The Wild Life

I love birds.  Not all kinds of birds, but most kinds (grackles, starlings, and crows need not apply).  I love their colours, songs, behaviours, and the fact that seeing one almost always makes me smile.  I like to attract them to the deck off our kitchen, because that's the best way for me to get to see and enjoy them up close. In fact, I currently have five different types of bird feeders attached to my deck railings, just so that everybody from hummingbirds to cardinals gets their preferred type of feed.  I even keep a bag of unsalted peanuts handy so I can throw them to the bluejays when requested.

I do not, on the other hand, love squirrels.  Squirrels, in my experience, are generally ill-mannered brutes and gluttons.  They do not play well with others.  Call me a specist if you will, but there it is.  I would like squirrels just fine if they were reasonable and willing to share.  The problem is that they park themselves on any available bird feeder (except for the hummingbird-specific one, of course) and stuff themselves until the food is gone. The red squirrels (so deceptively cute) are the worst of the lot in terms of gluttony.  They are extra annoying because they are also bullies, chasing away any creature that dares to trespass on what they see as their own personal spa.  I am not exaggerating - I've seen them gorge themselves, take a long sip of water from the birdbath, then stretch out along the railing as if trying to get a nap and a tan.  I'm sure they'd accept a massage if one was offered.

My family has almost gotten used to my banging on windows, waving my arms, yelling, chasing, and threatening to buy a gun with a silencer.  Almost, not quite - there's still a fair bit of eye-rolling that goes on.  No matter what I try, those little red devils are always one step ahead of me.  Yesterday I watched one chase a beautiful cardinal couple away from the feeder, and I saw red (pun intended).  I had to try something desperate.

I don't have a handgun license, so I did the next best thing.  I drove to the WBU store and grudgingly laid down the big bucks for a "squirrel-proof" feeder.  Now, I'm not naive - I've been around long enough to know that sooner or later, my squirrels are bound to figure a way around even these defenses.  I just needed to feel like I had the upper hand, if only for a day or two.  I actually got a bit of discount by purchasing a feeder that someone else had returned, not because of a problem with squirrels, but with raccoons!

Well, I took my new purchase home, set it up, and took some pleasure in watching my now perplexed freeloaders trying to figure it out in the evening.  So far so good.

As I headed off to bed a few hours later, the thought crossed my mind that I hoped no neighbourhood raccoon would come by and knock it down.  I'd rarely had any issues with coons, but for some reason I flicked on the outside light as I walked past the deck door just to check.  The sight that met my eyes had me convinced that I must be on Candid Camera.

There, packed together on the railing as if it was a row of theatre seats, was not only a raccoon, but five - count'em - five young kits.  Oh, they weren't bothering the new bird feeder; their focus was piling on top of each other to take swigs out of the hummingbird feeder.  It put me in mind of nothing so much as a gang of kids being taken out by their mother for ice cream cones.

Amidst much purr-growling, and with me urging them along with a broom, they all eventually and reluctantly left the deck and moved into the cherry tree next to it.  I hope they won't be nightly visitors, but I guess the bottom line is, if you invite wildlife into your back yard, you don't necessarily have a lot of control over just how wild it gets!

Living in Spring

The woods and trails were full of voices today, even though I was the only human in sight. If you ignored the distant hum of traffic, you could hear trickling water, a near cacophony of birdsong, and in the distance something else -- was it? -- yes, definitely a great chorus of spring peepers, no doubt rejoicing in being freed early from their lengthy slumber. And walking through a stand of pines, I noticed that even they were talking. I don't mean the familiar sigh of a breeze passing through needles, but a quiet yet distinct clicking sound. I have no idea what it was -- perhaps pine cones cracking open? All of this is to say that there is no mistaking it; spring is definitely here again.

