Below you will find audio recordings of Anna in Tuscany, Chapter 3 & 4.
Text for these chapters is below. Enjoy!
Anna in Tuscany
Stephanie Verni | Copyright 2021
Chapter 3
“You made it,” my editor said as I picked up the phone on the second ring in the morning. She had woken me up, but I didn’t mind. I’d slept for almost twelve hours, having been up all night on the airplane.
“I made it,” I said.
“How’s the place?”
“It’s lovely, Danielle. Really beautiful. And thanks for the car and driver.”
“You’re welcome. Take a week to get settled and you can get started on the piece for the website. You know what I want, right?”
“I’ve got it. I’m on it,” I said.
“Okay, great. Well, keep in touch and let me know if you need anything on our end…research or otherwise.”
“I will. Thanks, Danielle. And thanks for entrusting Italy to me.”
“We all know you’re the perfect person to write these stories. Quite frankly, I’m a little jealous,” she said. “Don’t be surprised if I show up on your doorstep one day and beg to sleep in the second bedroom.”
“Anytime,” I said. “You’re helping me pay my bills.”
I knew I needed to get cracking on the first story. Danielle had shared the idea with me prior to my departure. As a staff writer, my articles appeared in both the printed version of the magazine and the online site, so I often wrote several stories a month.
I showered, stepped into jeans, sweater and my boots, and headed out to stroll the streets. Unpacking could wait. I was in Italy, and I wanted espresso from a coffee shop, just the way Elizabeth Gilbert grabbed one in Eat, Pray, Love. I felt a little bit like her at the moment and was excited to do this—ready to explore and write about Italy.
After I took a quick shot, I ordered a black coffee to go along with a sfogliatelle. Back in the States, you can’t get good sfogliatelles, except for one particular pasticerria in the city. After I received my order, I found a bench outside and took a seat, watching all the early birds pass by. I was always amazed by how many people woke up early and began their days just after the sun had risen. I bit into the sfogliatelle covered in powdered sugar. Bliss. There really wasn’t anything in the world like a flaky, sweet, Italian sfogliatelle. How would I describe the taste of it in a story? I would have to think about that.
Despite that it was January, the day was mild. I was here. A smile crept across my lips. When I traveled for my job, I’d grown accustomed to the days spent by myself exploring, but I always knew I had family and friends to return to when the assignment was over. In my present situation, I would live alone—and would be alone a lot of the time. But in reality, there was an advantage to being by yourself; you made your own schedule, and if you wished to make a fool out of yourself, you could do it without anyone finding out about it on Facebook. Added bonus.
“C’è qualcuno seduto qui?” a man said to me, gesturing to the side of the bench I was not occupying. I surmised he wanted to sit there.
“Sì,” I said.
He opened his newspaper and began to look it over. He glanced at me and smiled as I watched him fold the paper and begin reading the pages. I could parse together the headlines because of my limited vocabulary.
When I finished the coffee and pastry, I walked back to Piazza del Campo, which was just around the bend. It truly is one of the most beautiful piazzas in all of Italy. I remembered the stories my mother would share about the Palio horse races when I was little. My mother had been to the races several times. This morning, people were wearing their winter coats, strolling the large square, and businesses on the perimeter were beginning to open.
I walked around the piazza for about an hour until my lower back became cranky from the long plane ride. I really needed to stretch or do yoga.
As I walked back to my place and trudged up the forty-seven steps, I noticed my next-door neighbor picking up his own newspaper outside his door. He was an older man, and he saw me and gave me a wave.
“Ciao,” I said.
“Ciao,” he said back to me, trying to focus on who I was and if he knew me.
“Sei cugino di Rosa?” he asked. Are you Rosa’s cousin?
“Sì,” I said, “ma non parlo molto bene l’italiano.” Yes—I don’t speak good Italian. “Arrugginita.” Rusty.
“Ah, ah,” the older man said. And then in English, “I speak-a da English.”
“Well, yes, you do. Very well!” I said. He laughed.“It is nice to meet you.”
“Ah, sì,” he said, walking toward me to greet me. “Ah, you be-a happy in Siena?”
“Sì,” I said. “Very happy.”
“Benvenuta for you,” he said, motioning for me to come into his apartment. He walked inside his door, and I followed. Because his apartment is on the corner of the building, I noticed the sunlight streamed in through the windows a little differently from mine, the winter rays lighting the space.
“Vieni a vedere il panorama,” he said, testing my Italian language skills and motioning me to come inside and look out his windows, and he grabbed a small bag of Baci chocolates with a bow on them and gave them to me.
“Grazie,” I said, pleased at the thoughtful gift.
I walked over, looking around his very neatly kept apartment, colorful paintings on the walls, and marveled at its lack of clutter. The place smelled as if it had just been cleaned.
“Tale bellezza, no?”
“Yes. Bellisimo.” His apartment really was beautiful. Right then, I wished I had brushed up on my Italian or taken a Rosetta Stone course prior to coming.
He sat down in his chair that faced the window, and motioned me to sit, so I lowered myself into the chair across from him.
The man smiled at me, and I could see that he was probably quite handsome back in the day. His distinguished face was wrinkled with age, but his olive skin caught the light in the best of ways, giving his face a youthful glow. He had thick gray hair, and his cheeks were rosy. Average in stature, he wore trousers with a button-down shirt that looked a little rumpled.
“Is that your wife?” I asked the man.
He picked up the photo and handed it to me. “Sì,” he said, pointing up to the sky. “With-a God now.”
I nodded. I could tell it was difficult for him to say those words.
“My Nana, too,” I said, attempting to share a bond with the gentleman.
“Così triste…” he said. Sad.
“Sì,” I said.
