Author: Paul Gerald

One thing Silvio Toccafondi is clear about: He is not a tour guide. Tour guides walk around holding up umbrellas so total strangers can follow them. What Silvio does is more like showing his home to friends who’ve been recommended by other friends.

Silvio’s home is Chianti, in the heart of Tuscany and in the crosshairs of the world’s tourists. We see it in calendars and Under the Tuscan Sun, and we want it. So we fly there and find … a million other people looking for the same “it.” Much of Tuscany — Florence, Siena, Volterra, San Gimignano — leaves memories of tour buses and packed streets lined with tourist shops.

The “it” we seek is natural beauty, historical charm, and a lifestyle shared among family and friends for hundreds of years; it’s rooted in the land and blooms not only on the hillsides but also on and around the tables, in the squares, along the byways.

And to get to that Tuscany, you need either a lot of time to let yourself settle in, find the little nuances, let the soothing moments come to the surface, or you need a person who knows the way around. A guide, in the old-fashioned sense. A local. A Silvio.

“He’s not cheap,” my friends had said, “but he’ll show you the real Tuscany.”

He showed up at my hotel, a 50ish man with the perfectly Italian combination of relaxed charm, clothing style, and “okay, let’s get going.” He had hired a driver, and off we went, over rolling hills and through lush valleys, and he would say things like, “Here’s a 14th-century castle,” or “That river has trout in it,” or “This monastery has only four monks now but used to have 35. They have a Last Supper fresco from the 15th century that they’re restoring.”

We stopped in San Donato in Poggio, and Silvio took us in to see the local butcher, who laid out some samples of prosciutto and salami and pancetta while Silvio told me that Italy makes 130 kinds of cheese and that “butchery is considered an art form here.” Where else would people say such a thing?

Silvio grew up in Tuscany, worked in public administration and marketing, got a Ph.D. and joined a Tuscan historical society, and gradually become a … whatever he is … because he wanted to show people the countryside he fell in love with. He lives in a 16th-century villa, and he knows the place like you’d know a longtime lover’s body.

One phrase that kept popping up was “it gives me chills.” He talked, for example, about the year 1500, when Michelangelo was young, Da Vinci had just died, Donatello was in his prime, Machiavelli was writing, Brunelleschi was working on his dome in Florence — all around here, at the same time. It gives him chills, Silvio said.

He showed us a home bought by Michelangelo in 1549, which he discovered just a month ago. I am sworn not to tell where it is (as if I could!), because Silvio said, “We don’t want the buses coming here.”

Ah, the buses — bane of the Tuscan. Their existence produces a mixture of dread, repulsion, and acceptance. The agricultural industry can’t support everyone anymore, so Tuscans have to share their homes to get by, yet sharing them might kill them — already is, many say — and the buses are a symbol for all of that. A place of family and tradition being overwhelmed by hurrying strangers.

Toward the end of the day — after visiting a small winery that only sells its bottles from here and in the village across the way, after lunch with friends whose family has inhabited their home since the 15th century, after countless stories and pieces of advice and historical tidbits, after stopping to hug friends Silvio saw along the road — we were in a 14th-century village on top of a hill near a monastery, a place some friends of Silvio took over and renovated. It’s at the top of a hill and at the end of a winding dirt road. There’s no commercial activity, and it’s not even really a village, just a few families making their way. But there was one thing Silvio was obviously very excited to show us.

He opened a small wooden door in a stone courtyard and led us into a small chapel — still consecrated, he said. Every first Sunday in November, a priest comes up and says mass. In the chapel is a fresco that was completed in 1490. It was done by students of the artist who did The Last Supper being restored in the monastery.

Standing in this centuries-old chapel, in a place filled with his friends, looking at a nearly forgotten 500-year-old fresco, on a perfect spring day in the Chianti countryside, Silvio looked at me and said, “Everywhere you look, you open a door and see things like this! To me, this is Italy. It gives me chills!”

Ah, summer in the Pacific Northwest: a few clouds, temps in the low 80s, the Mariners at the bottom of the American League West. Put it all together, and it means there are good seats available at a beautiful ballpark in one of America’s more amazing cities.

My friend Dan and I met in Portland, Oregon, 160 miles south of Seattle, and decided to drive up. We could have taken Amtrak’s Cascades train, which shows a movie and hugs various bodies of water that host oyster beds and orcas and salmon runs. Instead, we would face the legendary traffic of I-5; that 160 miles has been known to take five hours and destroy minds.

Rolling north, past views of Mount Saint Helens and Mount Rainier and the Columbia River, we hit a slowdown in Tacoma and thought, Here we go — parking-lot time. Instead, a few minutes later, it cleared out, and less than three hours from Portland we were taking Dan’s Secret Shortcut to Safeco Field, the Mariners’ spiffy ballpark. We drove through an industrial area along Elliott Bay and decided to get a cup of coffee before parking.

Understand, looking for coffee in Seattle is like looking for barbecue in Memphis. We laughed when we drove two blocks without seeing any. Then we saw the headquarters of Tully’s Coffee Roasters and arrogantly joked, “Think they got coffee there?” But they were closed, and we made snide remarks. We got quiet two coffee-less blocks later. We began to whimper at about seven blocks. After 10 blocks and not a cup in sight, I looked at Dan and said, “What’s happening?” He couldn’t respond. We tried another street, doubled back … it was like we had entered some post-apocalyptic world where life as we knew it ceased to exist. We can’t find coffee in Seattle!

Then we rounded a corner and felt a warm glow: It was the Starbucks world headquarters. We rolled into the shop in the lobby feeling like Earth was back on its axis. There was, by the way, another Starbucks two blocks down the street.

