Salon Wanderlust | At home in Tuscany

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

T A B L E_T A L K
Have you ever seen a passenger go berserk on a plane? Share your tales of air rage in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y
The belles of St. Mary's
By Jennifer Moses
A Jewish writer learns about the Old South, and herself, in the most unlikely of places
(12/01/98)
Afoot in the South African bush
By Lance Gould
A New Yorker ventures on a walking safari into the wild world of wildebeest, Cape buffalo and dung beetles
(11/30/98)
The Khan men of Agra
By Pamela Michael
In India, a moment of trust opens the door to a traveler's richest reward
(11/25/98)
The rabbis of Bangkok, Part Two
By Douglas A. Konecky
A live sex show reveals more than flesh to an American musician in Thailand
(11/24/98)
The rabbis of Bangkok
By Douglas A. Konecky
A traveling Jewish band from California meets a trio of Hasidic Jews in the teeming city of Live Sex Shows and Thai Full Body Massage
(11/23/98)

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------At home in T U S C A N Y
Tuscany Cover
The slow-paced pleasures of rural Italy come to life for two new residents.
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E X C E R P T :
THE HILLS OF TUSCANY: A NEW LIFE IN AN OLD LAND | BY FERENC MÁTÉ | ALBATROSS PUBLISHING | 248 PAGES

BY FERENC MÁTÉ | The almond trees were precociously in bloom as we turned into the hills towards Montepulciano. The fields, plowed bare last November, were now green with grain, and crocuses, wild daffodils and irises bloomed along the roads. Above the ditches brambly hedges of wild plum were in full white flower, as if fresh snow were packed among their branches.
We sat silently with the engine roaring, in that confusing mixture of joy and trepidation -- joy because everything seemed perfect, and trepidation that we might have made the mistake of our lives. But we didn't say those words. We fretted instead about details like how will we sleep without a bed, wash without towels, cook without pots and eat without plates and live in a strange country in an empty house. We were to be left a few antiques: two cassapancas, low wooden chests; a madia, in which flour was once kept and upon which bread was kneaded; an angolieria, a tall triangular corner cupboard; and a small old desk; but nothing you could sleep on or eat at. We tried to visualize the empty rooms so we wouldn't be too shocked. And we worried -- but only until we came over the last hill, and saw the towers of Montepulciano bathed in midday light, and San Biagio in her reassuring splendor.
Billowing spring clouds drifted over the valley. Doves swept overhead on Via Delle Colombelle. The old lady of the house right on the road, was leading a big nanny goat past the vegetable garden into a field, with a little brown kid jumping and kicking at the air. Down the hill La Marinaia snuggled in her oasis. We stopped at Bazzotti's where we were to get the key from Renata, who had looked after the house for the previous owners. Bazzotti's daughter with bewitching eyes must have recognized the car, because she jumped up from the stairs, ran inside and came back with a great steel ring, and on it the key to our house. She smiled shyly.
We drove past the pond. Great clusters of the winter's dead reeds had fallen across each other, but between them were new, fragile shoots of green. At the top of the hill, we unlocked the rusty chain strung between stone columns, and drove down. A coarse winter grass had grown tall between the tracks and whispered under us. The garden looked unkempt. Piles of dead leaves had accumulated, wind-swept, in odd places and the trellis was a skeleton of naked, leafless vines. Snow had forced flat some long-limbed shrubbery, and spring weeds had sprouted everywhere. The house too seemed forlorn. With the windows and doors shuttered and peeling, it seemed to be waiting for a new life.
We unlocked the big wood shutters, and pushed open the glassed doors. An odor of wood, and stone, and age, cool from the long winter, wafted into the sun. We went in and groped for the light switches but the power was shut off, and so I went around and opened the inside shutters. I blinked in confusion. The big eating hall was indeed empty but down the steps in the soggiorno loomed shapes of objects I didn't expect to see. Besides the antiques, there were the four down-pillowed chairs and the old Persian rug, and among them a low travertine table. The kitchen too had some surprises: a tin garden table covered with a faded tablecloth, and two wood garden chairs, and on the shelves a few pots and pans, and plates and soup bowls and cups.
Candace called from upstairs. I went. In the big bedroom was a double bed with pillows and a cotton cover. Candace stood at an open wall cupboard. On a shelf were sheets and pillowcases and towels, all neatly ironed. Someone besides us, someone we barely knew, had worried about our coming to an empty house. We threw open windows and shutters and let the sun-warmed, spring air stream into the rooms and expel the cold of winter.
N E X T+P A G E | "It's beginning to feel like Christmas"