This year is not typical. The first signs of spring were slightly less noticeable due to the mild winter we had experienced. In the past two weeks, unusually warm temperatures for March have caused spring to come on like an avalanche of greening and flowering plants. The arrival of spring after a harsh winter is generally more subtle and poignant: the first day of thaw reveals snowdrops already prepared to flower; the year's first returning robin huddles in a tree looking bewildered by a March snowstorm; clearing away dried leaves and old plant material reveals hyacinths, tulips, and daffodils already pushing their greens up through the earth. Spring usually forces us to await it with longing and comes on slowly...but come it does, no matter how harsh the winter, like the fulfillment of a promise.

For those of us who see life in such terms, the promise of spring is reflected in the spiritual world. I see the arrival of spring as a confirmation that always, even after the coldest, darkest days of our lives, a spiritual, spring-like renewal comes if we're open to it. I'm sure that is why Easter is celebrated in the spring. When we are experiencing a winter season in our lives, it can seem interminable. Yet gradually, we start to notice that there's a little more light each day -- perhaps we catch ourselves smiling or even laughing out loud at things that previously had failed to amuse us. One day we notice that we can hear about a great opportunity happening to someone else and not think, "But what about me?" We begin to recognize bits of beauty in the world where we had previously seen only dirt-crusted snowbanks. A chapter of scripture seems not empty or admonishing, but feels like what it is - a personal love letter from the Author. Eventually we look around and realize that we are once again living in a season of joy.

Some months ago, I was experiencing a winter of the soul. I didn't think that anyone else was aware or impacted; I kept throwing on my scarf and galoshes and trudging through my personal snowbanks. I scarcely realized that an unhealthy focus on self and an ungrateful spirit had me in a deep freeze, and it was affecting my work and my relationships. Yet even in that period of apparent dormancy, unseen forces were at work beneath the cold, snowy crust. Various influences begin to align themselves to shake me awake, admonish me, comfort me, encourage me, feed me -- until one day I was able to open my eyes fully and see that the snow had melted away and new growth was pushing its way through the softened soil into sunlight.

Good Friday can seem like a bleak day, but it thrums with a hidden energy. If you listen closely, it whispers "Hang on, hang on -- Easter is almost here!"

Waving at the chariots as they go by...

In the movie "Chariots of Fire," the character Eric Liddell makes this memorable statement: "I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure."  Yesterday afternoon, as I was pursuing one of my favourite pastimes, strolling along a local trail, camera at the ready, the thought occurred to me - God made me slow.  This is a fact that has sometimes been the source of considerable frustration for me, my family, friends, and occasionally coworkers.  It is also, I am coming to see, a gift.  I do tend to move slowly through this world, but as I do, my eyes are wide open.  I find that I tend to see and appreciate details that those moving at a faster clip may tend to overlook.  When I first started taking photographs, it was just as a way of chronicling life, and of committing to memory the things that I was seeing and experiencing.  As I have gotten older, and photography has become a passion, I see that it has in fact also become an act of worship for me.  When I notice, and try to capture with my camera, the beauty and incredible detail in the created world, I am also saying, "Father, I see it - and I acknowledge that it comes from you."  I also feel a desire to share these images with others, in the hope that they will have a renewed appreciation for these small wonders and for their Creator.  Those that move faster may accomplish much more in a day, but sometimes they miss these rumours of glory as they rush on by.

Fast people win races.  They also complete lists, and impress those of us who are not similarly calibrated.  I may have to push myself every day to accomplish the practical necessities of life, but I am also learning to make peace with, and even appreciate, the way that I have been made.  I accept the fact that I am more likely to be the one taking pictures at the finish line.  And that gives Him pleasure too.

Viva Venezia!

