An Olive Oil Day in Chianti

      Last Friday, tour guide and friend Anne Barbetti, photographer Carly and I ventured into the Chianti countryside.  We had been invited to lunch at Mary Foreman's (see ending of the post "A Little Bit of England in Florence") and had meant to stop at the Montagliari wine estate.  David Migliorini, Montagliari's owner, however, had to suddenly make a visit to the dentist that day, so we planned to tour a frantoio, an olive mill not far from our lunch venue.

       Anne drove the winding road leading from Florence to the Chianti area, which produces superb wine and olive oil en route to Mary's farmhouse near Panzano.  Carly in the back seat weakly protested about the curves,  "everything is flat and in a straight line in Florida," she said, getting close to carsick looking out the window at the Chianti autumn scenery.

About 40 minutes from Florence, we turned left past Montagliari and went down a bumpy strada bianca (unpaved dirt road covered with a scattering of white gravel) to arrive at Mary's residence
Il Corneto.

Isn't this is what visitors dream of when they imagine a Chianti farmhouse?  The day was overcast, as you can see by the light.  Mary was waiting for us outside, and explained that she had taken temporary residence in the studio, as all the pipes and plumbing was in the process of being replaced in the main house.  We found the studio charming (see below).

The painting is the work of Mary's friend Giannina (English, despite her name), who told us she had spent 10 years doing watercolors--financed by English sponsors--along the Tuscan stretch of the medieval pilgrim road la via Francigiana.  Giannina explained to us that the via Francigiana linked Canterbury to Rome.




The table was laid with Italian ceramic dishes and English silverware in the spirit of biculturalism.
Pane toscano was toasted on the stove, and a small bowl of garlic cloves was passed around so that we could rub it on the crusty bread.  Then newly-made olive oil was passed around to the complete the dish, called fettunta (oily slice) in Tuscany and known as the simplest type of bruschetta elsewhere.

While most of us drank Chianti wine, Carly accepted a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice, made from Sicilian blood orange tarocco, which provided a startling contrast to the fettunta.
Traditionally, Tuscan residents and natives alike enjoy fettunta to savor the pungent taste of freshly-made olive oil.

After lunch, Anne decided to accompany us to the frantoio (olive mill).  She and I (in the brown jacket) are in the photo to the left leaving Il Corneto.  To the right is the Panzano olive mill we visited.

When asked about the 2011 olive harvest, the mill's director, Carlo, explained,


"because of scarce rainfall," (this is why I named the blog this past spring Beautiful Florence as the city was at its best in the unceasing sunshine), olive production in Tuscany was down by at least 25%."

"But the remaining olives that were harvested were healthy, untouched (at least in the hills of Chianti) by  parasites or disease, so the quality of this year's olive oil is good to superior," he said.   Because of the decrease in harvested olives--which in Chianti are of the morellino, frantoio and leccino
 varieties, Carly, Anne and I caught the tail end of the milling process, which begins at the end of October and normally extends to mid-December or to just before Christmas.

The entire olive mill was permeated with the scent of new oil, 
olio nuovo.
Families and small producers from Greve, Panzano, Radda, Gaiole and Castellina come here to press their olives, Carlo explained.  When I asked if the olives were stone-ground--macinata a pietra--
he laughed at my romantic notion.  "No, we use the modern centrifuge system here," he said.

The olives delivered by customers go up a chute,

to the production room, where the leaves and debris are eliminated.

The olives are then washed...

...and ground to a paste and spun in a centrifuge to separate the water from the oil.

The olio nuovo comes out of a sprout into a metal can, which is transferred to the bottling area.

The Panzano frantoio also sells its own extra virgin olive oil for those who do not arrive with their own olives to press.

At lunch, however, Mary told us that the olives picked on the Corneto property had been pressed and bottled at the frantoio that we planned to visit.  Hers (see below) is
pure, unfiltered extra virgin,
unlike the green transparent boutique olive oils che si trovono in giro (that can be seen around).

