This morning I caught a train down to Geneva Airport and a plane to Florence. A sweet Italian autista picked me up along with two other journalists and a press attaché, and drove us down about 20-km past Siena to a renovated monastery turned five star spa resort.
The place is so quiet and peaceful, renovated with so much Tuscan, dare I say Lazian?, taste. Deep brown stone sinks set over stone floors in the spacious bathroom, whose tiny window over looks the courtyard of what was once a town square. We dined in the Tuscan wine cellar/restaurant on quail and truffle sauce, locally cured meats and cheese, a Brunello. The entire resort is an ancient città that was purchased and flipped over. A deep leather sofa sits opposite my luxurious double bed and I think about sleeping. It’s been a long day. And I have doubts about writing. I’ve been feeling them again lately. I had decided to come on this trip in the hopes of reclaiming some inspiration from the beloved and passionate, even if tame, countryside and stone edifices. But as it turns out, doubt is not quelled by a passion and thirst for beauty. It is only forgotten for a time.
For now, I feel home again. Where tall grasses brush shoulders as I pass and the sun sets the colour of my own ancient memories, reaching its sinewy shadows toward an unknown future. I will go toward it. I will. But let me feel the present’s Tuscan whispers on my skin first.
Buona notte, Tuscany.