Venice was one of the cities on our itinerary that I had visited on my much-earlier European tour. My memories of it were hazy, clouded by the fact that I had been feeling very homesick at that point, and distinctly uncomfortable sleeping at a youth hostel in a room full of strangers. Still, on this day, as our train from Rome passed from hilly countryside through much flatter terrain and eventually across a lagoon, my excitement was growing. Venice, just by the uniqueness of its setting, seems somehow magical to me - a tiny island kingdom from another era, complete with palace, its narrow cobblestone streets completely devoid of traffic. Here, after leaving the train station, we dragged our bulging suitcases onto a vaporetto instead of a bus or taxi. We climbed off at our stop right next to the Rialto bridge and made our way along the canal and down a few sides streets to our bed and breakfast. Wrestling our way up six flights of stairs, we finally arrived at our room and met Claudete, perhaps the loveliest and most accommodating of any of our hosts to date. She graciously provided us with maps, directions, and suggestions. As we got ourselves settled in our room, a beautiful, operatic male voice drifted up into our open window. I hung my head out to see man walking along the narrow lane outside our room, enjoying the acoustics as he walked. He looked up at me, grinned widely, and continued singing on his way. I knew right then that I was going to like this place.

We grabbed our map and set out walking, savouring the carless streets and manageable distances. After a short stroll, we found ourselves in the Piazza San Marco. I instantly felt like a kid in a candy store, and I couldn't wipe the grin off my face for the rest of the day. The crowds didn't bother me in the least as I walked around snapping pictures of tourists covered in pigeons, vendors selling t-shirts, masks, and silly hats, St. Mark's Basilica, and the beautiful Doge's Palace. For me, it was another "Somebody pinch me!" moment. It was like being Photoshopped into a series of postcard images. Crossing over the Rialto bridge, we strolled through the crowded market stalls and shops hawking Murano glass jewelry, scarves, or fresh fruit. Eventually we made our way to Campo San Polo. This large square bordered by homes and a few restaurants was recommended to us by our hostess, who told us we would be able to dine here in a place frequented by Venetians rather than tourists. As we sat outdoors, feeding bread crumbs to a sparrow that came and sat expectantly on the corner of our table, we watched neighbourhood children chasing each other around the fountain or kicking soccer balls while parents and grandparents strolled around the square, stopping to chat with each person they met about the news of the day. Gradually, as the sun set, they all headed home for their dinner, or began to fill in the tables at the restaurant where we were, as usual, among the earliest of the diners. It grew dark as we headed back toward "home," and we stopped off at Piazza San Marco on the way. This area becomes quite magical at night, pigeons and vendors mostly gone, and the square softly illuminated by lights atop the buildings that make up the perimeter. Several of the restaurants that face onto the piazza set up tables and chairs, and each of these spots includes a small canopied stage where a small orchestra in evening attire plays throughout the evening. Few people actually sit at the tables, having been forewarned (as were we) by their guidebooks that exorbitant prices are charged for drinking or dining there. But there is no charge to listen, so one is free to wander from place to place stopping to listen to whichever quintet strikes the fancy. Periodically, one or two couples would step back from the small crowds watching the show and spontaneously begin to ballroom dance in the empty parts of the square. Others just stood with their arms wrapped around each other, swaying to the music. Later, we found our way back to our room, crossing canals over small bridges while gondolas passed quietly underneath, carrying well-heeled tourists who had opted to wait for nightfall to indulge in their lamplit tour of the city's waterways. I personally don't know how Niagara Falls ever got its reputation for being the honeymoon capital of the world; in my estimation, Venice beats it hands-down for romance at its finest.

The next morning, we awoke to a lovely tray of breakfast, including my very own pot of coffee, brought to our room by Claudete. Fuelled for the morning, we headed off to check out the morning fish and fruit market near the Rialto. This incredible array of seafood and farm-fresh produce starts arriving by boat before dawn, hauled to row after row of long wooden tables. As I viewed the vast displays of squid, octopus, long eel-like fish, and another variety of fish that looked like it was soaking in black ink, I tried to memorize their Italian names so that I wouldn't accidentally order them from a menu. I'm afraid that my spirit of adventure does not extend very far when it comes to seafood.