When we asked Carlo about stone-ground cold press olive oil, he was amused at our romantic notion.  "This is something from the past," he said.  "The centrifuge system is universal."
This may be, but we saw a grinding stone--in disuse--at the Panzano frantoio.

Back at Mary's, we found the same stone on the ground--now a decorative element expressing the ancient soul of Chianti.

Nearby, there was an unwelcome suitor of Mary's cat patiently waiting outside,
Lovelorn, he rubbed himself against the doorstep....

See the olive leaves on the ground?  Such is the poetry of
 an olive oil day in Chianti.

     Reporting live
-- Rosanna

Truffles, San Miniato & More Truffles

       "Hey, Carly--we will be covering a truffle festival this month at the hilltop town of San Miniato."
       
    This elicited a puzzled look on photographer Carly's face, close to a pout.  No comment was forthcoming, however, until the day before our adventure in the company of truffle festival veteran Rita Kungel and friend Gabrielle Taylor.
      
     Carly finally confessed:  "I thought you were talking about chocolate truffles.  Why would there be a festival just on chocolate truffles?"

Above is a bowl of chocolate hazelnut truffles from our favorite Florentine chocolate shop, Vestri.  

      

     Some one else in the office said "what does the church of San Miniato have to do with truffles?"  (NB, the Romanesque church of San Miniato with its 12th & 13th century architecture,  Renaissance art works and a birds-eye view of Florence is located above Piazzale Michelangelo).

"No,"  the hilltop town of San Miniato is located on the way to Pisa.  And the surrounding countryside, stretching from San Miniato to Montaione and Castelfiorentino is where the prized white truffle is hunted every autumn by specially trained dogs."

Carly, Rita, Gaby and myself saw the real deal depicted above a stand at the actual San Miniato truffle festival, which is always held on the last three weekends of the November.  The truffle portrayed is larger than any we actually saw while there.

What is a non-chocolate truffle?  It is a fungi that grows underground in a symbiotic relationship with a tree (see the trees behind the above hunter?).

To add to the confusion, one of the first stands we happened upon at the San Miniato festival was a showcase for a
 local chocolate shop.

When we asked for chocolate truffles to photograph, the owner brought out a tray of  truffle-flavored candy truffles selling at 1 euro per piece.  Delectable is too modest a word for the experience--as the chocolate taste disappeared, the flavor of nature's truffle lingered at the back of my throat.  We were treated, sparingly of course, and the obliging owner cut one open for us to take a picture.

The inside of the chocolate treat was as pale as the actual tartufo bianco di San Miniato-- the white San Miniato truffle--that we later admired at stands in a tented area at the fair.

Due to the exquisite flavoring and rarity value, the price quoted to us was 220 euros per etto (100 grams), i.e. 3.5 ounces!

Also available was a selection of truffle-flavored butters (as a pasta condiment) and fresh cheeses studded with pieces of truffle.

We saw people buying truffles, which were weighed and the price quoted before their eyes.  At one stand, smaller truffles at more economical prices were displayed as an enticement to the

 potential buyer.

Having seen with her own eyes that there are truffles beyond chocolate truffles, Carly tasted a sliver of truffled cheese, and decided to take some home.  At this point, Gaby, Rita, Carly and myself wanted to indulge in a truffle-themed meal (why else had we come?)

Having decided to do this excursion on the Thursday before the Sunday that we went, I was in a panic about reserving the restaurant, whether we would find a place.  Rita sent me several suggestions.  I looked at one "Upupa," recognizing that as a name of bird and made a quick decision to go with that.

Knowing it was a desperate feat to book a table during a festival with such late notice, I called the "Upupa" and spoke to the owner Roberto, saying "I am a journalist, I am not looking for a free meal or a discount but a free table."  Roberto had reserved a table for four at noon ("not a minute later.")  I was relieved, and said "afterwards if there is anything else we need to see, we will avoid the crowds as all Italians will be having lunch at the same time--1 pm of course--(see the Day of the Dead post).

