Chloe 
A weekend full of medieval architecture, tuscan dining, & the most olive oil I’ve ever seen in my life!
This past weekend I went to Tuscany with my fiancee and his family. Itto and I hopped off the bus on Friday night and walked along the illuminated, Renaissance streets of Lucca. Tucked from the nip of winter wind, the Christmas market pulled us in with the aromas of spiced wine and howls of the salami man. Convinced, we indulged in samples of creamy goat cheese and aged parmigiano before Itto inquired, “Buonissimo, peró dov’é il salame?”, and danced away with a full brown bag.
We met his parents outside the center of Lucca. I had a warm buzz, courtesy of a limoncello spritz, and watched the scenery blur out the car window. We wound our way up the hills decorated with medieval towers until we pulled over at a tucked away restaurant. Inside, we walked past the kitchen as dish after dish was thrown through the service window. We followed the waitress, she picked up a popping hot pan, and led us to the dining room, brimming with eager eyes willing their plate to be served.
There was no menu. Just hope you like what the chef is preparing for tonight. Oh, I did. Rich, earthy flavors of the region melted into the air. The chef treated us to a Tuscan specialty: ragú di cinghiale, wild boar ragú. It is a favorite of mine.
Beyond full. We continued on the winding road until we reached their home. Rustic and cozy, terracotta and wooden beams framed the room, the dream spot to curl up and read. I woke up to the sound of sheep. There must have been a hundred. Standing outside, I can see mountain peaks, a tiny town, and the colors of autumn clinging to the treetops. We made coffee then ate pastries filled with chocolate and pear.
I couldn’t understand a lot of the conversation at Villa Cesaretti. Itto and I went with his parents to the country palace cushioned in gardens brimming with olive trees and a grove of lemon trees. Aurelio led us through the foyer adjacent to the main entrance. Rifles stood ten hut along the glass hallway and led to the back. Silver tanks rooted on wooden chests in the dim lit room that smelled bright in the earthy green way of good olive oil.
The woman who led us to the back returned with a plate of bread to taste the oil. Her skin was seamless, impossibly soft. I entertained the idea of drawing a bath of olive oil, letting it soak into my skin. I imagined it sealing the cracks, healing the scars, soothing the damage, from living. I imagined being restored, as if reborn.
In the richness of Tuscany, we drove through the hills. Fresh picked lemons perfumed the car. I thought about the olive trees – adored for their fruit, alive for hundreds of years. Quiet and magical. They whisper stories of the land.