Next on the agenda was a lengthy tour of the Doge's Palace, including the so-called "secret areas." These included a torture room, as well as the jail cell where Casanova was once held prisoner until he made a daring escape. We also passed through the famous "Bridge of Sighs" which connects the palace to the prison, so named because its windows offered convicts their last view of the city before their incarceration. We walked for hours in the afternoon, all the way to the train station and back, stopping en route to visit the huge Frari Church, filled with massive and glorious statuary, including a statue of the crucifixion that I found more moving than any other I had seen - and I had seen quite a few by this point.

After all of our walking, Wendy felt like an evening in, so I set out to prowl on my own. Venice is one of those cities where I never felt unsafe for a moment, even when walking alone. I loved to wander along the canals and narrow streets window-shopping, people-watching, taking pictures from bridges, and watching the gondoliers gather to moor their boats for the night. And before heading back to my room, a gelato in the Piazza made a perfect bedtime snack, and the music of the duelling orchestras offered a lovely lullaby.

The next morning, after breakfast, I asked Claudete if there was any way to tour the Grand Canal without spending an arm and a leg. She mentioned that she had heard something about a celebration of some sort taking place that day, where they might be offering free gondola rides for the morning. Wendy had seen gondolas gathering near the Rialto on her early morning walk, so we headed down there to check things out. She talked to a girl who was standing near the dock and she confirmed that it was true - she, in fact, was waiting for her two friends to meet her there for the event. We were near the front of the line and waited patiently there until the appointed time of 10 o'clock, doing our best to hold our own against the shoving of the Venetian matrons who showed up in droves and showed little respect for the concept of waiting in line. When the time arrived to allow people onto the gondolas, we managed to climb aboard one with the three girls, and were handed two Venetian flags to wave. As our new friends tried to explain to us, this was some kind of tourist board-sponsored pro-Venice, anti-motorized boats event. We pulled out into the Grand Canal and then sat there for quite a while, surrounded by dozens of other gondolas. I assumed that this was to be the extent of our free ride, and was content to have had a chance to sit in a gondola. Suddenly, our flotilla began to be joined by other larger gondolas manned by teams of rowers in uniform. Then came two much larger boats rowed by larger teams and carrying what seemed to be important town dignataries. One boat was draped with a huge red banner proclaiming "Rispetto e Decoro per Venezia" (respect and honour for Venice). As these boats pulled past us, our gondoliers all began to paddle, forming one giant procession with the larger boats! We travelled all the way down the Grand Canal to St. Mark's Square. The largest boat had a sound system blasting stirring music such as the "Ode to Joy," alternating with rousing speeches by a man on board and concluding with cries of "Viva Venezia! Viva San Marco!" It was so exciting and moving that I was close to tears. People crowded along the shores and bridges waving and cheering as the "parade" passed. We felt like real celebrities. Wendy and I decided to pretend that this event was, in fact, a belated celebration of our 50th birthdays (mine had just taken a couple of years of extra planning) - and we even got to keep the flags. What a thrill, and it cost us absolutely nothing!

My time in lovely Venice was brief, but so very memorable, and as I took my farewell stroll through the Piazza San Marco later that night, I knew that our departure the next morning would be another one of the sad goodbyes. But Lake Como awaited us at the end of the next train ride - the last hurrah for our month-long Italian tour.

The Honeymoon is Over

In the interest of keeping an honest account of my observations on this trip, I must confess that after four weeks, the inevitable has happened - we are tired of each other. Not tired of travelling, mind you, not ready to go back to our predictable Canadian lives, but certainly ready for separate rooms. We are VERY different from each other; we have different ways of looking at the world, different body clocks, different sleep schedules, very different taste in food and drink. Throw in too much train travel and some bad weather, and you know that you're both in for some character development. The upside is, if you have to have your character developed anyway, you might as well be in Italy while it's happening!