When we went looking for the  "Upupa" restaurant, feeling like Cinderellas with a noon, not a midnight deadline, we found it thanks to the sign (see above).  I'll be darned, I thought the word translated as woodpecker, which it does not--it is the Hoopoe bird.

Carly later looked up this bird on the Internet where, among other things, it was identified as the national bird of Israel.  Despite this fact, the Upupa restaurant has Tuscan cuisine with of course a truffle menu; it is a tiny place with seating for 20 and Roberto, the owner, is in the kitchen.

When I asked him why he gave the restaurant the name, he said, "that what it was called when I purchased it last year, so I just kept the name."  Roberto, a Florentine born on via degli Alfani, is a dedicated foodie who has been in the restaurant business as long as he can remember, including many years at the Gilli caffé in piazza della Repubblica.

Now, on to the food.  This is worthy of an entire blog post, but suffice to say that we enjoyed the truffle menu and even received a bit of a discount on the bill (the perks of the trade).  Gaby and Carly ordered the classic tagliatelline al burro e tartufo bianco (thin egg noodles sauced with hot, melted butter and truffle shavings).

Well, it was 25 euro but very truffle-y.  Our dining companions assured us it was worth every bite.

After lunch, Rita wanted to see the Duomo, the Cathedral, where a WWII tragedy had taken place that inspired the Taviani brothers' film Le Notti di San Lorenzo.  

The retreating Germans
 has ordered that inhabitants take refuge in the church.
 The Americans were bombing the vicinity and a stray Allied shell entered a window,  ricocheted off a stone relief
and exploded, killing 55 civilians.  This quiet sanctuary
shows no lingering signs of the massacre,
 which took place on July 22, 1944.


We went into the nearby Cathedral Museum seeking the art work involved in the incident.  The custodian, who later identified himself as Francesco, immediately demanded an entrance fee x four.  "I am a journalist," I said, digging into my bag for my press pass although I was certain I had left it in Florence (which I had).  I pointed to Rita and explained her mission.  Francesco paused, and in the true Italian art of arrangiarsi (of getting by), peered at an (attractive) Rita and asked tactfully "are you a senior citizen?"  Mindful that she had passed as a senior citizen in Greece (defined at 55), she answered yes and went in and look at the art work.  Francesco turned his back and we followed her.

"See," I said, "neither the angel Gabriel nor Mary were harmed.  That's what comes of having God on your side."  The caption identified the work as a 1274 Annunciation by Giroldo da Iacopo da Como.
Makes sense when you take into account that the 13th century Duomo was built on the site of an earlier church dedicated to the Annunciation.

We thanked Francesco and went on our way.  Rita, however, wanted to see the plaques in memorial to the victims of the fatal accident.  For many years, the Nazis were blamed...

then proof was uncovered that 

it was a misguided Allied shell.  

At least equal time was given to opposing viewpoints....

There would be much more to write, and someday I will.  Suffice it to say that at 3 pm, while all the Italian were arriving in swarms, Rita, Carly, Gaby and myself decided to return to Florence.  We left the medieval town to catch to catch the shuttle bus down to the lower, modern part of the town, San Miniato Basso, where Rita's car was parked. 

On the outskirts of the festival, as at every festival in Tuscany, there were street vendors with food specialities.  As we were truffled-out, some of us purchased the original Italian candy bar--nuts covered in molten chocolate which slowly hardens (this was the work of a candyman from Lamporecchio, near Vinci, Leonardo da Vinci's hometown).

So much for truffles (chocolate), San Miniato and truffles.  See you same time next year for a festival update!

Si, we are going back...

A Little Bit of England in Florence

Due to inevitable budget cuts, the closure of Florence's British Consulate at the end of this year was announced this past spring, a decision which provoked headlines and controversy.  