After that, it was a smooth, sweet groove. We found parking for $5, just down from a $15 lot. We hit a Krispy Kreme on the way into the park. At the park, there was a promo thing happening where you could ride a bike to grind the ice for your own foo-foo beverage by — guess who? — Starbucks. I rode the bike while Dan sipped a freebie, and when I made a remark about how I had to work for my drink, the woman told me, “Yes, but yours is larger.” I would repeat this to Dan throughout the day.

Then we got to our seats. Dan had bought them online and not been entirely clear about where in the ballpark they were. Maybe he didn’t know, or maybe he was building the moment — the moment being when we showed our tickets to an usher, she pointed at home plate, and said, “You’re sitting down there.” On row 14, mind you. And the phrase “directly behind home plate” is, in this case, accurate. From Dan’s seat, the view was a straight line from the plate to the pitching rubber to second base to the 405 sign on the centerfield fence. We raised our garlic fries in a toast just as the hometown team trotted onto the field.

It was the first time in my life I could tell what pitch was being thrown; we could see the sliders sliding and the sinkers sinking. We were among about five scouts from other teams, taking notes and running a stopwatch between pitches. One of them had on a 1978 Pittsburgh Pirates World Series ring and showed it to Dan. When a Mariner hit a homer, I noticed the scouts intently waiting for the jumbotron replay to see exactly where the pitch was located. An Oakland batter, waiting his turn, was blowing kisses to somebody in the crowd, and I turned around to see that it was the same brunette in the light-green tanktop Dan and I had noticed in our Guys’ Scan of the crowd. Yep, they were good seats.

The A’s beat the Mariners for something like the 12th time in a row, but throughout the game Dan and I would look at each other and say things like, “Dude, look where we’re sitting!” Or, “Dude, that’s Ichiro Suzuki!” Outside Safeco Field, Seattle’s SeaFair — kind of a Memphis In May but with Navy and Coast Guard ships and an air show and parades and whatnot — was in full swing, and this year the Blue Angels were in town. So we had their show to enjoy during the game too.

Afterward, we wandered the waterfront and ate dinner in a place called the Crab Pot, where you can get snow crab, Dungeness crab, manila clams, salmon, halibut, oysters, potatoes, and corn — all dumped onto your table and served with a hammer, fork, and bib. We ate like pigs and giggled like little kids, then Dan had a cigar as we strolled along the docks, with the sun setting over the Olympic Mountains and Rainier lit up in sunset pink.

portlandpaul@mac.com

Being a tourist boils down to three kinds of days: 1) the Sit Around Day, 2) the Wander Around Day, and 3) the List Day. Florence, Italy, is one of the world’s finest places to be a tourist, because all three days work magnificently there. Somehow, Florence is both small and large, compact and diverse, minute in its details and grand in its scale.

My parents and I recently had a List Day in Florence — but with a Gerald Variation. That is, between my bad back and my parents’ age, we’re only capable of going 10 blocks before we need rest. But Italy is also magnificent terrain for the Gerald Variation: You walk until you’re tired, and you’re always within 100 feet of a cafe, bar, gelateria, or ristorante, so you get an outdoor table and sit down to take in the scene and re-energize.

Our day started with reservations at the Academia, home of Michelangelo’s David and, it turns out, not much else. We had planned on spending the whole morning there, but, like most people, we were gone within a half-hour. Like the rest of humanity, we have largely lost our sense of wonder, so — sad as it may be — after a few minutes of looking at the statue we were pretty much done.

We gave token visitation to the other stuff in the gallery (whatever it was), then we consulted our List. But there were so many things on it that I suggested we switch to the Wander Around Day, while keeping an eye out for things on the List.

We soon lost ourselves in a stream of piazzas and shops and quaint streets and views of various torre and palazzi. At one point, I realized we were close to the Medici Chapels, where the main folks from Florence’s main family are buried. And I mean Main Family. Two of them became popes, for instance. They built themselves a church, humble lot that they were, and filled it with Michelangelo statues and over-the-top artwork and creepy relics like bone fragments of various saints. This is the kind of thing you “bump into” in Florence.

In the afternoon we switched to a Shopping Bonanza, a common hybrid (favored by Mom) of the List Day and Wander Around Day. We took a taxi to the Ponte Vecchio, and Mom embarked on a ritual of all Gerald trips: the search for the right bracelet charm.

The Ponte Vecchio (old bridge) was once the home of the various artisans in town, but now it’s all jewelry. It’s 100 yards long and 10 yards wide, with jewelry stores on both sides and probably 2,000 people shopping and taking pictures. It resembles the fleecing area of a sheep ranch. But I’m cynical. After visiting several stores and considering many options, Mom found her charm, and I am so highly male that I can’t for the life of me remember what she got. I just know she got it, and we were then free to leave the Ponte Vecchio.

We found a leather shop recommended by a friend of Mom’s, and before I could say “time for an espresso,” Mom bought a coat. Then we headed back over the bridge, and before I could say “time for some gelato,” Mom had gone back for a different coat. Then we hit a place that sold leather purses. Then on the way down the street Mom saw some art that she liked, and we bought two pieces. It was like watching Michael Jordan in the NBA Finals. I even got into it! After we ate some gelato, I decided I wanted a leather bag for my computer, so we went into a street market, and I saw several I liked. On one of them the price dropped from $120 to $90 without me even making an offer — which means, of course, that it’s way overpriced at $90. I found another one I liked better that said $185 on the tag, and after some more walking around and more visits, I got it for $100. I felt like Robin to my mom’s Batman.

In fact, now that I think about it, a baseball analogy is better for being a tourist in Florence: It’s like a day in the major leagues. And like big-league baseball, it’s crowded and expensive and overdone and often not as much fun as a minor-league town. But you still have to do it, no matter which style of Travel Day you prefer.

portlandpaul@mac.com