The Truth About Paco

Tuscany

When I grow up, I’m going to be Italian. I remember thinking something along these lines when I turned thirty, except then I thought I’d grow up to be Colin Farrell. When I realized that Colin Farrell was nearly a decade younger than I, it hit home that some men grow up to be Colin Farrell while others grow up to be more like Rick Steves.

Still, once can always hope, and maybe I’ll eventually grow up to be the fifty-something Italian fellow we saw chatting amiably to his neighbors in Siena’s Piazza Il Campo early one morning after a night celebrating this year’s Palio di Siena winner: “I am Italian,” he said “ I have caroused manfully all night, and have not been home this day. But you will agree, I am beautiful, no? If you like, I will carouse with you today, but you seem tired; perhaps you should eat something.” I’m sure that’s what he said.

This Palio thing: Siena is built, physically and culturally, around the Palio, an insane horse race (ten horses, three times around Il Campo) that has been run every year since medieval Italians wore armor and went around poking each other with lances. The race itself is run in August, but It’s now mid October, and the victors are still celebrating. On our first of ten nights in Siena, this year’s winning “Contrada,” the Owls, were holding an enormous celebratory supper in the piazza. We didn’t know it, but the supper was just the beginning…

Each night, for all ten nights we were in Siena, we were treated to the same scene directly under our apartment window, sometimes at midnight, sometimes much, much later. There were subtle variations each night; sometimes the boys would dress up as girls, sometimes the girls would dress up as boys, but always the same song, which translates roughly as “we are winners; the rest of you are girly-men.” Six weeks after the event. For ten nights in a row. The Sienese are charming, gracious, kind, friendly, and totally unsportsmanlike. Despite the sleepless nights, Siena is now my favorite city.

We are now staying for a few days in the heart of Tuscany, in a tiny hill town called Radda-in-Chianti, as in Chianti wine. It’s somewhat surreal seeing the actual grapes that actually go into actual bottles of actual Chianti; and then actually drinking a great deal of that Chianti. Like meeting the cow in the field- in the flesh as it were- that you’ll be eating for supper instead of in a styrofoam package.

Many millions of words have been written on the extraordinary beauty of Tuscany by authors gifted and not so much, so I won’t add any to the glut, except to say that even the most gifted of them fall short in their ability to convey the beauty of this place. As for me, my enjoyment of it is only slightly tempered by the presence- here at our little vineyard apartment-of Paco. Paco is a six-foot-seven canine of a breed conjured up by the Italians for the purpose of eating elephants. He weighs at least three hundred pounds and could easily be a linebacker for any American football team known for its enormous linebackers. He has a bark that could silence Big Ben. I am afraid of Paco, and I am not comforted by our hostesses’ cheerful repetition of the phrase “ni mange, ni mange” every time we encounter this fearsome predator. I believe she is telling me that Paco does not intend to eat me; she could just as easily be saying “Paco has not eaten his elephant today. Run!”