Controversy because the Consulate has a 555-year history, having been founded in 1456.  It was common knowledge that all local consular functions would be moved to the Milan consulate and the Rome embassy, but everyone was waiting to hear who would be appointed Honorary British Consul, an unpaid position.  As an answer to the question, the above gold-engraved invitation arrived in the office from the British Embassy in Rome, and I confirmed my presence.

When I called the British Institute Library asking if Carly could take photos during the reception, I was told that there was a press conference scheduled prior at 5 pm, so dressed to the nines, we hurried over, crossing Ponte Santa Trinita to Palazzo Lanfredini.

As evidenced by the longevity of the British Consulate's presence, there has always been a large number of visitors and notable British residents--including Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning-- in Florence through the centuries.  There is an historic "English" cemetery (owned by the Swiss Evangelic church) outside the city walls in Piazzale Donatello, an English Church, St. Mark's, on via Maggio, as well as the British Institute.  Granted a Royal Charter in 1923, the Institute offers English and Italian language and cultural courses;  in addition, the British Institute Acton Library has the largest collection of books in English in continental Europe.

Carly and I arrived 15 minutes late for the press conference, which would normally be on time for Italy, but Ambassador Christopher Prentice had already given his speech.

He is seated third from the left, while city councilman president Eugenio Giani is making a few remarks.  To the left of Ambassador Prentice is the new Honorary British Consul (awaiting final approval), Sara Milne, who became the head of the British Institute this past spring.

Daughter of concert pianist Hamish Milne, she arrived in Florence after heading up Science and Media, a company that promoted the London science museum's collection and intellectual property.  During a Vista interview, she said "my aim for the British Institute of Florence is to reflect its history, but also to reflect the here and now--the latter is what excites me."

No small thing in a town where tradition always comes first.

Speaking of tradition, a few stray Italian journalists showed up at press conference's end, convinced they were not late, while refreshment tables were being set up with a night view over the
Arno river.

I have always been invited to the all important British Consulate functions, feeling like a member of the family as the token, adopted American (this event was no exception, with only one other American present, the artist Charles Cecil).  Over the years I was personally acquainted with every single British Consul starting with Rawlinson in the 1980s, and witnessed the closure of the passport/visa and commercial sectors.  New staff members were rarely hired to replace those who retired.

As David Broomfield (pictured above), Florence's last official British Consul now at the Rome Embassy, told me,  "The change enabled consular staff to focus more on helping British citizens, including providing support or advice in case of document theft, legal or medical problems, hospitalization and jail."

"Consular staff was also responsible for taking care of requests to provide a nulla osta for marriages between international citizens and British nationals to the tune of over 1,000 requests arriving each year," Broomfield said.

Now the only person left at the British Consulate office on Lungarno Corsini until next March is
Vice Consul Jane Ireland.

Jane is overseeing the not-so-easy transition.  It is unimaginable how British subjects with stolen wallets and passports are being redirected to the Milan consulate; so go the times.  Jane is still working in the British Consulate's majestic offices in Lungarno Corsini 2, above which flies the Union Jack.  Local Brits like to recall that Lungarno Corsini 2 was once the home of poet and Count Vittorio Alfieri, who became an intimate friend of Bonnie Prince Charles' wife Louise, Countess of Albany.

The lovers are buried in the basilica of Santa Croce, under a beautiful neoclassical Canova monument between the tombs of Michelangelo and Macchiavelli.  So much for fostering good Italo-Anglo relations!

At the reception, my attention was drawn to someone saying "you look like a duchess," to Mary Shipton Foreman, a pillar of the English resident community in Tuscany.

She is the anonymous British Consulate receptionist mentioned in the British Embassy press release who  helped turned Consulate premises into a clinic during the 1966 Florence flood.

"I was hired for six months--the flood happened during that time and I ended up staying 18 years," she remembers, "commuting always from her home in Panzano in Chianti (where incidentally, she had the honor of hosting Prince Charles who did en plein air watercolors followed by lunch at the nearby Montagliari estate).