Our idyllic week in Tuscany ended, as they say, not with a bang but a whimper. Woken up too early once again, I dragged my luggage to our rental car and said one last sad goodbye to San Gimignano on a fittingly grey and rainy morning. After dropping our car off in Siena, we climbed aboard what would be the first of four trains that day. Our third arrived in Pescara late, and we had missed our connection to Ortona. Fortunately, we were able to find another about an hour later. Ortona, while very out of the way, was not a random choice. Wendy's father had taken part in a battle here 65 years ago, and his friend was buried in a local cemetery for foreign soldiers, mostly Canadians. We were coming here so that Wendy could see the place where her father and so many other Canadians had fought, and to leave a momento at the cemetery.

Arriving in Ortona was a little like pulling into a station in the Wild West. Small building, no office, seedy little bar on one end, starving mother cats prowling the platform. To one side of the tracks, a seaport, apparently deserted on this Saturday afternoon. To the other, the town, some distance away and on top of a very high hill. No evidence anywhere of a way to connect these two points.

I stayed with the luggage, feeding cheese to the cats, while Wendy wandered off to look for help or direction. Well, it seems that God had gone ahead of us to this apparently God-forsaken place and prepared the way. Wendy soon emerged from the bar with the news that she had found a man who would not only use his cell phone to call us a cab from the town to take us to our hotel, but who would pick us up the next day and drive us out to the cemetery (don't faint, Mother). This was Carmine, a kindly middle-aged man with gout in one knee and no teeth to speak of. He may also have been the only citizen of Ortona with a working knowledge of English.

As promised, our "taxi" soon arrived, in the form of a distinguished-looking senior in a Jaguar. He helped us put our luggage in the trunk and off we went to our hotel. We tried not to be nonplussed by the fact that there was no meter in the car; when we arrived at the hotel, he made up a price which seemed reasonable.

I don't quite know how to describe Ortona. One some levels, it seems to be a place frozen in time. Some buildings and neighbourhoods look like the war just ended, but there are also designer clothing stores and girls in tight jeans and high heels. People eyed us warily on the street as if we were some alien life form, but when we got lost and asked for directions to our hotel, the woman we spoke to decided it would be easier just to drive us there in her car than to try and explain the way!

On Sunday morning, Carmine picked us up and drove us to the Moro River Cemetery. It was about 5 km from town, and I doubt we could have found it on our own. On the way, he stopped to show us Casa Berardi, a house on a ridge where Germans had encamped, picking off Canadian soldiers as they climbed up from the valley below. Many lost their lives there. We also met retired Col. Berardi, whose family home it had been before the Germans took it from them when he was five years old.

The cemetery was beautifully landscaped and immaculately maintained. 1,325 Canadian soldiers lie here, dead and buried in a foreign land. I wept as I walked along rows of white headstones of these men, most of them younger than my own sons, many only 19 or 20 years old. Each stone was engraved with name and rank, home town, age at death, and a personal message or verse obviously chosen by family members a continent away. It was very moving, and I'm glad we had a chance to see it.

Our guardian angel picked us up again on Monday morning to drive us back to the train station. He would only accept a little money for his gas expenses, insisting repeatedly, "I don't do this for the money." Carmine was a refreshing change from the many other men we have encountered in train stations who are eager to help, but only for the money.

The next train carried us across to Roma. Many people had raved to us about the beauty of Rome, but the Eternal City was not about to open her arms to us. Our visit began with a bus ride that took more than an hour and, unlike driving through Paris, offered no hints at any beautiful sights to come. We found our B&B with some difficulty, and our hostess basically greeted us with, "Here are your keys. We're available in our office from 10-5 each day. Can you pay now?" We had asked her to make reservations for our at the Borghese Gallery, and were told, "The Gallery is closed for a week. I don't know why. Sorry." Thud. No Bernini sculptures for us. Since we were located near the Musei Vaticani, we decided to walk around and acquaint ourselves with the area before visiting it the next day. We found the museum and walked around its walls. After a while, we came to a gate that seemed to lead into the Vatican itself, complete with uniformed Swiss guards. As we kept walking, we passed through an opening and realized that we had stumbled into the courtyard of St. Peter's Cathedral. It was huge and quite beautiful, surrounded by scores of massive pillars, and overlooked by a procession of huge statues. As we prowled the nearby streets and bridge that evening, it began to rain - an omen of what was to come.

