The gates are closed. But through the open car window we can see stunning hints of life beyond black iron posts.
A rusted wheelbarrow overflowing with weeds. Terracotta planters stuffed with red geraniums. Basil plants so plentiful, their massive leaves skim the grass. A faded wicker table and love seat beneath a giant willow tree.
A sign says we're at Montecorboli. A striped yellow beach towel hangs over a wheelchair. A trellis laden with leaves, vines and yellow-green grapes barely hides a man’s legs and shoes.
“Someone’s there. I’m going in.” Steve steps out of the car.
“But the gates are closed!” I caution. The chorus of birds, insects, and wind serenading us on the mountaintop continues, undaunted.
“I bet he has wine and olive oil for sale. Maybe he’ll feed us.”
I cringe as Steve pushes open the gate and calls out, “Buona sera! Signore! Hello?”
Had I felt comfortable stick-shifting the tiny sports car down the single lane mountain path in reverse, I’d have quickly pulled away - leaving my best bud in the lurch. Mortified does not begin to describe how I felt intruding on the startled, oh-so-handsome octogenarian who turned quickly at the sound of a stranger’s unexpected greeting.
“Forgive,” the man says in halting English. “We are not open today.”
“Ah, va bene,” Steve replies. “We saw the sign for l’agriturismo. We hoped to see your gorgeous home and gardens.”
The Gentle Man hesitates. “How many?”
“Tre.”
“Come. Wait.”
Steve flashes his victory smile, full-Italian gesturing to my daughter and me: Get over here before he changes his mind!
Thus began a serendipitous turn of events - precipitated by fate, timing, and audacity - that changed who I am. And how I think.
After welcoming us to his mountaintop, our host disappears to check on his wife. Waiting in the courtyard - the air sweetly scented with grape, basil, rosemary and lavender - we look out at the rolling hills of Tuscany. The imposing summer blue sky is mottled with clouds. I feel a combination of awe-peace-curiosity-calm-joy-and-gratitude I’ve never experienced.
Flabbergasted is the only word that fits.
"Call me Vieri." Our host steps back into the courtyard from the stone house. He is carrying a marble tray stacked with pecorino romano and fontina cheeses, grapes, and freshly baked focaccia dusted with oregano and sea salt. Steve is delighted.
“Come. Cellar first,” Vieri dictates. “I show where we make wine. Then you have something to eat.”
The cellar. The barrels. The bottles. The vines. The wines. The marble tray and simple treats.
The stories.
Vieri tells of his childhood in Firenze, swimming in the Arno River; of his heartbreak when pollution snatched this magical experience from his grandchildren’s lives. He speaks of finding the courage to leave a thriving business in the big city and buy a hilltop dream home with his wife; of raising children who learned to love science and math, Dante and Shakespeare, as much as tending to livestock, grapes and crops.
He tells about establishing their home as an agriturismo; inviting strangers to cook food from their farm, dine at their table, drink their wine. He recounts his wife’s slow and heartbreaking descent into forgetfulness and silence; of the constant, grueling care that will be the last gift he can give the love of his life.
Before we climb back into the car, Vieri insists on showing us his centuries old home. The working kitchen is cluttered with pots, leafy greens, brown eggs and cream. Bread dough is rising on a floured board. Books and photographs fill shelves and tables in every room. Sunshine pours through dappled window panes and across crackled stone walls. I half expect to hear Vieri's wife sing out to him - Lady of the Manor seeking her Lord.
It is too soon time for a hug and arrivederci. We promise we’ll visit again to cook, dine, and tell stories.
Driving down the mountain we'd serendipitously climbed hours ago, I can't stop thinking about this stranger in Tuscany who welcomed us into his home and life. I can still taste the bread and wine he’d made with his hands, smell the fruit, spices, and herbs he’d harvested from his fields, hear the stories he’d told for decades. In a few short hours, Viero had introduced us to almost every aspect of the Mediterranean lifestyle long lauded as the secret to longevity. Eat simple food from the earth. Engage with others. Have passion and purpose. Care for loved ones. Embrace simplicity in spirit and step. Sip wine and share your story.
As we launch wellnessmultiplied, I’m adding - Travel whenever possible - to that list. And bring the life-changing lessons you happen-upon home.
Grazie, Vieri. Some day, I hope you'll visit my home, and see how much your kindness, your stories, and your Mediterranean lifestyle have inspired this grateful visitor.
mtd2018