"Having been trained as a nurse I gave all comers--British and otherwise--typhoid shots in the aftermath of the flood.  I only had trouble with Italian men, who were worried that the shot, which could save their lives, might possibly affect their virility,"
she told me with a discreet laugh.

Hail Britannica!

The Day of the Dead & Halloween

      Italians call today Il Giorno dei Morti (the Day of the Dead), while officially it is the  Catholic feast of Ognissanti, All Saints Day, a legal public holiday throughout Italy.  Tomorrow, Nov. 2, is All Souls Day, which could be considered the true Day of the Dead, which some southern Italian cities do, thereby extending the long holiday weekend.  Last night was Halloween, an Anglo Saxon tradition that has become popular in Italy over the past 10 years.  Photographers Carly, Michelle and myself set out to make some sense of these interwoven, bicultural festivities.

I always say, "gli italiani vivono in condomio, vanno al mare in condomio, e stanno in cimetero in conodomio," (Italian live in condominums, frequent condominums at the beach (beach clubs) and hang out in condominums at the cemetery (where frequently they are buried one on top of each other in mini-marble apartment buildings in individual loculi).  Italians (I love them, I am of Italian blood and have dual citizenship) are also known for moving en masse at the precise same time.  So it should come as no surprise that on  Il Giorno dei Morti that everyone in the country decides to visit their loved ones at the cemetery to deposit a bouquet of flowers.

Carly and I decided to go to a cemetery within walking distance of my home close to via Senese.  Besides the fact that two of my neighbors are buried there, il Cimitero degli Allori, however, is no ordinary cemetery.  It is a historic Protestant cemetery, a Cimitero Evangelico, run by a group of local Protestant churches and located outside the walls of a Catholic city.  When Carly, with a camera around her neck, and I got out of the car, the cemetery custodian appeared and shouted, "NO PHOTOS, NO PHOTOS."

"But we are not going to take pictures of people, just gravestones," I said.  (The Allori Cemetery, in non-Italian fashion, has many individual graves with tombstones).  The man didn't budge, and upon my suggestion, called the cemetery director, whom I know.  Gerardo Kraft gave us permission to take a panoramic shot.  After this, the custodian, who identified himself as Fabrizio, warmed up to us and even allowed us to take his picture next to a cypress tree.  The cypress in Italy is traditionally planted in and identified with cemeteries.

Fabrizio admitted that he had already chased away Italian journalists and TV crews reporting on the Day of the Dead, but as we were the only foreigners and simpatiche, he gave a quick tour.  He showed us the Swiss artist Arnold Boecklin's grave.  We saw that many of the tombstones were engraved in English, including one "In Loving Memory of Catherine Seaborne/died in Florence on March 30, 1881/Aged 69/Deeply Mourned by her Loving Daughter."  Another, a foreigner identified by his Italian nickname of "Pavo,"
carried the inscription, "Peace at Last."  In a plot there were the graves of seven Gibsons
plus "Baby," born stillborn to James and Lily.

Fabrizio took us to a grave where, according to him, a relative of President Truman was buried.  "Yes, military men come here often to pay him tribute," he said.  Well, Carly and I saw two stars above the name "Truman Seymour."  As we suspected, he was not related to Harry Truman, but a West Point graduate, a veteran of the Mexican-American, Seminole and Civil Wars.  He fought in many major battles, and according to Wikipedia, commanded Union troops at the Battle of Olustee, the largest Civil War battle fought in Florida (incidentally Carly is from Florida and
I grew up near West Point).

To give Fabrizio credit, it was customary for Italians sign their last name first, so for him Seymour could have been the American military warrior's last name.  But how did he end up (and die) in Florence?  Looking online I discovered that General Seymour retired to Europe, where he became
 a watercolor painter (!!!)
Beautiful Florence, it is known, has always attracted artists....

On the way out, we found a time-worn stool next to the grave for family mourners to sit on and meditate on death.  Fabrizio gave us permission to photograph it.