Tuesday morning dawned grey and drizzly. We joined the line making its way into the Vatican Museum, and spent most of the morning enjoying the lovely rooms and artwork. We both found ourselves surprised by the Sistine Chapel. Somehow it wasn't at all what we'd expected from photographs. While it was immense and beautifully detailed, we felt that we could have passed through the room without realizing what we were looking at. We would have liked to be able to get closer to it to see it in greater detail.

When we left the museum, we joined the throngs making their way to St. Peter's. I was engaged in conversation with a woman from Ottawa, and Wendy managed to wander off on her own and got separated from me for about half an hour. Fortunately, I was wearing my bright yellow Paddington coat and we were eventually able to reconnect. Under threatening skies, we joined the line to climb to the cupola of the basilica. This time there was a lift that took us part of the way up, still leaving us with 310 steps to climb. When we reached the top, we had time for a few pictures in the high winds. Suddenly there was a tremendous crack of thunder directly overhead, and the skies opened. Dozens of people huddled back against walls and in crevices, struggling to find protection from the storm. An umbrella didn't offer much cover, and I didn't fancy the idea of acting as a lightning rod. It soon became apparent that this weather was not going to blow over. We made our way back down the narrow, winding staircase and descended, dripping, to tour the basilica itself. Although it was massive and very impressive, neither of us found that it impacted us as much as some of the smaller cathedrals we had visited.

The persistent downpour put an end to any plans for further sightseeing or a night walk of Rome. We were reduced to spending the evening in our room, fixing a quasi-spaghetti dinner in the kitchen of our B&B. The rain continued all night long.

Wednesday morning the rain stopped for a while, so we hit the soggy streets. We took a subway to the Spanish Steps. Nearby we stopped in at what I believe is the first and largest McDonalds in Italy, complete with gelato for Wendy and a very fine capuccino for me. The next stop on our walking tour was the Trevi Fountain, which I thought was magnificent. We joined the throngs of tourists snapping photos of each other tossing coins into the fountain. The city must make a fortune from that place alone! As we left that area, the rains returned and, apart from a few short breaks, remained for the rest of the day. We marched on in sodden shoes, our map gradually dissolving in our hands. By the time we found the Pantheon, we were drenched. We marvelled at its construction, austere beauty and remarkable history as a pillar of rain poured in through the opening at the top of the dome.

It was obvious that we were never going to find Santa Maria della Vittorio (?) church under these conditions, so I had to give up on my last chance to see a famous Bernini sculpture. We did manage to walk through Palatine Hill, the Roman Forum, and the Colosseum between showers - each remarkable in its own way. At that point, we had no idea how to find any public transportation that would take us anywhere near where we were staying, so we resigned ourselves to walking. I dragged Wendy to the Bocca della Veritas on the way, determined to at least be able to add another photo to my movie/book tour collection. We schlepped along the banks of the Tiber, across a bridge, through St. Peter's, and eventually back to our room, damp and exhausted. I have no idea how far we walked that day, but I think that when I return to Canada, I will look into having my worn-out, bunion-ridden feet removed and replaced with titanium ones.

Our very truncated tour of Rome left me, I'm afraid, with this general impression: big, dirty, unfriendly, many fascinating sights linked together by generally uninteresting city. Obviously, many have a much different impression and perhaps, in better weather, I would too. If my coin thrown in the fountain works its magic, I will return some day to give Rome another chance to win my heart.

Venice, on the other hand, had me at hello. But that is a story for another day.