He pointed to the deck of cards sitting on the table beside him. Then, he pointed to me and the cards. “You play?”
“Sì,” I said.
“We play-a da cards. You a-tell-a me stories about Americano, and I a-teach-a-you a better Italiano.”
His English was better than okay, and it made me wonder how he learned. If only I’d given the Italian language the same effort. We made plans to play cards on Wednesday night, and I promised to fill him in on American life. I excused myself and explained that I had to unpack and get settled.
As I put the key in my door and heard him close his, I realized I never even asked him his name.
Chapter 4
Rosa texted me at seven-thirty the next morning. You come for supper tomorrow night. Alessandro will pick you up.
After eating toast and having a quick coffee, I strode off in the direction of a market to get some items: fresh fruits, vegetables, and cooking spices.
I bundled up for the walk—the temperatures had dipped overnight—and grabbed my purse and headed out the door.
The sun was shining brightly, and the sky was flawless, one of those crisp winter days. The buildings twinkled in the sunlight, and the terra cotta colors complemented the aqua blue sky.
Winding through the back streets, I made my way to a store—Guiseppi’s. It looked like it was primed for a role in a film set here in Italy. The muted slate streets led to his specialty shop with a stone exterior and arched doors lined with vines, and fresh fruits and vegetables graced the sidewalk in barrels and bins. Inside, the shop oozed with charm, as breads and olive oils, pastas of all kinds, and cooking utensils, pots, and pans were displayed around the perimeter of the store.
It smelled delicious in there, too.
“Pronto,” the large man with dark hair said to me.
“Pronto,” I said back. He smiled.
I grabbed a basket and began to fill it with things I needed for the kitchen—and for my cooking. I had sworn I would learn how to make some of Siena’s finest meals, and to learn my way around a kitchen a little bit better. When I had been with Paul, we had cooked together a lot. He was a chef, and he tried to teach me what he learned. If only I’d paid closer attention. Prior to Paul, Ben and I rarely made meals together. We always ate out. In the two years we were together, I could count on my hand the number of times we ate dinner together in his condo, mostly because Ben worked fourteen-hour days in the financial industry, and I was often on the road. The two of them couldn’t have been more different, and yet I had loved them both.
And both relationships ended in disaster.
Putting the past out of my mind and reminding myself that I was, in fact alone, thousands of miles from them both, I couldn’t help but feel acutely aware of my singleness. Neither of my previous boyfriends loved me in the way that I had loved them. Neither of them, I realized much later, wanted what I wanted in life. So here I stood, holding a ream of garlic, because frankly, now I could eat as much of it as I liked, and no one would tell me that I wreaked of it.
There were certainly pluses to not being in a relationship.
As I brought my basket up to the counter to check out, the man looked at me sideways. I looked back at him, and he smiled. I knew he could tell I was American.
“You know Rosa Vinelli?”
“Sì,” I said.
“Ah,” he said, coming from around the counter to face me. He caught me off guard by taking my face in his large hands and kissing me on both cheeks. His stubble tickled my skin. “You-a look like her. She told me you were coming. Famiglia.”
I smiled at him and nodded. His English was strong behind the Italian accent.
“How long you are-a visiting?”
“Well, I’ll be living here for a year,” I said. “I’m writing travel articles about Italy for my magazine.”
“Bene!” he said. “What is your first story?”
“It’s about La Festa Degli Innamorati. What can you tell me about it?” I asked. He seemed interested and chatty, so I figured I’d ask.
“Well, it is a lover’s tradition, all about love. All about romance.”
“Only for lovers, correct?” I asked him.
“Si, it is not Americanized here-a in Italy. Lovers only.”
I thanked him for the information, and when I went to shake his hand, he came from around the counter and kissed it instead. He also gave me everything in the basket at no charge.
*
“You told Guiseppi I was going to his shop,” I said to Rosa on the phone after I left.
“I did. I wanted him to know you were stopping by. You said you were.”
“I was supposed to be incognito, you know, scoping the place out.”
“In-cog what? You said you were going. I thought you should meet. He’s a nice man.”
“He was. Very nice man.”
“We look forward to having you for dinner with la familia.”
“Si,” I said.
“Alessandro will pick you up at five. We look forward to seeing your American face.”
“Italian now,” I told her, and we hung up.
*
I found my way back to the apartment, the cumbersome bag positioned on my hip as I walked up the steps simulating how one would carry a small child and began to climb the forty-seven steps to my place. Feeling suddenly hungry after inhaling scents from the sidewalk restaurants, I reached inside my purse for the key. Propping the bag on one leg, my purse strewn across my shoulder while attempting to insert the key into the lock, I saw a man striding toward me. He looked vaguely familiar.
“You need help?” he asked me, his Italian accent coming through in his almost perfect English words.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said.
“American neighbor.”
“Sì — yes.”
“You’re playing cards with Matteo on Wednesday,” he said, a big smile creeping across his face.
I looked at him funny. How did he know so much?
“I’m sorry, I’m Nicolo, Matteo’s grandson.”
Just then, my neighbor’s door opened, and he stepped outside into the hallway. “Nico—Hai dimenticato il portafoglio.” Nicolo walked back toward my neighbor and grabbed his wallet, shaking his head at himself.
“Grazie. Arrivederci, Nonno,” Nicolo said, embracing my neighbor in a hug.
I smiled at him as he headed for the floor’s exit behind me. “Ciao, Anna,” he said, as he strolled by me toward the steps.
The older man I now knew as Matteo waved to me, and I waved back, as I heard the fading sound of Nicolo’s shoes as he descended the steps, and it dawned on me that he had already learned my name without me telling him.
End Chapters 3 & 4 | Copyright Stephanie Verni, 2021
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About the author:
STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.
Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.