********************************************************************
Yesterday evening, on Halloween, I was in a hardware store having keys made when a man came in and asked for face paint.  "No," the man at Bati (near the office) said, "you need to go
 to Filistrucchi on via Verdi."

Curious, Michelle and I decided to investigate.  I met Gherardo Filistrucchi, who is the youngest family member to run the business, which was founded in Florence in 1720.  Filistrucchi specializes in wigs made of human hair, makeup, special effects, masks and costumes for theater, Carnival and special events such as Halloween.  When I was in the shop, a man came in to buy a scar.  Obviously I need to dedicate an entire post one day to Filistrucchi.  Suffice it to say that I asked Gherardo how Italians perceive Halloween and he answered, " for us it is a Carnival of horrors, 
il morto in tutte le salse, the dead in all flavors,
zombies, Jack Sparrow, Frankenstein etc. etc."

When I wrote Florence's first article (in English) in the 90's on Halloween for La Repubblica, Italians barely knew what it was.   I explained that it is the evening of the last day of the Celtic and Anglo-Saxon calendar when (appropriately in view of the following Day of the Dead), those who passed away can visit their former haunts on earth.  I was the first to translate "trick or treat," as "dammi un dolcetto o ti faccio uno scherzetto" literally, "give me a treat or I'll play a trick on you."  As Filistrucchi specified, "Italian children and grown-up foreigners" walk the streets of Florence on Halloween dressed in costume saying "dolcetto o scherzetto."


Sweet or trick--well Italians have their priorities straight,
 food first.

Speaking of food, Sugar & Spice, Florence's American bakery, besides offering themed cupcakes, did a nice Halloween display window at their via de' Servi location.

Booooooooooooooooooooooooo!

In the spirit of the two holidays, I will sign off with a tomb inscription I saw at the Allori Cemetery:
TILL WE MEET AGAIN.

The First Day of Fall in Florence--Schiacciata all'Uva

   Yesterday morning, I stopped at a shop near the Duomo to buy a spotlight for the office where the owner asked me to translate for the tall American tourist in front of me.  After I helped him buy an adapter, he inquired if it would still be raining in the evening.  Without thinking, I answered "it hasn't rained in Florence for six months."  Today, the weather is sunny, cool and crisp, and could be considered the first true day of fall.

     Fall in Florence is signaled by the arrival of schiacciata all'uva, a sort of grape cake.  I say "sort of" because traditionally the base is slightly sweetened bread dough.  I tried schiacciata all'uva at four different places:  two cafés serving made-on-the-premises pastries, a deli and a bakery, all of which provided variations on a theme.

This very grape-y schiacciata all'uva comes from Bar/Pasticceria La Loggia close to the office on Borgo degli Albizi.  Sweet, but not too sweet, the flavor of anise was evident.  The owner and pastry chef Walter confided how the recipe came from his late co-pastry chef Franco Iandelli.

"When Franco was nine years old, he went to learn the trade at the Crociani pasticceria in piazza Dalmazia (which still exists today), and didn't see his parents again until he was 15.  This took place during the 1940s and I still make schiacciata the way
Franco was taught then."

Walter adds a little butter to the bread dough, which is layered with grapes, a particular type called uva fragolina.  "It gives a slightly sweet aftertaste," he says.

The next stop was Bar/Pasticceria Cosi on Borgo degli Albizi, which, unfortunately, is no longer owned by master pastry chef Patrizio Cosi although many of his recipes still are used.  I can hardly believe that Patrizio would have made the schiacciata all'uva that I tried there--it was dense, and too sweet.

The current owner of Cosi, a native of Greve in Chianti, told me that it was important to use Chianti wine grapes--Canaiolo or Sangiovese--in making schiacciata all'uva as well to add sugar on the top before baking so that "it will carmelize in the oven."  Maybe that's why I found his version cloying.

Across from Cosi, at the corner of the Arco di San Pierino at a deli Carly and I found the real deal.  Owner Antonio Porrati told us that this was the true schiacciata all'uva, which he has delivered from Montespertoli, a Chianti wine producing area.