Under the Tuscan Sun - the book tour

We have reached the half-way point on our six-week journey. It is hard to believe that we've only been gone that long. Last night I was reviewing some photos on my camera (whose memory card is already full!). When I looked at pictures from Paris, it felt like that was a year ago. We keep feeling like we'd like to freeze time for a day at the end of each stay, just so that we could review and digest what we've seen.

I find that by the end of day two, I begin to get into the rhythm of a place. I start to know my way around a bit, and start recognizing landmarks as we come and go from our accommodation. I even find myself smiling when I see new arrivals, pulling their luggage down the streets with that lost, vulnerable look on their faces that I must have worn the day before. Then, in another day or less, we move on to the next destination. Not so with San Gimignano.

After picking up our car in Florence on Saturday morning, we leave the city and head into the countryside of Tuscany. Our country mouse cheers with relief. She loves to see green around her instead of crowds, finding cities to be a necessary evil. Unfortunately, as she says, you won't find a Michelangelo sitting out in a field. Our approach to SG does not afford us much of a view of the town. After phoning for directions to our B&B, we head down a gravel road outside the gate, and the skyline of the town starts to reveal itself behind us. Climbing out of our car, we walk to the back of the house, and immediately realize that we have booked a week in paradise. One of the first things that strikes us is the heady sweetness of the air. Before us is a beautiful pool, surrounded with umbrellas and pots of flowers. To our left lies the ruggedly handsome town - a viewpoint that you don't get from any other angle. On all sides of us, the land spreads out in a patchwork of rolling hills coloured in spring green, alternating with the corduroy pattern of vineyards and orchards of olive trees with their grey/green leaves. All of this is punctuated by the dark green strokes of the rows of cypress trees. Tile-roofed villas dot the distant hilltops and, in the far distance, high and hazy hills form the horizon. We both look at each other, speechless for a few moments. As our strictly Italian hostess would say with great understatement, "Bella - no?" Bella, yes. And the icing on the cake is her English-speaking assistant, her son Francesco, who looks pretty much like a fully-clothed miniature version of Michelangelo's David.

The scented air, we determine, comes from a combination of sources. One is a shrub with sweet-smelling bright yellow flowers that look like butterflies lighting on the branches. Another is Carla's collection of fragrant roses, all with saucer-sized blooms. Still another is the huge acacia tree in the yard. It is in full bloom, and there is a constant low hum around it from contented bees. When the wind blows, a shower of creamy petals takes flight and even drifts into our room, which opens off the patio. We will later learn that the property is just as magical at night when the lights come on in the town (which we can see from our bedroom window) and also twinkle from the villas and villages dotted across the hilly landscape.

In the morning, we sit out on the patio with this amazing view, and a green-eyed Italian man brings me my coffee. By that time, Wendy has already been up since dawn, swimming in the silence as hot-air balloons pass over, then walking through the nearby orchards. Later we may walk into San Gimignano (which is also beautiful) and spend some time taking pictures, window-shopping, or eating gelato and big slices of pizza with tomatoes and artichoke hearts. Other days we drive to other towns like Cortona and Volterra, all of which are walled and precariously perched on mountain tops, accessible only by miles of zigzagging narrow roads. I can't imagine any army wanting to besiege them badly enough to make that kind of uphill hike! Each village has its own peculiar charm, and I was tickled when we were able to do some detective work and find Bramasole, summer home to Frances Mayes, author of "Under the Tuscan Sun."

I could go on for pages more about the small pleasures that each day affords: the tiny green lizards that sun themselves on rock walls and skitter into the underbrush as we approach, the swallows that whistle like over-eager referees, then swoop down over the pool to scoop up a beakful of water, the pheasant unexpectedly crossing the road in front of us as we walk to town, the unidentified bird or fowl (perhaps even the self-same pheasant) that we hear and never see, sounding like the horn of a Model T Ford, but at a slightly higher pitch. But the towers of San Gimignano are beckoning outside my window, and I want to go out and savour every moment of the time I have left here.

