I’m Back
Bar Garibaldi, Colle Val d’Elsa, (SI)
Buongiorno, dear readers and friends,
It’s my first letter since returning to Tuscany, and I had hoped to escape the political noise that hums over our heads in Canada. Unfortunately, even here, politics finds its way into the morning radio and café conversations. At the local bar, they ask me how it feels to have Canada as the "51st State." I smile and remind them that Italy, too, knows the feeling—after all, they lived through three separate terms of Berlusconi. But enough of that; it disturbs my serenity.
Let’s get serious and talk about my first week back in Colle Val d’Elsa, my other home. 😊 Thanks to Substack, I’ve found a space where I can share these moments with you, a space that makes writing feel like a conversation over coffee. Thank you for being here.
Coming Home
The four-hour bus ride from Fiumicino Airport to Siena gave me a chance to rest after a mostly sleepless eight-hour flight from Montreal. At the bus station, Emi was waiting—her usual radiant self, arms wide open, full of enthusiasm. The late afternoon air was crisp, and as we drove home, the sky turned into a masterpiece of Sienese gold and burnt orange, painting the hills with a familiar warmth. I exhaled.
A Place Bestowed with Beauty
Tuscany has a way of making you believe in divine craftsmanship. When the earth was shaped by the hands of the Creator, Tuscany was bestowed with a beauty so rare and harmonious that few places could rival its gentle hills, golden fields, and light so piercing it feels almost sacred.
The next morning, church bells and a perfect blue sky welcomed me back. Even before opening my eyes, I knew it was Sunday—there’s a quietness in the village that makes it unmistakable.
Emi’s friends from Modena were visiting, and we had planned lunch in Siena. Feeling celebratory, I ordered pappardelle con ragù di faraona (guinea fowl ragu), followed by a tagliata di manzo (sliced steak), paired with a Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot blend from Bolgheri. The wine was a perfect match for the feast.
After lunch, Marco, a dear friend of Emi and an artist now living in Guadeloupe, gifted us a stunning metal silhouette sculpture—a piece he had spent days refining. It will find a perfect home in our giardino (garden).
When Tuesday came, I was eager to get back on my e-bike, to see if the landscape still held that same spell over me. The afternoon was warm—temperatures already touching the high teens—so I rode out into the Monteriggioni hills. The vines were still dormant, waiting for spring’s embrace, but the rolling hills, meeting the different shades of blues and orange of the sky, were as breathtaking as ever. Nothing had changed.
Then, a creeping doubt entered my mind: What if last year’s bike tour success, which I offered as an Airbnb experience, was just a fluke? The thought barely had time to settle before my phone pinged—a couple from San Francisco had just booked a tour for May 29th. My first booking of the year! Maybe it will be a good season after all.
A Garden and a Ritual
My garden is waiting for its spring awakening. Soon, new flowers would start to appear, and I would return to my favorite habit—sitting in the shade with a book, savoring the slow rhythm of the afternoon. It’s a small space, but it has everything I need: a corner for seclusion, a place to breathe.
Italian Bureaucracy and One Last Piece of Paper Needed
Wednesday morning, I attended my first driver’s school class—a real bureaucratic masterpiece: €1,100 paid, two doctor’s certificates required, forty theoretical classes to sit through, and three driving lessons to complete.
On the first quiz—or rather, an IQ test disguised as a driver’s exam—my score? 66%. Respectable if I were a distracted teenager, slightly humiliating as the father—or grandfather of the classroom.
Apparently, the course fee includes a second final exam because most people fail the first one. Now, I see why. The questions don’t test your ability to drive; they test your ability to survive a bureaucratic obstacle course. Trick questions, double negatives, logic puzzles—more suited to an escape room than a driving test.
The Mercato: A Living Tradition
Friday morning, I woke up to the familiar sounds of crates scraping against cobblestone, voices rising with the morning sun. The mercato was unfolding right under my window, as it does every week.
The mercato is not just a market—it’s a living, breathing piece of the community. It’s where familiar faces greet each other with warm "Buongiorno's," where colors, scents, and stories intertwine. It’s impossible to leave empty-handed—not just because of the irresistible produce but because of the interactions that make every purchase feel like an exchange of something more than goods.
The mercato has always felt like home to me, a rhythm I’ve known for as long as I can remember.
More Than Just a Place to Shop
Unlike supermarkets, where transactions are cold and efficient, the mercato thrives on relationships.
In Colle’s mercato the fishmonger, voice booms across the piazza as he announces the catch of the day. I often stop for calamari or fresh prawns, but today I choose cod.
"One kilo," I say.
He nods, then pauses. "How are you cooking it?"
"Baked in the oven," I reply.
He reaches for a handful of glossy black olives. "You’ll need these," he says, tossing them into my bag.
“Now, go see Valerio for the pomodorini Campari—the sun-gold cherry tomatoes. He’s over there.”
I cross the piazza to Valerio. Ciao, ho bisogno di pomodorini per il mio baccalà. (need pomodorini Campari for my cod).
“Ah, for cod?” he nods, selecting the best tomatoes with careful precision. Then, as if reading my mind, he adds rosemary, marjoram, and a few celery leaves.
“You’ll need these too.” He tosses them into the bag as a gift.
And just like that, a simple transaction becomes a moment of connection, a piece of tradition passed from one hand to another.
These moments—small, fleeting, yet deeply satisfying—are the soul of the Italian mercato. And maybe, without realizing it, they are also the soul of home.
Welcome back to my weekly newsletter, from Tuscany to your home.
Arrivederci until next Saturday—always observing, always sharing, always sipping, always a tale from an Italian coffee bar and beyond.
Tino
Glorious--what a treat! Fabulous pictures pulled me right in, and I was as happy to be there as you were to be home. Thanks for the special moments.
Tino, thank you for transporting us back to Tuscany! From the breathtaking orange sunsets and mesmerizing landscapes to the pappardelle, the bustling mercato, and even the infamous bureaucratic driving tests—I feel like I’m right there! Your touch of humor adds the perfect spice to your storytelling. Until the next adventure!