My Visit to Lucca, Part Three

     5 July 1997.   It was a very rewarding day. We departed early for Florence, where we picked up Delia's brother Giancarlo. We stopped for a moment on our way out of the city at the Piazza Michelangelo to view the city, which is even grander and more beautiful than I dreamed. But we had no time to tour it, so on we went to Siena.
     I fell instantly in love with Siena -- the color of it, the ambiance, the hilly narrow streets and alleys. The next time I come to Italy to study, I'll come here.

     In th afernoon we moved on to San Gimignano, which from afar looks like a miniature medieval Manhattan. I've never seen such stupendous countryside! I love the mighty green hills around Lucca, but somehow I'm much more moved by the gentleness of the land around San Gimignano, the softer undulation of the hills and the cultivated fields, the patchwork of every kind of green and gold. This, to me, is really Tuscany.

     San Gimignano was, of course, packed with tourists, but never mind. Even Delia told me, "You're right -- you can't come to Italy without seeing San Gimignano." So much magnificence packed ito such small confines! I climbed up to the top of La Rocca and simply gaped at the view. Tuscany stretched out in all its glory. Then you turn around to see a wonderful view of all those famous towers. Unforgettable.

     We had dinner at the house of Giancarlo and his wife Fedora, who are the parents of Gianluca, one of the young men I met my first night in Lucca. As soon as I entered their flat, I collapsed in a chair and wasn't fit to be spoken to until I got some substantial food in my stomach. Fedora and Delia prepared dinner right away. Pasta asciutta pomodoro, popone (canteloupe), prosciutto crudo e prosciutto cotto, mortadella, fagioli (beans), e bruschette. I ate like a piglet.
    
     6 July 1997.   This afernoon, Vittorio took me to Puccini's birthplace. It was the most terrifying drive I've ever been on -- the second half was almost vertical, with one hairpin turn after another, on a road that was scarcely wider than a corridor. And people still live in those tiny hamlets clinging to the mountainside! Incredible. I think they're nuts. I don't care how beautiful the view is, they're still nuts. And how the hell they work the steep slopes, planting vines and harvesting grapes and olives, I have not the slightest clue. Anyway, we finally reached the top, where 5 generations of Puccinis lived. It was fortunate that, just as we got out of the car, we met the curator of the museum, which is normally closed on Sunday. He opened it just for us -- nice man. He even let me play Puccini's piano! I would never have believed that I would come all the way from Texas and play on a piano that Puccini played, in the house where he was born, way up on a mountaintop in Tuscany.
     The village itself is so lovely. I could almost feel myself tansported back in time; the very air seemed ancient.
     We took a different route back down the mountain, less steep, more travelled, with wider roads. Why couldn't we have gone up that way?

To be continued. . . .