious, with a picture of Frances Mayes as a sign that Her Highness approved of their cuisine. No one has time for Michelin stars in here. Trattoria Dardano and its ribollita, a hearty Tuscan soup of bread, beans and vegetables is still often on my mind. Porchetta, ossobuco, pepposo, the names of the typical dishes are music to my ears. Above all, the views you would never tire of, the shimmering waters of Lake Trasimeno in the distance, the greens, the vines, the flowers, the farms in the distance, and the giant broccoli trees shielding them from the sun. There is nothing not to love in the land of intense well-being called Cortona.
A recently discovered book favorite of mine, John Mortimer's Summer's Lease, touched me too profoundly for a forgotten novel from the 1980s. It is the story of a family that takes a lease of a villa in Tuscany and spends a few incredible months there. I might have already forgotten the minutiae of the plot, but the house they rented, is vividly fixed in my memory. A house similar to that, I dream of renting with my husband in retirement, somewhere close to Cortona. A summer's lease under the Tuscan sun, all of our own. It is completely self-indulgent but we are in the thralls of a frigid Swiss winter now, and only thoughts and daydreams like this keep me going. So, bear with me.