	T A B L E_T A L K Have you ever seen a passenger go berserk on a plane? Share your tales of air rage in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y The belles of St. Mary's By Jennifer Moses A Jewish writer learns about the Old South, and herself, in the most unlikely of places (12/01/98) Afoot in the South African bush By Lance Gould A New Yorker ventures on a walking safari into the wild world of wildebeest, Cape buffalo and dung beetles (11/30/98) The Khan men of Agra By Pamela Michael In India, a moment of trust opens the door to a traveler's richest reward (11/25/98) The rabbis of Bangkok, Part Two By Douglas A. Konecky A live sex show reveals more than flesh to an American musician in Thailand (11/24/98) The rabbis of Bangkok By Douglas A. Konecky A traveling Jewish band from California meets a trio of Hasidic Jews in the teeming city of Live Sex Shows and Thai Full Body Massage (11/23/98) Browse the Wanderlust Passages archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		------At home in T U S C A N Y The slow-paced pleasures of rural Italy come to life for two new residents. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - E X C E R P T : THE HILLS OF TUSCANY: A NEW LIFE IN AN OLD LAND \| BY FERENC MÁTÉ \| ALBATROSS PUBLISHING \| 248 PAGES BY FERENC MÁTÉ \| The almond trees were precociously in bloom as we turned into the hills towards Montepulciano. The fields, plowed bare last November, were now green with grain, and crocuses, wild daffodils and irises bloomed along the roads. Above the ditches brambly hedges of wild plum were in full white flower, as if fresh snow were packed among their branches. We sat silently with the engine roaring, in that confusing mixture of joy and trepidation -- joy because everything seemed perfect, and trepidation that we might have made the mistake of our lives. But we didn't say those words. We fretted instead about details like how will we sleep without a bed, wash without towels, cook without pots and eat without plates and live in a strange country in an empty house. We were to be left a few antiques: two cassapancas, low wooden chests; a madia, in which flour was once kept and upon which bread was kneaded; an angolieria, a tall triangular corner cupboard; and a small old desk; but nothing you could sleep on or eat at. We tried to visualize the empty rooms so we wouldn't be too shocked. And we worried -- but only until we came over the last hill, and saw the towers of Montepulciano bathed in midday light, and San Biagio in her reassuring splendor. Billowing spring clouds drifted over the valley. Doves swept overhead on Via Delle Colombelle. The old lady of the house right on the road, was leading a big nanny goat past the vegetable garden into a field, with a little brown kid jumping and kicking at the air. Down the hill La Marinaia snuggled in her oasis. We stopped at Bazzotti's where we were to get the key from Renata, who had looked after the house for the previous owners. Bazzotti's daughter with bewitching eyes must have recognized the car, because she jumped up from the stairs, ran inside and came back with a great steel ring, and on it the key to our house. She smiled shyly. We drove past the pond. Great clusters of the winter's dead reeds had fallen across each other, but between them were new, fragile shoots of green. At the top of the hill, we unlocked the rusty chain strung between stone columns, and drove down. A coarse winter grass had grown tall between the tracks and whispered under us. The garden looked unkempt. Piles of dead leaves had accumulated, wind-swept, in odd places and the trellis was a skeleton of naked, leafless vines. Snow had forced flat some long-limbed shrubbery, and spring weeds had sprouted everywhere. The house too seemed forlorn. With the windows and doors shuttered and peeling, it seemed to be waiting for a new life. We unlocked the big wood shutters, and pushed open the glassed doors. An odor of wood, and stone, and age, cool from the long winter, wafted into the sun. We went in and groped for the light switches but the power was shut off, and so I went around and opened the inside shutters. I blinked in confusion. The big eating hall was indeed empty but down the steps in the soggiorno loomed shapes of objects I didn't expect to see. Besides the antiques, there were the four down-pillowed chairs and the old Persian rug, and among them a low travertine table. The kitchen too had some surprises: a tin garden table covered with a faded tablecloth, and two wood garden chairs, and on the shelves a few pots and pans, and plates and soup bowls and cups. Candace called from upstairs. I went. In the big bedroom was a double bed with pillows and a cotton cover. Candace stood at an open wall cupboard. On a shelf were sheets and pillowcases and towels, all neatly ironed. Someone besides us, someone we barely knew, had worried about our coming to an empty house. We threw open windows and shutters and let the sun-warmed, spring air stream into the rooms and expel the cold of winter. N E X T+P A G E \| "It's beginning to feel like Christmas"