Firenze

On Wednesday morning, as we dragged our luggage down narrow sidewalks of uneven cobblestones en route to our Florence hotel, I found myself wondering why I had such warm memories of this city. We checked into our hotel, Il Bargellino, and found it to be a lovely spot on an unlovely street, with a sort of fading elegance and a wonderful large terrace in back. We met our hosts, Boston-bred Carmel and her Italian husband Pino. Carmel kindly offered us a map of the city and some suggestions, and we headed out to explore. We ambled through the outdoor stalls of the San Lorenzo market, passing dozens of sellers of purses, scarves, jewelry, and cheap clothing. For the first time on our trip, we found ourselves the targets of masculine attention and compliments; sadly, it was just from merchants trying to attract our business. As we continued on our way, we turned a corner and there, in front of us, was the Duomo in all its glory. Suddenly I remembered why I loved Florence. The Duomo (apart from the actual dome) and its campanile (bell tower) are covered in a mosaic of white, pink, and green marble, and I find it breathtakingly beautiful. Apparently some people agree with me; others disdain it as "the cathedral in pajamas."

We continued on past the Palazzo Vecchio with its huge outdoor statues and the Uffizi Gallery. Crossing over the Arno on the Ponte Vecchio with its jewelry stores and crowds, we finally made our way to the Pitti Palace and passed through to the Boboli Gardens. This seems to be the only large green space within Florence. The gardens and statuaries are beautiful. As we progressed through the various levels, we climbed a final set of stairs and reached the highest point. This was a lovely rose garden in its own right, but the view from its walls was possibly the most glorious I had seen in my life - to that point. Tuscany lay spread out before us, layer upon green layer, out to the distant mountains. Cypress trees, vineyards, villas, towers, farmhouses, and the sound of church bells floating up from the city below. What a welcome!

Later, back at our hotel, we dined al fresco on the terrace and began a nightly ritual of sharing travel stories with the other guests. Leopoldo the hotel parrot offered commentary from the sidelines, sometimes "laughing" loudly, sometimes just murmuring "ciao" in a low, throaty voice. There were even nightly visits from the neighbour's cat, Yogita, who would brush by each table with her huge plume of a tail, looking for a little attention. The hotel really turned out to be a lovely oasis each evening after a day spent jostling through crowds in the city heat.
Thursday was the start of our museum tour. We had appointments at the Accademia in the morning and the Uffizi Gallery in the afternoon. At the Accademia, we saw Michelangelo's statues "The Prisoners." They were very impressive, but nothing surpasses his famous, massive statue of David. You can view it from every angle for half an hour, and still feel like you could sit and stare at it all day. There was so much to see in the Uffizi, but the highlight for me, as it was 31 years ago, was the paintings of Botticelli. I find myself transfixed by them.

We pushed on from there to the church of Santa Croce, where we viewed ancient frescoes and the tombs of many famous Italians, including Galileo, Marconi, Michelangelo, and DaVinci. It is amazing to be in a city surrounded by buildings and art created 600-700 years ago that still exist and function.

After all of our museum touring, we refreshed ourselves with a stop at the famous gelateria, Vivoli's, where we tried their signature flavour, riso (rice). It doesn't sound good, but it is - Wendy was so impressed that she immediately converted from her usual vanilla (?!) and went back for seconds.

Friday was our last full day in Florence. Among other things, we toured the lovely Bargello museum, where we enjoyed sculptures by the likes of Donatello and Michelangelo. That afternoon, we climbed the 463 steps to the top of the Duomo for an amazing view of the city. It was challenging, but not nearly as much so as the hiking trails of the Cinque Terre. By all logic, I should be wasting away to nothing due to the amount of walking and climbing we have done...gelato must have more calories than we imagine.

We finished our stay in Florence with another quiet evening on the patio, enjoying pizza picked up at a neighbourhood restaurant. Saturday, we pick up our rental car and head for our much-anticipated week-long stay in Tuscany.