"This was customarily made by the wives of local farmers--contadini-- using extra homemade bread dough and grapes from the harvest while adding a touch of anise.  The bread dough would be rolled out, the grapes layered, and more bread dough added on top," as he demonstrated with his hands.

Well, the schiacciata was tasty, not overpoweringly grape-y nor overly sweet.

Walking down from my home outside Porta Romana, with this fall dessert on my mind, my eye was caught by the following sign displayed on the door of the Sarti bakery,
via Senese at the Due Strade.
Literally, it publicizes that Sarti makes GOOD schiacciata all'uva.

It was true.  The baker told me that no, this wasn't exactly bread dough, but a secret recipe using a little butter.  "The grape variety is not Chianti but rather moscato d'Amburgo which comes from the south of Italy, or, at this moment, from France.  The sweetness is just right."

I tasted a piece, and I agreed.  Squisito.   The top of Sarti's schiacciata all'uva is sprinkled with a little sugar when it comes out the the oven, not before.
 A nice baked dough, a touch of anice, a good all around choice.  I translated this for the baker in Italian and he answered "equilibrato" "balanced."  

Tuscans are known for not wasting anything, so from the origin of creating a dessert from leftover harvest grapes and bread dough, 
an autumn tradition was born.

The Last Day of Summer in the Cinque Terre

     The amazing spring of Beautiful Florence 2011 was mirrored in an exceptionally warm and sunny September and October, with almost no rain.  Up to now, residents are still wearing their warm weather clothes with a sweater on top.  Sandals (except for those packed by tourists) were put away only this past Monday.  Having a heavy workload, apart from one excursion to a Tuscan beach, I was unable to take advantage of this incredible weather, which, as I write, is continuing, albeit a little cooler.

With the intuition that Sunday, October 9 would be THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER, I decided to go to Monterosso in the nearby region of Liguria.  Monterosso is one of the Cinque Terre, which, thanks to publications by Rick Steves, has unfortunately become overrun by hordes of Americans who hike and swim there during tourist season.  My intuition proved correct--the day represented the sunset of summer, with very few tourists in sight.

See the autumn colors?

 An early riser when going to the beach, I arrived from Florence at 10 am, to find the sandy beach nearly empty of umbrellas and sun beds.  I walked to a lone establishment that I am familiar with at the far side of the beach, and rented a sun bed for the day (six euro).  After handing me a receipt, Mauro told me, "this is our last day, we want to pack up around 5."  I said, "I am leaving at 6, but will go and have an aperitivo (glass of wine or cocktail)
before I go."

Initially, there were not many people on the beach;  although warm, there was a stiff breeze blowing from the north.  I lay comatose on my sun bed soaking in the rays with a smile on my face.  Around lunchtime, five German women--ranging in age from 25 to 40, showed up and rented sun beds close to mine.  Perhaps because they were a group who came later, they were charged 5 euro a head.  After lunch (a sandwich and beer), I fell asleep like a baby, stomach down.  I woke up around 2:30 to find the formerly empty beach pleasantly inhabited with (mainly) Italians and people in the water.  Deciding "it's now or never," I went for a swim (remember this was Oct. 9).

The water, a little less cold than Maine, was clear and gorgeous.
One of my German neighbors joined me in the sea, followed by a fair-faced twentysomething wearing white bathing trunks down to his knees.  His demeanor reminded me of a friendly puppy.  In fact, he started to chat with the German girl in English--she responded by returning to the beach.

The bathers watched a small boat arrive out of nowhere.  It was bearing a bride and groom,
 powered by a man who was rowing in back.
The boat anchored in a rocky cove, while a crowd that spontaneously gathered on the beach cheered.  The groom in a formal suit carried the bride in his arms and deposited her, white dress, high heels and all, on the sand.

