Bella Tuscany: The Sweet Life in Italy
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A CLASSIC FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF UNDER MAGNOLIA
Frances Mayes, whose enchanting #1 New York Times bestseller Under the Tuscan Sun made the world fall in love with Tuscany, invites us back for a delightful new season of friendship, festivity, and food, there and throughout Italy.
wine boxes. Even at 11 A.M., we're pleased by the hearty red color and the light hint of strawberries in the taste and, what, oh, almost a fragrance of mimosa. We've found our house wine. He fills our jugs from a hose attached to an enormous vat. By law he must seal the jugs and dutifully record our names in his computer. As he pulls up Ed's name, he sees we've been here before. “Americans like our wine, no?” he asks, so we answer yes, for all Americans. Ed wedges the tanks behind the seat,
for the loss of a dozen pieces of broken glass she'd collected on the trip. Odd what fragments of memory stay. I don't remember how she liked the lagoon, the bridges, the piazza. She loved the hotel tub's brass swan handles and spout. Strange how memory can reach around years and reconnect to the place and time where old loves are still intact. The memory rush subsides. Many high waters have washed through Venice since then. Now I am back. With Ed. A different life. We'll make our own way here.
other” is, and how life is lived outside your own thin skin. Setting off to see another country, I set off to see what is more grandly other—whole cultures, geographies, languages. Who am I in the new place? And who are they who live there? If you settle in, even for two weeks, live in a house not a hotel, and you buy figs and soap at the local places, sit in cafés and restaurants, go to a local concert or church service, you cannot help but open to the resonance of a place and the deeper you
Yesterday, with all the religious comforts . . . funeral tomorrow . . . no flowers but good works . . . Anselmo Pietro Martini Pisciacani. . . . Unlike the other plain notices, his pictures a sappy pastel Christ in a crown of thorns, upturned eyes, surrounded by roses. Because he would have mocked it, I think there must be a mistake. He was not a churchgoer. He could not be dead. But then no one else could have that name. As Ed approaches, I shake my head and point. “No. How can this be?” We
is erased from the planet. The basic facts of birth and death I've never remotely been able to fathom. The prenatal abyss, out of it you came, into the tumult of life, light, and on to the other void. . . . I hope to be dazzled by the news of an afterlife, when the last plug is pulled on me. I can't take non-life. Anselmo stood at the Thursday market with fifty or sixty men every week for decades, talking weather, business, jingling change in his pocket. In his office on Sacco e Vanzetti, he