My first memories are from a trip to Tuscany with my parents to visit friends when I was two years old. I remember riding a red tricycle on a dirt road. I remember an adult in a tin foil mask. I remember laughing with Sasha while cramming grapes in our mouths. I remember running after birds across cobblestones-- the whoosh of their wheeling flight.
My mom recently shared with me the journal my parents kept from that trip as well as the letter she received from her mom while in Italy. They spoke of the stars and the moon, of layovers spent with family, of gathering mushrooms and late night dinners, of a back thrown out and traveling with a child who wouldn't always sleep in her own bed. My grandmother wrote with humor about the gunman who had asked her to empty the till at work, saying how surprised she was by his attractiveness. Her letter refers to everyone throughout as Mr. and Mrs.
I returned to Tuscany twice after that... the lapping waters of Venice, a veiled widow all in black, bicycles both slow and fast, the arcades at communist community center in Calci, squash blossom stuffed ravioli and spaghetti al mare, "Posso avere la chiave per la camera undici, per favore?" and the welcome tang of an Ethiopian meal.
Villa Coco captures the deep charm of this place in time-- its specificity is a transporting delight.