Wouldn't you know it, when I finally decided to get out, the wind whipped up.  I treaded water for a while, then ran out, wrapping myself in a towel (unheard of in Italy).  "See, I told Mauro, "I even managed a swim."  His expression said it all, "she (and everyone else) is crazy to get wet."
Then the wind died down for good and the atmosphere began to change.

The five German women had glasses of spritz (spumante and Campari) from the nearby "Starfish Beach Club (Stella Marina) bar.  The boy timidly approached and identified himself as (first name?) Schmitz, resident of Buenos Aires.  The women said they had fled lousy weather in Germany, flying from Berlin to Pisa on Easy Jet.  Getting into the groove of the moment, one of the bikinied thirtysomething women and the boy cut an impressive figure by tango-ing on the sand.

Mauro, who decided to mellow out, went and fetched complementary beers for us from the Stella Marina, whose trademark starfish wears beach trunks and sunglasses.
Two obvious tourists, taking a rest from hiking in the hills above, walked along the shore, he in shorts held up by suspenders, she is a frilly skirt; neither cared that their clothes were getting wet in the tide.  Ditto for a mother who accompanied her children in the water fully dressed, as were they.
On our part, we bathed in the golden light, our party growing larger.

When shadows finally began falling on the beach, and Mauro starting putting away the sunbeds, I walked to a café above to have, following the German's example, a spritz.  From my vantage point over the water, I heard the Argentinean boy call out to the German women,  "See you on Facebook!"  Although it was nearly 6 o'clock, there were still people swimming.

I also ordered some delicious hot pizza, gazing over the coast to see the rest of the Cinque Terre towns:  Vernazza in a V shape, Corneglia snuggled on the crown of a hill, Manarola perched unobtrusively near Riomaggiore, which appeared to be spilling down a hill into a fisherman's cove.

Below the café, some men showed up, laughing and joking, appearing to be a priest, complete with a pompom-ed hat, and sailors.  "They are just kidding around," said the barman.

The scene was so unbelievably laid back that I looked down and thought "everyone here has had sex on the beach."  Then I turned and saw, on the café's video screen, images of John Lennon's and Yoko Ono's famous bed in, to the sounds of the Beatles' song
 "All You Need is Love."

My train to Sarzana, with only seven minutes to change for a direct train to Florence, was 15 minutes late.  Someone waiting at the track advised me to get off at La Spezia.

On the train, I decided to ask the green uniformed conductor complete with mustache and hat, what to do.
"Don't get off at La Spezia," he said.  "At Sarzana, there is another train following this one that will take you to Pisa."
I was dubious.  "What time is the connection?"-- I don't want to get stuck in SARZANA!"
A young couple on the train going back to Sarzana overheard me and snuggled closer.
Two elderly ladies across from me said, "this is vacation."  "Yes," I said, "but I need to get back to Florence."
As we were passing though the various Cinque Terre towns,

(above is Vernazza)  one pointed out, "look at the sunset!"

After La Spezia, I asked the train conductor again about getting to Florence.  "If we miss the seven minute connection, the next train--to Pisa--is an hour and a half later." he said.

     Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he admitted:  "I have talked with the conductor of the connecting train.  I told him there is a 90 year old on board who needs to get on his train, along with five teenagers (they were sitting across from me) en route to Viareggio.  This train has been moving fast, and if we are not too late, he will wait for you."

As the train pulled into the Sarzana station, his cell phone rang.  "We are nearly there, he said, "we will pull up alongside your train, and they will walk across the tracks (which, incidentally, is illegal in Italy).   They would lose too much time going down into the underpass."

So it was.  The five teenagers bounded across the tracks.  My feet in beach sandals sunk into the gravel, so the kind conductor took my arm and accompanied me to the train.  The driver was leaning out of the window.  "This is the 90 year old," he joked (look at my picture by clicking on the book on Beautiful Florence home page).

Clearly, I had lost sight of the fact that, in Italy, man-made law is suspended and natural law celebrated on the
LAST DAY OF SUMMER.