This past week and a half has been, hands down, the best time I’ve had in Italy because I got to spend it with my favorite person! Matt flew out to Rome for his Spring Break, and I couldn’t feel luckier. Among a million other things that I’ll get to later, we spent his first weekend here in Siena. I figured that if I could force one person to take countless pictures of me in front of everything and anything with my name on it, it’d be him. The forecast was snow free this time, so we packed our shorts and tank tops and headed off for a romantic weekend in the rolling hills of Tuscany.
After filling up on homemade Matzah Bry, we hopped on a bus to the train station. As we arrived, we noticed two oversized homeless women (Strega Nonnas as we called them) sitting in the middle of a sidewalk bustling with travelers. I noticed their paper towels, and joked that they must be at least sort of well off, considering paper towels are a serious commodity in my apartment. While this discussion took place, we watched as one of them waddled away from her friend. Standing in the direct eye of everyone within a mile of her, Strega Nonna #1 proceeded to lean forward and lift up her skirt, revealing way too many things I didn’t want to see. It got worse. The second her clothes were in the clear, Strega relieved herself, peeing like a well-hydrated horse all over the sidewalk. As the bus inched by, we turned our heads, jaws dropped in disbelief. I can only hope she used those paper towels to clean up after herself. Doubtful.
After verbally fighting with the ticket machine and validating my voucher in every appliance in sight, we made it onto the train and said “ciao” to Roma. A couple hours later, the train docked in Chiusi, a small town in the middle of nowhere. We used our layover to meander through the streets my dad and I once dragged our suitcases through years ago. After finding a farmers market and trying some ridiculous cheese, we stumbled upon a posh café filled with colorful pastries among smooth white décor. We ordered Sfoglia, a blueberry tart, and a couple cappuccini and sat outside in the sun. The total was four euros, a low price that really made me second guess every decision I’ve made to live in big cities. The snack was incredible, and the leftover Nutella melting on my plate didn’t go to waste.
The train we boarded next was tiny and empty. We sat there for a while before being bombarded by two polizie in search of some action. The older one, a sweaty man with a tangled mustache began by yelling at me for having my feet on the seat in front of me. As I wiped off the dirt, he asked for our passports. I explained that we didn’t have them, to which he reacted very aggressively. “Abitiamo a Roma,” I said, but he persevered in lecturing us in Italian we couldn’t understand. Italy and the US are not the same, we learned. I had no idea! As his meager apprentice copied down the information from my passport photocopy and Matt’s New York license, the persecution continued, as the man wiped adrenalin induced sweat from his brow. Abruptly, they gave back our documents and left the car. I have no explanation for this. But my feet made their return to the seat in front of me in no time.
When we arrived in Siena, I immediately insisted on recreating this photo that I took a few years back:
The taxi driver, who was unimpressed by the relevancy of my name, drove us to Locanda di San Martino, the restored castle that my grandma generously paid for us to spend the night in. It was incredible. We were placed in a penthouse room with exposed wooden beams, a huge bed that we immediately started jumping on, and sponge-painted walls.
The view was even better. To our right was il Duomo (the zebra church), in front of us was a typical Italian apartment scene, and to our left, the rolling hills of Tuscany disappeared into the distance. Picturesque doesn’t even cover it. It was unreal.
After washing the train off of ourselves, we ventured into the town. The narrow street we were traveling on suddenly opened up to the massive Campo which hosts the Palio. The triangularesque piazza slopes downward toward a church opposite tons of cafes that leak out onto the square. People flooded from a wooden shack near the center, which we discovered was selling Frittelli, small balls of fried rice, sugar, and orange dough. For one euro, we ordered four of these morsels, similar in texture to Thai coconut cakes, but much more exciting in flavor. We finished them sitting amongst Italian students and lovers before wandering around the medival town.
We soon arrived at a hill that puts San Francisco’s to shame. The cobblestones were crumbled and we walked backwards down it because Matt was convinced that it would be better for our knees. On our right was a “Piccola Theatre,” a children’s theater! The gate was opened, so we walked in and discovered a landscape filled with flowers, antique water fountains, and the distant noise of young laughter.
Back at our castle (no biggie), we popped open the left over champagne from Grandma’s visit. The cork bounced on just about every surface in the room before landing conveniently in my purse.
We feasted on Gnocchi di Taverno and Tagliette di Salmone at Taverna di Cecco, where I succeeded in spilling olive oil all over the white tablecloth.
The night was spent dancing at Barron Rossa with flat beer and a million Erasmus students from around the world.
The next morning, we ate the hotel’s breakfast and set off for il Duomo. Opting for the all-inclusive pass, we were able to visit the Museo di Oppera, Cripta, Baptisma, and il Duomo. Starting at Museo di Opera, we filed through ancient songbooks and statues before finding the narrow staircase that led up to the panorama view of Siena. It wasn’t the highest point in the city, but it was damn close. Everything was visible and it was spectacular.
The Cripta and Baptisma were less impressive than I would’ve liked, but the Duomo made up for it.
The inside was even more amazing than its exterior, with detailed frescos and elaborate chapels. The ceilings were unbelievable, with domes that nearly put the Pantheon to shame.
We ogled at the floors, inlayed with depictions of war and religious triumph. The pulpit was tall and basked in the sunlight from above. Two stained glass windows faced each other on opposite walls and illuminated the church with vibrant light. The colors were subtle and pastel, creating a relaxing atmosphere. It was great.
I had wanted to find a crew neck Universitia di Siena sweatshirt, and refused to settle for the hoodies that filled every store’s shelves. Just as I was about to give in to the expected, I stumbled upon what has come to be my favorite Italian purchase. Behind I <3 Siena aprons and rhinestone T-shirts, I found a split pea green sweatshirt faded by years in the sun. It said ITALIA in rainbow letters, each with a dancing Pinocchio on top. Written in comic sans, the world’s most hated font, was my name. It was perfect. But it was also the last one. I bought the sun-bleached child’s sweatshirt for five euro, much to the vendor’s surprise. “Per bambini,” he explained, puzzled at my elation. It has the look of a worn sweatshirt, but the softness of a new one. It’s lovely and brought the trip to a wonderful close.
After a gelato from Dolce Siena, we hopped the train back to Rome, tired and excited about the incredible adventure we just had.
Even though no one in Siena was impressed by my name, I was impressed enough by the city for all of us.
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