Every Day in Tuscany Read Free Page A

euro like a hot air balloon,” Fabrizio says as he whooshes the imaginary balloon into the sky, then spirals his hands. I visualize a striped balloon heading toward Mars. In Italian, part of every conversation takes place without words. A woman on her cell phone in the piazza paces, gestures, stops, slings back her head, paces again. She says grazie fifteen times, laughs. She’s on stage, a monologue actor. When she hangs up, she snaps shut the phone, shoves it in her enormous borsa , and charges ahead toward her shopping.
    I pause to look at shoes, then sweaters. “That war of yours. It’s costing the whole world,” Daria scolds, as though I personally have bombed Iraq. She’s sweeping off her already clean threshold. They forget that when the lira converted to the euro, almost everyone abruptly raised their prices; some simply started charging in euros the same amount they’d charged in lire, effectively doubling the cost of their pizza, shirts, coffee, albums, and pasta. Since Italian wages hardly have moved, most people today are feeling more than a pinch. “Not to worry,” our friend Arturo says. “There are two Italys. One economy in sight and another whole economy out of sight. Everyone has their own ways never revealed to the statisticians. You get paid in cash—nobody knows.” This, I think, applies more to independent work and less to the shop owners, who have to give receipts. If I walk out of the bar with no receipt for my panino , the Guardia di Finanzia could fine the owner and me. When I buy a chicken, I am astonished—14.65 euros—twenty-three dollars at the current exchange rate. I think of the reconstruction South prices after the Civil War. What is happening to our country? Our dollar is debole , weak, shockingly so.
    With the wind that must have originated in the snowy Alps, thirty-five degrees feels like zero. “Che bello , you have returned before the swallows,” Lina says. Because it is Women’s Day, three people give me sprays of mimosa, which I love for its brilliant yellow in the stony gray air. Massimo offers coffee, and later, so does Claudio. Roberto at the frutta e verdura gives me an extra-large sack of odori , the vegetables and herbs used for seasoning. I see that Marco has closed his art gallery and expanded his enoteca into the adjoining space. There are two tables for wine tastings and the new display cases are handsome. Still, it’s sad to lose the gallery, where many regulars exhibited by the week, hanging their own work and sitting out in the piazza with friends or making friends, while people wandered in and out. But then I see Marco in the post office and he says he’s starting a new gallery around the corner. The museum will expand to accommodate recent archaeological discoveries at the Etruscan sites and the Roman villa our friends Maurizio and Helena have excavated. A new chocolate shop has appeared in my absence. It looks as though it landed from Belgium. The hot chocolate tastes creamy and unctuous. An instant hit. The two restaurants that opened last fall are doing well. One already has the reputation for making one of the best coffees in town. It was there, when I stood at the bar sipping my macchiato , that I overheard two tourists. One said, “I saw Frances Mayes’s husband, Ed, driving a Fiat. A Fiat—and one of those tiny ones. Wouldn’t you think they’d have something better than that?” I turned away so they would not recognize me and become mortified. I love my yellow Panda.
    To everything its season, and this is the season to replaster, repair hinges, revise menus, clean courtyards and stairways. From the corner table at Bar Signorelli, I watch this spirited activity along the street. Everyone prepares for the spring and summer that they hope will bring back those innocents with a passion for shoes, leather books, dining, ceramics, peaches, Super Tuscans, and all the good things on offer in this lively hill town.

    A S I STIR my cappuccino, I